Sometimes I blogsurf: after checking out a blog, I visit one or two of their links. If I find something interesting, I follow one or two of the link's links. I often lose track of exactly how I arrived somewhere, as is the case with this image.

I found it at in an archived page at The Quaker Agitator, in a post aptly titled, "Hang Up and Drive." (The link to the original source just leads to an expired page.)

God Says Yes To Me

by Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

from The Palm of your Hand, 1995, Tilbury House Publishers
Copyright 1995 by Kaylin Haught. All rights reserved.

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And with that, Ms. Haught suddenly leapfrogs almost to the top of my favorite poets list! How could I not love a goddess who calls me sweetcakes, and sanctions melodrama?

I crack me up, #7,493

Got my copy of the surgery notes and read through it as best I could. If you've ever read surgical notes, or even MRI/CT scan reports, you know that the object of the game is to use as little English as possible, and to make the report as difficult to understand as possible. Still, I gleaned most of the vital information, and was just a little bit pleased to see that even when unconscious, I am capable of being, "incredibly difficult." But I was surprised when I came to this bit:

...using the same technique with AP and lateral fluoroscopy, cannulated down into and through the left T7 pedicle and into the vertebral body...We did attempt to take a biopsy but it was not fruitful.

What? The attempt to take a biopsy was not fruitful? Oh, my gosh! And then I cracked up because...so what?

(Given my circumstance, I should probably use a term other than "cracking up.")

Facebook-Challenged (Oh, the shame!)

I was the second-to-last human to get a cell phone. I use it for outgoing calls only. And rarely. My phone is 3-4 years old, and it doesn't have a camera, or internet. But I've been computing for 25 years, and I've been on the internet for 15+ years, so I'm not a complete computer idjut.

But don't be fooled by the fact that I managed to create this blog (with Kelly's help) and add to it with links and pictures. I am definitely a blog neophyte, and a link/social site virgin. I don't twitter. I don't technorati. I don't Digg. I don't RSS, although I think Kelly helped my blog to do this, or be this, or whateverrr. I don't LinkIn or LinkedIn. I don't FeedBlitz or FeedBurn. (Actually, I think I Feedburned, or Fedburn, but I didn't understand how or why.) I don't SlashDot. I don't Deli.cio.us. I don't MySpace.

And now for the shameful part: I don't Facebook.

I've tried. And yes, I know several dogs who do, and I've tried and tried. And I've given up. Until someone walks in the door, and stands over my shoulder, and walks me through, step by step, I have absolutely sworn off of even trying. Because I have been perilously close to hurling this antique laptop right through the window, and I can't afford another computer right now.

P.S. Has Google bought Facebook yet? I'm very wary of all things Google, although this blog is hosted through a Google-owned service. It's the 800lb gorilla of the computer world, and it really hasn't reassured me that my information is safe and/or private. Why is it still saving every search I've ever done?

Big C Update

I've toyed with the idea of quitting the support group; although they are all good-hearted people, I just wasn't getting much out of it. And as the only unmarried MM patient, I sometimes left the meetings feeling worse - lonelier, more isolated. But I'd decided to give it one more shot before I gave up, and wow, what a good decision that turned out to be. Monday evening was an excellent meeting: a good speaker, a relevant topic -- understanding our monthly blood test results -- followed by some truly meaningful discussions. It was the first time people really opened up about personal issues; it was touching to hear their concerns, and even more moving to hear and see the group's response. I won't be any more specific, but I'm really hopeful that this meeting is the beginning of a new "tone," and not just an anomaly. (Also hopeful that it wasn't just because the guy who usually monopolizes every meeting happened to be absent.)

So I was in a better frame of mind on Wednesday to hear Dr. A's plan for more chemo. Mom and my true-blue pal Chris came with. (Dad was also here, but didn't feel well that day.) So...here's the plan. New drug, two IVs a week for two weeks (NO port, of course!), followed by 10 days off. That is considered one cycle (24 days), and I will have a minimum of 4 cycles. I'm steeling myself for the possibility of more, just in case. I will also be getting Dex again; it mitigates some of the side effects of the other drug, but comes with its own basket of crap. In my case, "'Roid Rage" and diabetes.

Oh, the other good news, not that it matters much to me, is that I probably won't lose my hair. Since it's taken 6+ months to grow 1/2 inch of hair, that's probably good. But I'm thinking about keeping it this short. It is really cool and comfortable. Costs no money, takes no time. And -- I'm just a little embarrassed to admit -- I like the shock factor of the microbuzz. And -- although there's a chance they're lying -- everyone keeps telling me it looks great.

It's very frustrating because my back feels better than it has in more than a year; I finally, finally have some relief. I still have some back issues, other damaged vertebrae, some tumors, etc., but...I can walk without blinding pain! I can sleep through the night! I can get in and out of the car without teeth-gnashing! And there's a chance that the new drug will make me feel sick and barfy. I just hate the thought of letting even this limited relief be snatched away from me. But my Doc feels very strongly that this will be the final push to get me to CR (Complete Response or Complete Remission), so I feel I have to give it a shot. It would be foolish to come this far and not take the last step.

Prescription to cure wealth?

I knew my persistent sniffles would once again require an antibiotic, so I made a plea: let's not use a cannon if a slingshot will work. I was campaigning for E-mycin or one of the narrow spectrum, older, less expensive drugs instead of the monster Z-Pack that always results in yeast infections, ear infections, etc.

Instead, they called in an Rx for Blahblah. I'm guessing it's still a new drug because it cost $13 freakin' dollars EACH. One hundred thirty dollars for TEN pills!

For some reason, my surgery has not been through the insurance system yet, so I still haven't met my deductible and everything is out-of-pocket. I would have just refused, called the doc back and asked for something else. But Genius Girl waited until Friday night to pick it up, and I'm supposed to start chemo on Monday, so I bit the bullet and got the $130 Rx. I wonder about poor people and/or the uninsured who might need Blahblah: do they just die? Is it a sort of financial Darwinism?

Well, the good thing about really expensive lessons is that I tend to remember them.

Today, I am a Kvetch

I've managed to blot out most of my Bat Mitzvah experience. It was the absolute apex of my dorkhood. I had nowhere to go but up from here.

And consistent with my childhood theme of Perpetual Victim, I was outraged that the whole affair was a fraction of Bro 1's Gala Hullabaloo. His Bar Mitzvah was doubled up with Cuz 1's Bat Mitzvah; they were both first-borns, and it was a 3-day weekend- long Polish wedding of a Bar Mitzvah. I'm pretty sure everyone from god to Liz Taylor attended. Certainly cousins, aunts and uncles from every remote corner of the universe were there. There were matchbooks.

My Bat Mitzvah was way, way, way scaled down. Aside from my grandparents, one Milwaukee aunt & uncle attended. Period. No matchbooks.

It was hardly worth the fit I threw to get this silly dress. I vaguely remember a screaming scene in a "nice" dress shop. You NEVER this! and you ALWAYS that! and I just badgered my poor mom into buying this stupid thing which probably cost as much as the whole rest of the affair. I think it was because I could finally move out of the girls' department and wear a women's petite. (It still hangs in Mom & Dad's basement, and looks more like a Barbie dress. Tiny.)

I led the services and read a portion of the Torah that I had memorized. I think I spouted some version of the classic Link in the Golden Chain* speech. But it wasn't a rite of passage into womanhood, or assuming responsibilities as an adult, it wasn't even a part of my development as a member of the Jewish community. There was no frame of reference back then, certainly not for superfluous girl people. It was just stress, and a dress, and more than my usual moral outrage.

My BM loot was also a fraction of Bro 1's. And my parents gave me my first piece of luggage. They would continue to give me luggage on every birthday for the next 4 years.

Subtle, very subtle.
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*The rabbi gave each kid a sort of outline for their speech. "Be sure to thank your parents, and your teachers, and say how proud you are to become a link in the golden chain of Judaism." Just about every kid used that phrase verbatim; once the speech started, we'd wait for it...wait for it... and inevitably s/he would become... a Link in the Golden Chain!