---

Two guys walk into a bar.

(Stop me if you've heard this one.)



One guy looks at all the bottles of booze on the back of the bar and says, "Bartender, I'll have your finest, oldest, most expensive single-malt Scotch. . . make it a double, neat, in your most expensive, most beautiful crystal highball glass."

The bartender turns to the other guy and says, "And what'll you have, my friend?"

The other guy ponders for a moment and says, "I'll have a dirty old bottle of Jack Daniels and a clean glass."

The bartender says, "But, but. . . ."

The other guy looks him straight in the eye and says, "I just want to be sure I don't catch some bug off a dirty glass and croak."

"Oh, is that all?" says the bartender. "I just thought you had a drinking problem."

☆

Me? I just want to be sure I'm not ignoring the obvious for the obscure. A bird in the hand. . . and all that.

It's been a long day. And I'm not a joke writer. Gimme a drink.

---

I've become so accustomed to a hectic pace that it feels like I've fallen into a large vat of Jell-o^® when things slow down a bit. Such was the case yesterday.

I need to get around my friend, the Sentinel, at the Financial Office at Presby. You may remember her. She's the gatekeeper who controls entry into the Magic Kingdom.

☆

Looks like the lull was just that, a momentary lapse in the action. It was more than that, in reality. It was a chance to get some clarity about Presbyterian and their very confusing requirements for financial aid. And clarity is all I got. Seems that financial aid is now only available if you're delivered to them on death's door. Otherwise, it's Parkland for you, kiddo!

Having car problems on top of all of this seems rather mundane, even thankfully so. But an almost dead master cylinder forced me to take care of what now seems so insignificant a detail so that I could safely continue on my way to doctors and government offices and on and on. It's funny. . . not too very long ago car problems used to put me in a rather agitated state, to put it mildly. I suppose I've gained a little perspective in the past couple of months of what's important and what isn't.

One thing I know that is important is my friends and family. Two friends today contacted me with information on MD Anderson, the cancer center in Houston. The odd thing is that both came right after I'd had an urgent talk with God. I suppose I have abandonment issues because I suddenly felt like a helpless infant whose mother walked out of the room.

I'm beginning to understand that I'm not really in control. Maybe that's why I need to have the remote in my hand when visiting family or friends. Maybe I should just let go. God seems to have better perspective, anyway.

I need to pull the trigger soon and get into treatment and Parkland looked like the only choice I had until today. Perhaps I can make it happen at MDA. For me, even though their hoops seem to be much higher and bigger than Parkland's, MDA would be the preferable choice.

Suddenly, turning rather serious, this whole ordeal might give one the impression that I don't have too much too smile about. I'm determined, however, to keep my sense of humor. . . even if it kills me. (Oh, get a grip, Myrna. It's only a joke.)

More soon. . .

---

Sometimes, I feel a bit like Sisyphus. You remember the Sis-Man, I know. He was the dude — let me check my encyclopedia, quickly. . . yes, they did have dudes back in the day — he was the dude who was condemned to rolling a stone to the top of a hill over and over again. Of course, Zeus had good reason for condemning him to such boring, repetitive, and meaningless labor; Sisyphus had been a nasty sort of guy, the kind who would kill travelers and guests, seduce his niece, and take his brother's throne.

I, on the other hand, have merely introduced myself to the Sentinels of the castle keep of two of the area's finest healthcare facilities. What the heck am I doing, rolling this big rock?

It's not easy guarding the royal wallet from pretenders. You gotta getcha nasty on. You gotta be big and mean and ugly. With a capital UG. And downright rude. However, I'm a man with nothing to lose but my life. I may be frightened away when first we do battle, that's true. But don't count me out just yet, Madame Sentinel. Watch your six, baby. Better yet, I should keep my own counsel so I don't lose the element of surprise.

My motto is, when in doubt. . . go direct. Ask for forgiveness, not permission. If you're a bit confused, it's understandable. I realize I'm being a bit oblique. This just builds dramatic tension so you'll come back for more.

Everything is coming along nicely. Research, doctors, hospitals, diagnoses, treatment plans — it's all coming together. Except the money. This, I've begun to realize, is a metaphor for my life. This is one of those things, those many, many things that are going to change in my life. How? Now that's the question of the moment, I suppose. The answer, I pray, will be revealed anon.

☆

As I alluded to a moment ago, I came up against an ogre in the financial office when I was expecting a fairy princess. At the end of a hard day, it was hard to take and I ran to my room and slammed the door, crying like a little girl. At least I had my dollies to comfort me.

Looking out my window at the leaden sky, I saw in the distance a rainbow and a small bubble arching over it, growing quickly as it came nearer. Out popped a lovely lady who introduced herself as Glenda, The Good Witch, and said she had house on a lake that could crush the life out of any big, mean, UGly sentinel and bring me peace and good health.

So the day wasn't a total loss.

☆

A couple weeks back, because conveying what's in one's mind's eye is so difficult with mere words, I painted a picture — no more than a sketch, really — of the place I want to live while I'm going through this process of healing. It wasn't until I'd finished it that I realized I had painted my sister's home, a place I've long admired and found peaceful when I visited.

Superficially, you might look at our respective (present) domiciles and proclaim Lorraine (my sis) the queen of domesticity. And me? Well, I suppose I'm the redheaded bastard stepchild of domesticity. But, on some fundamental level, we must have the same Martha Stewart gene. Only. . . mine is recessive and hers is quite dominant, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

That said, today I visited that house on a lake. I would've gone with Glenda but she drives a one witch bubble.

From the moment I arrived, I knew that this was the place in my painting — only better.

I drove up and parked right next to a propane tank. There was a sign on the tank. It said, "Lawrence Propane." "Propane, Lawrence," I replied.

Glenda and her husband, Glen, were very cordial and we exchanged pleasantries when I arrived. Glenda told me to pay no attention to the man behind the garage door as he worked on his machinery and we walked off down to the guest house.

As we approached, my painting became more and more vivid and I knew I had manifested this simply by seeing it and painting it and thinking about it. It was almost startling how similar it was to my painting. . . down to the new metal roof and the carport (around back).

I'll spare you the details. You can imagine them yourself more vividly than I can describe them. Just throw in almost everything you'd want in a place to heal and you've got it.

We'll see how things work out. I'm praying for the best and hope you'll put in a good word, too.

One last item: I came home by a different route than I went today. The scenic route, you might say. Not too far from the lake house, I slowed down and stopped on the side of the highway. It's been years since I was last on that road and would have missed it had I taken the interstate. There before me was a sign announcing the border of a small settlement, not even a town. It felt like someone calling out to me. Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.

In spite of having a rough day yesterday, it's good to realize that people still are kind and decent and that good things do come to people who expect them.

---

Okay. Today was not one of my better days. But it could be worse; I could be hanging by a thin thread from the arm of a giant saguaro cactus in the baking sun of the desert southwest (it's a dry heat), suspended above a nest of scorpions, with a bucket of water below me and a ladle just beyond my reach.

Oh, that's right. I am.

So, it came as no surprise today when Dr Wayne Kirkham, ENT (throat doctor to the stars), was very blunt (like a snub-nosed .357 Magnum) about my situation and called for the heads of the Inquisitors at Parkland for taking so long to "rock'n'roll" on this squamous. Button-down, balding, and brilliant. . . Dr Kirkham is not what I think of as a "rock'n'roll" kinda guy.

He essentially agrees with the treatment Dr Mock recommended: chemo, surgery, and radiation. But he had a different logic and order of treatment: chemo, radiation, and surgery.

Help me out here; a thousand visitors to my blog could make for a powerful supercomputing brain.

Mock says chemo first. Why? To shrink the tumors and to kind of clean up the field (my words). Then, surgery to remove the now smaller tumors (meaning less tissue loss), and, finally, a mild dose radiation to zap any little microscopic buggers still lurking around.

Kirkham says chemo first, too. Why? Well, he says chemo has no effect on squamous cells at all except to potentiate the radiation. I knew that word but not in this context; potentiate is to 'increase the effect of.' You really smart people — there in the back. Quit sniggering! We know you made A's in vocabulary. We get it. Now, STFU!

But Kirkham thinks radiation should come next and soon — and at a pretty high dose. He's obviously not worried about me losing teeth. Then, again, he doesn't have to chew with them.

Then, he says, do a modified dissection of the lymph nodes and remove the rather small primary tumor, my tonsil.

Somehow, I'm thinkin' that although the logic in both approaches will get rid of the cancer and save my life, Dr Mock's approach would provide, or has a better chance of providing, a better quality of life.

It may come as a surprise to many who read this blog — and it shouldn't — that the quality of my life is more important to me than just surviving, regardless of the side effects of this or any other treatment.

Let's face it: I am an inordinately vain man. Can I get an Amen!? Or, at least, a group, "DUHHHHH?" Okay, so stating the obvious doesn't necessarily endear me to the masses. But if you, gentle reader, are willing to undergo life-altering, possibly disfiguring, and dysfunctioning surgery with nary a thought of how you might look on the far side of the ether twilight, then you are more of a man than I am. Or woman. Actually, I hope you are more of a woman than I am. . . but that's another blog.

There's more here than a Battle of the "Rock'n'roll" Docs. But this is enough for now. I need to Tango. Somewhere in Dallas, there's a dance floor with my name on it.

More tomorrow.

---

What a day yesterday afternoon was! And what a difference.

I had a consultation with Dr Presley Mock, who is affiliated with Presbyterian, yesterday and he seems to think a bit differently than Dr Rubenfield at Parkland. I'll get into the details tomorrow. Keeping people updated on the phone has made for a long day and I'm really tired.

I have another consultation with Dr Wayne Kirkham in the morning so I'm trundling off to bed here at 11:30pm so I don't oversleep.

We'll talk in the morning. We should do coffee.

Sweet dreams. . .

---

Put your books under your desk. Take notes. There's a quiz at the end of today's blog.

About 10 days ago, I took a shower. Although I've taken them a couple times since then, I had an idea while standing there with warm water cascading over my rippling flabs. . . er, abs.

The idea was this: What if. . . you could administer cancerous tissue with a dye that would only be absorbed by dysplastic and neoplastic tissue (fancy words for cancer) and then use a laser that was only sensitive to the color the tissue became from the application of the dye to ablate the tumor?

Looks like I'm not getting a patent on this, after all. Two friends have sent me information on PDT (that's Photodynamic Therapy); one out of the blue, the other by request.

A trial is underway to use this technique — almost as I imagined it in the shower — on something called Barrett's esophagus. The way I understand it, Barrett's is a pre-cancerous tissue that grows at the bottom of the esophagus. (Anyone here need Anatomy 101?) The actual technique is administering a drug that makes tissue light sensitive. It dissipates from normal tissue more quickly than from cancerous tissue. After 24 to 72 hours, a laser light tuned to a specific wavelength is used to ablate the tissue, thereby obtaining clear margins. (Don'tcha love science?)

The difference in Barrett's and tonsillar squamous cell carcinoma is that Barrett's is a fairly thin pre-cancerous tissue. The primary tumor in my tonsil and, now, the big lymph node right beneath my jaw are significantly larger. The node, alone, is about 3cm in size. . . about like a large pecan or a small walnut. And almost as hard.

So far, I've only skimmed the research and had a conversation with my friend, Dr. Dana Gibbs, an ENT surgeon, but it seems to me that this would be an EXCELLENT way — Sorry. I'll use my inside voice — an excellent way of obtaining clear margins after surgically removing my tonsil and lymph nodes. Dana, another of my many Tango friends, is not aware of any laser that penetrates more than about a third of an inch. My contention is, if my tonsil and lymph nodes are removed, surgically, there wouldn't (shouldn't, in my world) be anywhere near that much cancerous tissue left.

This technique excites me far more than 6 weeks of radiation and chemo with the possibility of losing enough bone in my jaw that I lose my teeth on that side. Now, I realize that that may be a worst case scenario. But. . . what if it comes to pass? Then what?

I'm not going off any further on the "What If..." gangplank. It doesn't pay very good dividends. And it only makes me angry. Right now, I want to minimize that tendency and channel those feelings into an urgent passion for finding the right treatment for me.

Here is my request: If you have a moment or two over the next few days, could I ask you to help me research this issue? For that matter, knowledge about any treatment that keeps me away from radiation would be incredibly helpful. You can contact me here on my Guest Book page. I probably will get some duplication and that's perfectly fine. But I don't have enough time in my day to do all the research I have to do and do everything else. I'm counting on my friends — my army of supporters — to help me find some answers.

As good as this technique seems, the biggest issue may be in finding a surgeon who is willing or able to use it. Where is "Bones" and his tri-corder when I need him? I keep asking for Star Trek and all I get is Civil War-era techniques. Slash and burn! I'm not a fan, gotta tell ya.

By the way, if there are any factual errors here, please don't be shy about correcting me. It's not about being right. It's about coming out of this without the (possibly) horrible side effects of heavy radiation.

Tomorrow, a better attitude and a brighter day; I see another ENT for a new opinion.

---

I'm coming to realize that having cancer may be one of the best things ever to happen to me. . . maybe the best. It's given me opportunities at every turn to examine my life in minute detail and to change what doesn't work.

But there are benefits to having cancer. Yep. I finally found one. I've not found anything that will shut down a telemarketer faster than to say, "I've just been diagnosed with cancer and I have no insurance." It works! I know, because I just did it.

You see, I prefer to give directly to help people than give to charities. I know where it's going and I know it has a direct benefit for the recipient that I can verify. I might, occasionally, give to an organized charity that I recognize but I'm a bit circumspect of charities that call me at dinnertime asking for a pledge. I'm not heartless, just pragmatic.

So, when this opportunity came up, it was too easy. I couldn't pass it up. I had to do it. Worked like a charm.

I'd recommend it highly as a way to rid yourself of tele-pests (of whatever variety) but I hasten to add that you should not try this at home. I have been diagnosed by teams of trained professionals. Do not attempt this without medical supervision.

PDT is next. . .

---

Here's a quick update on my friends Dan and his partner Randy. If you may recall, there was a huge explosion and fire near downtown Dallas about three weeks ago at a welding supply company they own. Both guys suffered severe burns.

Here's some good news!

Dan's Up-date August 17

No more bandages! On Friday, Dan was given beige gloves without finger tips to protect his hands. Dan has a doctor's appointment on Monday.
Randy is out of the hospital. He is spending the weekend with his sister. He will be an outpatient at Zale Lipsky University Hospital.
Thank you all for your support, prayers, healing intentions, cards, letters and Emails.

With Gratitude,
Liz

---

I had dinner with my friends, Karen and Candice, last night before heading to a milonga (a Tango party) with Candice. Sitting there talking about stuff I'm dealing with and about the blessings of so many wonderful friends, I suddenly realized that so many of those friends are in our Dallas Tango community. (Though, some say it's a cult.) If you're a second- or third-degree reader of this blog, you may not know this about me -- I dance Argentine Tango and have for about 12 years.

Forgive all the exposition here. . . but you need to know this in order to appreciate what I'm going to tell you today.

I signed up for an Argentine Tango workshop way back in the 20th Century, on Nov. 11, 1995. I'd been taking ballroom dance lessons for a while, lost a wad when the studio went under, but wanted to continue dancing and wanted something. . . I dunno. . . different. I was in a class of about 30 people, small as workshops go. Way ahead of all the others in class, was this lovely couple who had this magnetic quality to them. Turns out that we've been friends ever since. Through thick and a lot of thin. The community in Dallas had its beginnings with this couple, the aforementioned Karen and her then husband, Jeramy, and Steve and Susan, two wonderful people who also brought a passion for this dance to the mix.

Early on, classes were often private lessons for me or myself and one or two others. Slim Pickens, baby! But the Tango has always attracted very bright people and slowly. . . sometimes achingly so. . . more and more people began to show up at classes.

At some point, several years ago, I woke up and we were no longer a bunch of people taking Tango classes and workshops and going to milongas. We were a community, in the best sense of that word. I left out most of the hard work in making all that happen and dozens of people who were involved in making it happen. Maybe one day I'll tell that story. Right now, I'm in the middle of this one. Now, where was I?

Oh, yeah. . . that community grew and grew and eventually reached a critical mass. It's become self-sustaining. That community is populated by people from all walks of life: professionals, creatives, technical people, people in the healing arts (both allopathic and homeopathic), self-employed people, government employees, many successful, some not, most doing okay, but almost every single person who has become a tried and true member of the community is intelligent and very well-rounded.

This is the community of people that I call my friends. This is where I'm getting much of my support. Not all of my friends are in this community but almost all of them who aren't either understand why I am or would fit right in if they chose it.

I tell you this. . . this. . . it's not really a story, I guess, so much as it is just background information. . . because I want you to know, just in case you're not going through a difficult time right now, that it only takes a small step to build a community of friends who will be there when you need them.

At that workshop, when I walked up to Karen and Jeramy and introduced myself, I didn't know it at the the time but I set a very tiny ball -- a BB -- in motion. And today I'm reaping the rewards. I truly am blessed.

Next time, I promise. . . that treatise on Photodynamic Therapy (PDT) is ready to explode from my fingertips.

---

I am truly blessed with so many wonderful friends.

Let me tell you about one of them who is doing a yeoman's duty on research for newer or more effective treatments for this cancer.

She just stepped up to the plate and started bangin' away at Google, searching for something, anything to do with Squamous Cell Carcinoma. In a very short time, she has sent me a tsunami of sites to see and a plethora of pages to ponder.

I didn't ask her to do this. She didn't offer it. She just did it and warned me she was not going to be the wind beneath my wings but, rather, the fire beneath my butt. And I believe her.

Her name is Annelle and I am so very grateful that she is my friend and firestarter.

Next time, a treatise on Photodynamic Therapy (PDT). Ooooh. . . betcha can't wait for that one. Grab some popcorn and Milk Duds and heat up the microwave. This is gonna be fuuuuuunnnn.

---

This morning, I went to Parkland to find out what their "Tumor Board" recommended as a treatment plan for my cancer. I had gone in with an expectation that was tipped over like a sleeping cow. Huh?!? Say that again, please.

After hearing from a couple of 5th year residents last week, both brilliant, who thought it likely, even advisable, that the board would recommend surgery alone as a treatment plan, I thought, Well, that seems reasonable. Certainly beats the hell out of chemo and, especially, radiation. Six weeks of daily misery with radiation vs. a two-week recovery after a radical tonsillectomy and removal of my lymph nodes on the right in the front of my neck. . . hmmmm. I'll take Short & Easy for a thousand, Alex.

Not so fast, Tonsil Man! We real doctors don't concur with these young turks. The TB (that's the Tumor Board) recommends chemo and radiation.

That's it?

Well, the other choice is surgery and radiation.

There's that nasty radiation again. What were the side effects of that, did you say?

Let's see. . . there's a thickening of the skin. . . it'll turn darker or redder, too. . . .

Oh, that's attractive. Permanent?

Hmmm. . . depends on the individual. To some degree, yes. Maybe not. Over time, it should diminish a bit.

Okay. What else?

Mouth sores. Abcesses. Probably tooth loss on that side. In fact, we'd probably just pull the teeth to get rid of them. You're not using them; are you?

Only occasionally. Like when I eat. Or smile. Or talk. They may be crooked but they're mine.

Then there's osteoradionecrosis. . .

Run that one by me again. I missed that class in med school. Oh, that's right. . . I didn't go to med school.

Radiation-induced osteoradionecrosis of the mandible (your jaw). . .

Right. I knew that.

. . . is our way of saying that the radiation kills your jaw bone.

Oh, lovely. . .

And there's some risk of inducing a secondary malignancy through irradiation.

Let me get this straight. . . to cure me of cancer. . . you may be giving me cancer again?

Possibly. But that's more of a concern in younger patients. You're old enough that you probably won't live long enough for it to kill you.

Somehow, that's comforting. I'm not sure why.

And you may have to have surgery anyway.

Oh, I think I'm beginning to get it. The radiation destroys much of the tissue in my neck and jaw and you come in afterwards to kind of. . . oh, I dunno. . . tidy things up?

Essentially, yes. But the survival rate is really quite good. Around 84%.

So, I've got an 84% chance of living more than 5 years if you burn the crap outta my neck and jaw and then cut all that toasty tissue away and leave a rather disfigured shell behind.

That's more or less correct.

Thank you Dr. Rubenfield. You've been highly instructive. Some might even say, entertaining.

It's been my pleasure.

I'm sure it has.

Oh, one more thing. Are there any peer reviewed studies of cancer treatments that, perhaps, don't quite fall within the purview of allopathic medicine? Anything at all that you can recommend I look at as an alternative to radiation, chemo, or even surgery. Maybe, as a treatment that might be integrated into your suggested plan? Or, quite possibly as an alternative?

. . . .

Dr. Rosenfield? Dr. Rosenfield? Arnie? What's wrong with your eyes?

☆

I think I definitely need a second or third opinion.

And that's where we'll pick up, next time.

More soon. . . .

---

I'd like to report that I am cancer free. But I'm not. Still have cancer. Not sick anymore.

Okay, that sounds a bit flip, I know. It's just that I'm tired from working on some jobs. Mainly to keep myself occupied because I tend to run too many "what-if–scenarios."

What I mean by not being sick anymore is this: I've come to realize that this cancer is turning out to be a blessing.

Yes, it's serious. However, even though it's still growing -- particularly my lymph node -- it will soon be out of my body and I'll be free of these nasty tumors.

It's a blessing because it's given me the opportunity to look at my life in minute detail and make some hard decisions about how I want to change my life into something more. . . glorious.

Now, that probably sounds a bit over the top, perhaps a little crazy, or maybe I'm sounding like I've found religion. Well, frankly, it may be all of those things or none of the above. I'm coming to the realization that if I'm going to change my life, it'll take spilling a little blood. It might even be painful at times. Or it could be orgasmically joyous. I don't care what it takes and I do care passionately about changing what I've been doing in my life because it damn sure hasn't been working.

Up until now. . . and this is a huge admission of the truth for me. . . I've been faking it. I've been faking it. And it's got me where I am today. It may have even caused this cancer. I take full and complete responsibility for the condition my life is in. If you know me well, you may know what that is. If you don't, perhaps you are familiar with the parable in the Bible of the two sons. (Here I am, faking it again because I don't know it by heart. I've always thought of it as the parable of the talents. I'm told that's another story.)

So this guy walks into a bar. . . and tells the bartender about his two sons. He gave one 30 talents and he went away. He gave the other 30 talents and he went away. Years later, they came back and he asked what they'd done with their talents. The first one told of wise investments and land and wives and livestock. He did very well for himself.

The other son grins sheepishly and said, "I buried my talents because I didn't want to lose them."

The old man loses it and beats the crap out of him for being such an idiot because he still only had 30 talents.

That's me -- I long ago buried my talents. As a result, I've got precisely nothing to show for it. It's embarrassing and humiliating to admit it but there it is.

That's why I've decided to dig up my talents and put them to work for me. I'm not sure how. I don't know what all this change means or how it will manifest itself. . . but I'm going to take one step and then another. And I'll likely stumble along the way. I don't care. I want to get as far away from this place as I possibly can. . . both literally and figuratively.

You have my permission, if you see me getting off track (that's MY track, not yours) to remind me of my commitment to do things differently. Indeed, you have my request to do so. Points awarded for clever ways to point me in the right direction.

Tomorrow morning, I find out from the fine doctors at Parkland what they recommend for my treatment. There may be other avenues I'll pursue. I already am pursuing a couple. Just in case. But time is running out. I'm very fortunate that we've caught this very early.This lymph node can't grow forever. At some point -- soon -- it has to come out. Out! Out, damn lump!

By the way, thanks to my dear friend, Candice White, for the lovely portrait you see here. She's just the best.

More soon. . . probably tomorrow, late.

---

If drinking a cold, white, chalky substance the consistency of which is not unlike paint -- but with a delightful lemony artificial flavor -- followed by a non-descript, white, pudding-like chaser is not enough to warm your heart's cockles, then you just ain't livin', baby!

Better than that, though, is the build-up to the high point of the day's activities. . . the seemingly interminable wait. That wait, by itself, would be most sufficient to create dramatic tension before the big event but nooooooooo. . . it gets even better. After the sign-in portion of the wait, my hosts invite me to take off my shirt and slip into something more "comfortable" and not nearly so warm while sitting in a chair with other half-dressed patrons in a room designed -- I'm just guessing here -- as a meat locker.

Arriving way too early for this night bird to even feign wakefulness, I, in my stupor, entered the bowels of the bureaucracy to start my journey into the 9th level of Dante's Inferno. (That is the icy one; isn't it? Must have been. . . I felt the chill wind from Satan's constantly beating wings directed straight at my neck from the vent overhead.)

Waiting is such a delightful way to pass the time. You love it. I love it. We all love to wait. Have a seat. Someone will be right with you.

Dutifully, I queue up with others who are there to share in the same but slightly different fate. Depending on their affliction, each person is required by nurses following specific instructions to either drink half of this bland, white, liquid chalk now (some even get to drink half later, I overheard!) or to have a railroad spike driven mercilessly into the arm so that the pathway is sufficiently large to handle the dye the Masters of the Machine will pump into one's body at a mind-numbing 40 lbs per sq. inch. Doesn't sound like much; does it? Naaaaah. Not until you're on the receiving end. That's roughly 3 times atmospheric pressure shooting into your vein like a fire-hose.

Then, there's that wonderful, warm flush from head to toe. That part really isn't as bad as the nurses make it out to be. I occasionally will take a niacin tablet as part of my supplemental regimen. Some people can't stand it. . . but me? It's like kicking in the afterburner about 20 minutes into my run. All ya gotta do is relax and enjoy the ride. Niacin is much more intense.

Once it's over. . . it's just. . . over. Done. I, figuratively, emerge into the sunlight again and head to the ENT Clinic (reminiscent of the Chicago stockyards after the day's slaughter) once more. It's now noon and I thought I was done and headed home. But nooooooo. . . I get to wait some more. About 2 1/2 hours go by before I'm visited by young Dr. Ben Casey.

This entry in my blog is growing like topsy (or a tumor?) and I need to get to get some actual work done.

The second half of my day at Parkland will have to wait till tomorrow.

More later. . .

---

Yesterday was a bit overwhelming. Sorry for only now getting around to posting an update.

First, I want to tell all my friends and family, publicly, how much I love you and appreciate the kind words of support and encouragement you've given me over the past few weeks. There aren't enough words in the dictionary to express my gratitude for the things you've said about our relationship or this cancer and my fight against it.

Second, I consider myself so very lucky to only have cancer. My friend, Dan McMurry, and his partner, Randy Bibb, as you are probably aware by now, suffered severe second- and third-degree burns in the explosion and fire at their welding supply company located near downtown Dallas. I suppose that if something catastrophic had to happen, this one's not nearly so bad.

No Vacation

Getting my big toe into the Parkland system has been frustrating and, at times, maddening, but yesterday I finally had my first appointment at the Parkland ENT Clinic. Clearly, all the people who've recently disappeared from the streets of Dallas haven't left on summer vacation, they've simply gone to the ENT Clinic for holiday. It was a busy day.

I arrived barely on time in spite of leaving in plenty time to arrive early. "Cockup on the M5," Reginald Perrin would say, he of PBS Brit-com fame. Traffic tie-ups are my favorite part of urban living, you know.

After waiting for 2 1/2 hours, the few stragglers remaining and I were shown to our exam rooms. The nurse announced as we filed through the door that all the docs had gone off to a meeting and that only one of them stayed behind, so we might have to wait a bit to see him. My first thought was about this doctor. If all the other docs were gone for a meeting, I asked myself, who are they leaving behind? Chances are, it's not the guy with 30 years experience.

Evidently, having picked the short straw, I was the very last patient of the day.

Trapped On a 60s TV Show

Half an hour later, young Dr. Kildare walks in, a cute, little, clumsy puppy of a first-year resident who, though thoroughly professional, was still quite wet behind the ears. I could tell because he was dripping poodles. He took my history and notes about my current complaint and did the usual testing for higher brain function. (Doh!)

He had begun a laryngoscopy which, though mildly uncomfortable, was more weird than painful with that little dilly-bob hanging down the back of my throat. Standing, awkwardly, in front of me, he leaned in to look through the scope at my larynx and the tumor in my tonsil when. . . suddenly. . . in walks young Dr. Ben Casey and stands to the side until Kildare asks him if he'd like to take a look.

That's when things changed a bit. More confident than Dr. Kildare -- but not as cute -- Dr. Casey, a second-year resident knew a bit more, was more gainly than his younger counterpart and more knowledgeable. Nonetheless, even the venerable Dr. Casey couldn't discern the tumor in my tonsil.

Still, though he couldn't tell much about the growth in my throat, the size of the lymph node in my neck was bothersome. The good news there, he said, was that it was "floating" and not substantially connected to other tissue. A good sign.

At almost 7pm, after 2 hours in the exam room, they let me go. The docs turned down my offer of beer and burgers at Club Schmitz (even though the world-famous Chef Tony was at the grill last night). . . so I went by myself and scarfed down a double-meat, double-cheeseburger and fries to celebrate the good news. Yummmmmmmm!!!

Just in case it's not yet obvious to the casual observer, I plan on coming through this with little more than a big ol' scar on my neck. (Chicks love scars, y'know.) Thanks to Doctors Kildare and Casey, I've now been scheduled for a CT scan tomorrow morning and I'm a happy little bugger 'cuz I'm finally seeing a little progress.

More soon. . . .


No doctors were harmed in the research or writing of this blog.

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Sorry for the dearth of news the last few days. Not much to report and I'm sure you don't want to hear about me doing my laundry. ;)

I continue to notify friends about my cancer and ask for their prayers as I go down a road never travelled. Tomorrow (Tuesday, Aug. 7th) I have an appointment at the Parkland ENT Clinic and I'm still unsure what will happen and whether or not I can run the gauntlet that they refer to as their Financial Office. Seems I just can't be penniless enough to suit them. That's why I've been working on other possibilities for treatment.

Fortunately, I have some very good friends who have stepped up to the plate to put in a good word for me, helping to grease the wheels of the healthcare juggernaut that is Parkland Memorial Hospital.

But the real test will come when I actually get in to see a doctor. Whatever happens, I'll post it here as soon as possible.

In the meantime, I'm off to bed. I need all the rest I can muster in order to get through tomorrow.

All I ask is that you keep me in your prayers. I promise you I'll do my part.

More tomorrow (Tuesday). . . .

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Since I finally have arranged an appointment at the Parkland ENT Clinic, I've had a little more time on my hands. Not much, just enough to give me too much time to think about what's about to happen.

I have to admit, I'm getting a bit nervous about this whole affair. All kinds of thoughts are racing through my pea-sized mind and they're beginning to give me a headache.

They pretty much all start off with. . . "what if?" That's such a nasty phrase, "what if." It leads to entirely too much speculation.

So, I'm trying to keep myself occupied with the business of tracking down other sources and methods of treatment, arranging the necessary logistical minutiae, such as renewing my passport, getting new glasses so I can actually see clearly, and doing long neglected chores so I don't have to do them if I'm suddenly thrown into an operating room and sliced open. (See what I mean? The mind is truly bizarre sometimes.)

I all too frequently stop and mull my situation and that beastly phrase keeps popping into my head. What if? I can't help it. It seems to always be there, lurking in the shadows. Yikes! Right now, I am only ignoring it. Soon, whatever is actually, really going to happen. . . is going to be upon me and I'll have to deal with it as it comes. I'm doing my best not to deal with too many imaginary scenarios.

But it's hard.

More, less maudlin stuff soon. . .