Left the doc's office a few hours ago. I already told a few loved ones that the new scan showed no growth. Not quite true. The increase in size is measured in an approximate number of millimeters. It works out to a curent rate of growth that will take over 5 years for any of the nodules in my lungs to double in size. The doc is going to pick 10 of the nodules and graph their changes in size from first CT scan last January through each of the 5 scans since then. I go back to see that graphing on Jan 11.
Jacki and I left his office, both I think in an absorbing mode. She went to work. I ran a couple errands and came home intending to get a few things done and go to a 6pm meeting. Instead, I have holed up in my cave feeling numb and unsocial with my phone ringer shut off. Have not talked with anyone for over 6 hours which is a near record for me. My emotions are in a slow eddy, swirling but I think going down no more.
I have tried to find others with my particular brand of cancer, "Metasticized Papillary Renal Carcinoma" for those who are technical. Wikipedia says there are about 2,500,000 new cancer diagnosis a year in the USA. Of those, 50,000 are new kidney cancer diagnosis. That is about 2% of all cancers. The doc says there are only 3000 or so new cases a year of my little specialty form of kidney cancer. I would really like to find even just one of those 3000 new patients.
Bill
Monday, December 7, 2009
My Creator
My Creator,
It is Monday morning and in a few minutes Jacki and I leave for the doc's office. I ask that you please go with us; I'll hold the door for you.
Bill
It is Monday morning and in a few minutes Jacki and I leave for the doc's office. I ask that you please go with us; I'll hold the door for you.
Bill
Saturday, December 5, 2009
CT scan blues
I like listening to the blues. If I listen, that seems to take care of having to feel them so much. Sometimes I get blue before the blues deserving event even happens, like today. My CT scan was Tuesday, my doc appt to see results is Monday when Jacki can be there too. So, as before each of my preceding CT scans, I get the CT scan blues in between the scan and the doc. The fear kicks up, the sad kicks in and I get diverted from enjoying a good day.
My back felt a little painfully tense waking up this morning. My head went instantly to, "Must be the tumor, tripled in size since last scan!" If a small cough or little wheeze comes out, then my head jumps into the lungs filling up with nodules conclusion. The frequency of such magnificent magnifying thinking spikes upward every six weeks when a few days separates CT scan and the doc.
On the other hand, I notice that since initial picture last January of my kidney tumor and lung nodules, ZERO growth has occurred in either. NONE! Including the 3 months before starting the everyday chemo pill, no growth at all in my cancer. So, maybe there is just no reason for the CT scan blues other than listening might prevent. So, here are the words to the first verse:
I got the cat scan blues.
Oh yess, I got the cat scan blues.
But as long as I hear them,
All I get is good news.
(harmonica break)
Sing it! I know you can hear it too. So, in a couple days I will let you in on the details of good news Monday.
Bill
My back felt a little painfully tense waking up this morning. My head went instantly to, "Must be the tumor, tripled in size since last scan!" If a small cough or little wheeze comes out, then my head jumps into the lungs filling up with nodules conclusion. The frequency of such magnificent magnifying thinking spikes upward every six weeks when a few days separates CT scan and the doc.
On the other hand, I notice that since initial picture last January of my kidney tumor and lung nodules, ZERO growth has occurred in either. NONE! Including the 3 months before starting the everyday chemo pill, no growth at all in my cancer. So, maybe there is just no reason for the CT scan blues other than listening might prevent. So, here are the words to the first verse:
I got the cat scan blues.
Oh yess, I got the cat scan blues.
But as long as I hear them,
All I get is good news.
(harmonica break)
Sing it! I know you can hear it too. So, in a couple days I will let you in on the details of good news Monday.
Bill
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
What's it mean . . .
. . . to be a man?
Where did they come from, the rules defining what is a man? Maybe some men do not grow up learning the same rules, but I did and I see the results of those rules in so many men around me.
Writing this blog over the past, wow, almost a year, has often been difficult. How much can I reveal here? How can I express what is really going on instead of lounging in much more comfortable intellect? Is it now okay for me to be scared? No, not in my life nor in my own head nor within the "rules" of being a man. Only in recent years have I noticed another view of scared, "courage is being afraid and walking through it anyway". Still, expressing scared is a very awkward and uncommon act for me. As a boy and to some extent now, ridicule is the expected response. The "rule" for me seems summed up as, "A real man ain't scared of nothin'"
So what about sad? Much as my Dad received, at age 7 I received a backhand and admonishment that, "Boys don't cry!" I saw other boys ridiculed for crying when injured. "Men can stand pain!" So I didn't cry. Exceptions? Once at 16 when Grandma died. Blubbering drunk sobbing at my 1st divorce. Okay, so maybe a few tears rolled every 9 years, otherwise they were stuffed down inside as I tried to feel nothing. Drugs helped numb. I cried not one whit at my own father's funeral, instead plotting how to get in the restroom by myself to get numb.
Mad was not okay in my home growing up. The man of the house can get mad and show it in what I now know is rage. Throw, hit, belittle, cut with verbal blades. I hear today that anger is a natural human response to pain, but growing up I learned from those older than me to go from pain or fear into rage in a split second. But, only the top dog gets to do that. That's the rule, passed down from one generation to the next. Control your woman with fear and hitting. Tie thumbs together, hang over a door to hold the boy still for application of a board to the back. A few generations back, that was okay, but each ensuing generation of men in my tree was a little bit less violent. We all knew at some level it was wrong, but knew no other way to avoid showing some, according to the rules, sissy emotion. Coming down the tree to me, it was 1978, I remember it well when I used a backhand on 3 occasions, lashing out at my first wife. That is what I learned to do with mad - part of the rule book for being a man. I have never hit again, but I did use a lot of drugs as a plug on scared, sad, and anger.
Talking about any of what I am attempting to write herein, was just simply not done. No one knows what goes on behind closed doors, but the same goings on were apparently going on behind many doors. Stuff mad, sad, scared, intil the dam bursts in a fit of rage. Or the burst floods a pit of despair or depression. Our all too low self esteem is pounded into us by each other from what, age 4 or 5.
The rules:
1. Do not show fear.
2. Do not show sad.
3. Do not begin to be mad because that might lead to rage.
4. Do not speak well of yourself because that is conceit.
5. Do not speak well of another guy lest he get a "big head".
6. Discount any compliment.
7. Compare yourself to others, measuring less than or better than.
8. Judge yourself harshly but build yourself up by belittling others.
The rules seem to go on and on. I could add to the list and so could you. But I want to know, WHO WROTE THE RULES? How long have we been ruled as men by standards of perfection that can only result in failure. Every good job seems followed by a but . . .
Maybe that's just me. Maybe it's not just men.
Even with cancer, I have thoughts that I SHOULD be more spiritual, or eat better, or exercise more, or on and on and on . . . My sponsor shares with me about not talking bad to myself. Turns out I have been hard on myself for about 52 years (since age 4 or 5). I ask my sponsees, "How's that workin' for ya?" I must ask myself that same question everyday to help me steer into thinking and talking well about you and about me. I like experiencing me more concerned with being kind than with being right. I like to acting like I love instead of just saying it. I would like to ask myself, "Is what I am about to do going to divide us apart or bring us together?" I relish my progress away from being emotionally stunted toward showing what I feel. Cry when I am sad. At least say it to myself when I am in fear. I like becoming able to recognise and express anger directly but without malice. I like accepting that I progress and grow and learn and love, and arrive where I really have always been . . . hu-man. You too!
Bill
Where did they come from, the rules defining what is a man? Maybe some men do not grow up learning the same rules, but I did and I see the results of those rules in so many men around me.
Writing this blog over the past, wow, almost a year, has often been difficult. How much can I reveal here? How can I express what is really going on instead of lounging in much more comfortable intellect? Is it now okay for me to be scared? No, not in my life nor in my own head nor within the "rules" of being a man. Only in recent years have I noticed another view of scared, "courage is being afraid and walking through it anyway". Still, expressing scared is a very awkward and uncommon act for me. As a boy and to some extent now, ridicule is the expected response. The "rule" for me seems summed up as, "A real man ain't scared of nothin'"
So what about sad? Much as my Dad received, at age 7 I received a backhand and admonishment that, "Boys don't cry!" I saw other boys ridiculed for crying when injured. "Men can stand pain!" So I didn't cry. Exceptions? Once at 16 when Grandma died. Blubbering drunk sobbing at my 1st divorce. Okay, so maybe a few tears rolled every 9 years, otherwise they were stuffed down inside as I tried to feel nothing. Drugs helped numb. I cried not one whit at my own father's funeral, instead plotting how to get in the restroom by myself to get numb.
Mad was not okay in my home growing up. The man of the house can get mad and show it in what I now know is rage. Throw, hit, belittle, cut with verbal blades. I hear today that anger is a natural human response to pain, but growing up I learned from those older than me to go from pain or fear into rage in a split second. But, only the top dog gets to do that. That's the rule, passed down from one generation to the next. Control your woman with fear and hitting. Tie thumbs together, hang over a door to hold the boy still for application of a board to the back. A few generations back, that was okay, but each ensuing generation of men in my tree was a little bit less violent. We all knew at some level it was wrong, but knew no other way to avoid showing some, according to the rules, sissy emotion. Coming down the tree to me, it was 1978, I remember it well when I used a backhand on 3 occasions, lashing out at my first wife. That is what I learned to do with mad - part of the rule book for being a man. I have never hit again, but I did use a lot of drugs as a plug on scared, sad, and anger.
Talking about any of what I am attempting to write herein, was just simply not done. No one knows what goes on behind closed doors, but the same goings on were apparently going on behind many doors. Stuff mad, sad, scared, intil the dam bursts in a fit of rage. Or the burst floods a pit of despair or depression. Our all too low self esteem is pounded into us by each other from what, age 4 or 5.
The rules:
1. Do not show fear.
2. Do not show sad.
3. Do not begin to be mad because that might lead to rage.
4. Do not speak well of yourself because that is conceit.
5. Do not speak well of another guy lest he get a "big head".
6. Discount any compliment.
7. Compare yourself to others, measuring less than or better than.
8. Judge yourself harshly but build yourself up by belittling others.
The rules seem to go on and on. I could add to the list and so could you. But I want to know, WHO WROTE THE RULES? How long have we been ruled as men by standards of perfection that can only result in failure. Every good job seems followed by a but . . .
Maybe that's just me. Maybe it's not just men.
Even with cancer, I have thoughts that I SHOULD be more spiritual, or eat better, or exercise more, or on and on and on . . . My sponsor shares with me about not talking bad to myself. Turns out I have been hard on myself for about 52 years (since age 4 or 5). I ask my sponsees, "How's that workin' for ya?" I must ask myself that same question everyday to help me steer into thinking and talking well about you and about me. I like experiencing me more concerned with being kind than with being right. I like to acting like I love instead of just saying it. I would like to ask myself, "Is what I am about to do going to divide us apart or bring us together?" I relish my progress away from being emotionally stunted toward showing what I feel. Cry when I am sad. At least say it to myself when I am in fear. I like becoming able to recognise and express anger directly but without malice. I like accepting that I progress and grow and learn and love, and arrive where I really have always been . . . hu-man. You too!
Bill
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
angry
I have been angry. Simmering beneath the surface of my consciousness. A few days ago, maybe a week, it bubbled to the surface through a crack called resentment. I did not express my anger directly, I just had a "justified" resentment. Justified resentment I am pretty sure means I get to focus my own ire at someone else in the form of blaming. Hocus pocus, change the focus, get off me and onto someone else what is really going on inside my own head. In early recovery I read, "What about the justified resentments? We find they are best left to those more qualified to handle them."
Often I have described, when asked "how do you feel?", how my emotions run the full gamut every day. Mad, sad, glad, scared, up and down, sometimes even despair and hopeless. I cannot remember the last time I felt hopeless before Cancer. Physically vibrant, tired, sluggish, in action or sitting on my butt (laurels?)give me the variety (roller coaster?). Those answers to "how do you feel" may well be honest answers for most humans on any given day. For me, it has taken cancer to help me express and see the rest of what has always been there - emotions that seem not okay to feel. I learned as a kid that anger is not okay for anyone except my Dad. Not blaming him here, he got it from his dad, who got it from his dad, and his dad . . . a gift that keeps on giving.
I come from a line of men on one side who hit, throw, and verbally assault to deal with anger. The men I grew up with who did not throw or hit or cut with words? Well, they stuffed it. Down and in not up and out. When I stuff it, it percolates into passive agressive thinking and behavior, or it mutates into depression. The last time I hit was 1978. Wife #1. That is a pain on my soul I feel to this day. Since it was not okay to be angry as a kid, and it came out so ghoulishly as a young man, I learned to stuff it. Part of the function of my drug use and abuse for 26 years was to keep a lid on the slow simmer of emotions stuffed. Sad, scared, mad - stuffed.
So, now I have been in recovery for near 16 years. No drugs. A little better at expressing emotions instead of stuffing. I can cry fairly readily and say "I am sad." Even scared is within my verbal skills to express. But anger is still very awkward and often squeezed into a different costume.
I feel anger about this thing trying to grow inside me and grab what seems everything so dear to me. Anger at the medicine (solution?) that near incapacitates me several hours of every day. Drags me down much of the rest of my day - easily tire, I am not as sharp or quick mentally. EVERY day I wake knowing I get to take poison guaranteed to rule much of my day. It pisses me off that I also must see that same poison as "my friend"!
Of course I feel sad about the many changes in my life and my loved one's lives. The impact on Jacki is profoundly stressful and she too experiences an emotional roller coaster. The coaster mostly is not extreme up and down, it is just continuously there in the background. It wears. I know that she contains her swings to protect me and I contain my swings to protect her. Maybe neither of us needs that much protection. We must not just stuff it, because that takes too great a toll.
My sponsor said underneath this anger is fear, My first thought was that he was full of BS and that I fear very little about this whole scenario around having cancer. Now, as his laser eye spotted it, I recognize and see the fears. My kind of cancer cells are fatal and there exists no cure as of this moment in medical time. I fear what that will do to Jacki, my daughter and those close in my life. My Mom would be hit so hard by a 2nd child going before her.
I fear being laughed at for feeling and expressing such fear and anger. "There goes Bill again talking about the cancer." I am angry about not getting to work and earn and spike my income beyond what SS pays me. I resent the wobbly physical symptom I get every day when I cannot drive and stairs are difficult. What about my persona of being Bill G, the strong, kind, loving, even, solid guy who helps and sponsors and speaks inspirationally. I am still all that, AND I get to be human including angry amd afaid. I am even going to be pissed off if any comments come telling me to push it back down, get it together and suck it up!
Intellectually I understand that I am grieving: anger, denial, bargaining - what are the other two? I am going through them too. Throw in some massive amount of self centered - thinking about me and not even asking about you. Inside it feels like a big jumbled up mess, a quagmire that I mostly keep tucked in what I think is out of sight. Yet some of you see it. You ask and I give canned answers. I must let some this stuff out, vomit it out if I have to, because what I have been doing is too hard, too tough and too unrealistic of expectations on myself. And to cover the truth is distancing from you and too much work for me. So let's not tip toe through the tulips. Be a little more human and real about what this is like. Stop comparing me and mine to you and yours - it never comes out even.
God's gonna take care of all of this. Maybe after writing this, talking, praying, I can move into faith that His will is pretty good.
I'm gonna post this before I chicken out and start rationalizing it all away.
Bill
Often I have described, when asked "how do you feel?", how my emotions run the full gamut every day. Mad, sad, glad, scared, up and down, sometimes even despair and hopeless. I cannot remember the last time I felt hopeless before Cancer. Physically vibrant, tired, sluggish, in action or sitting on my butt (laurels?)give me the variety (roller coaster?). Those answers to "how do you feel" may well be honest answers for most humans on any given day. For me, it has taken cancer to help me express and see the rest of what has always been there - emotions that seem not okay to feel. I learned as a kid that anger is not okay for anyone except my Dad. Not blaming him here, he got it from his dad, who got it from his dad, and his dad . . . a gift that keeps on giving.
I come from a line of men on one side who hit, throw, and verbally assault to deal with anger. The men I grew up with who did not throw or hit or cut with words? Well, they stuffed it. Down and in not up and out. When I stuff it, it percolates into passive agressive thinking and behavior, or it mutates into depression. The last time I hit was 1978. Wife #1. That is a pain on my soul I feel to this day. Since it was not okay to be angry as a kid, and it came out so ghoulishly as a young man, I learned to stuff it. Part of the function of my drug use and abuse for 26 years was to keep a lid on the slow simmer of emotions stuffed. Sad, scared, mad - stuffed.
So, now I have been in recovery for near 16 years. No drugs. A little better at expressing emotions instead of stuffing. I can cry fairly readily and say "I am sad." Even scared is within my verbal skills to express. But anger is still very awkward and often squeezed into a different costume.
I feel anger about this thing trying to grow inside me and grab what seems everything so dear to me. Anger at the medicine (solution?) that near incapacitates me several hours of every day. Drags me down much of the rest of my day - easily tire, I am not as sharp or quick mentally. EVERY day I wake knowing I get to take poison guaranteed to rule much of my day. It pisses me off that I also must see that same poison as "my friend"!
Of course I feel sad about the many changes in my life and my loved one's lives. The impact on Jacki is profoundly stressful and she too experiences an emotional roller coaster. The coaster mostly is not extreme up and down, it is just continuously there in the background. It wears. I know that she contains her swings to protect me and I contain my swings to protect her. Maybe neither of us needs that much protection. We must not just stuff it, because that takes too great a toll.
My sponsor said underneath this anger is fear, My first thought was that he was full of BS and that I fear very little about this whole scenario around having cancer. Now, as his laser eye spotted it, I recognize and see the fears. My kind of cancer cells are fatal and there exists no cure as of this moment in medical time. I fear what that will do to Jacki, my daughter and those close in my life. My Mom would be hit so hard by a 2nd child going before her.
I fear being laughed at for feeling and expressing such fear and anger. "There goes Bill again talking about the cancer." I am angry about not getting to work and earn and spike my income beyond what SS pays me. I resent the wobbly physical symptom I get every day when I cannot drive and stairs are difficult. What about my persona of being Bill G, the strong, kind, loving, even, solid guy who helps and sponsors and speaks inspirationally. I am still all that, AND I get to be human including angry amd afaid. I am even going to be pissed off if any comments come telling me to push it back down, get it together and suck it up!
Intellectually I understand that I am grieving: anger, denial, bargaining - what are the other two? I am going through them too. Throw in some massive amount of self centered - thinking about me and not even asking about you. Inside it feels like a big jumbled up mess, a quagmire that I mostly keep tucked in what I think is out of sight. Yet some of you see it. You ask and I give canned answers. I must let some this stuff out, vomit it out if I have to, because what I have been doing is too hard, too tough and too unrealistic of expectations on myself. And to cover the truth is distancing from you and too much work for me. So let's not tip toe through the tulips. Be a little more human and real about what this is like. Stop comparing me and mine to you and yours - it never comes out even.
God's gonna take care of all of this. Maybe after writing this, talking, praying, I can move into faith that His will is pretty good.
I'm gonna post this before I chicken out and start rationalizing it all away.
Bill
Saturday, November 14, 2009
No Idea
I think last post I said we are tiling two rooms in our house. I had NO IDEA of the real amount of work and displacement that entailed. Our stuff, two rooms full of stuff, was outside on our back patio for 7 days. We had help moving stuff out and then moving it back in. We had help tearing up the old carpeting (dirty, nasty stuff carpet - it is good for holding dirt and . . . ). I did shop for tile by myself (saltillo tile) but had help moving it after the delivery, stacking it in convenient places for the help who actually laid the tile. Smear sticky stuff called thin set on the bare concrete floor, set each tile, keep the lines straight and each tile set the same depth. I was the gopher/supervisor/project manager.
Another day of grouting between the tiles, another day to apply three coats of gloss sealer, let it thoroughly dry. Another day to give it one more coat of gloss. Next day finally moving stuff indoors and unpacking boxes of small stuff. The next day it rained. Whew!!! Thank you God. The tile is beautiful, and it feels extra good to me because it is the first big project I have been part of since being diagnosed.
I got tired each morning after a couple hours working, took a break, work a little more. The feed everyone lunch, work a little more and then take my friend, the little white pill. Several days the was someone here I could trust while I chilled and dozed upstairs, and a couple days I just sent everybody home at `about 1:30.
Two mornings toward the end, I awoke before 5:30am and got moving, planning the workers day to make the most of the newcomer helpers we paid. Almost all involved were in our exctended cirle of recovering addicts. Several friends and sponsees volunteered and some we paid just because we could and they needed to earn. Sorry to go on and on about tiling a couple floors, but maybe it gives you a sense of the "going on and on" of the project. I had NO IDEA!!
Today Jacki and I attended two separate services for friends recently deceased. First of all, these fellow drug addicts died clean. At each gathering were about 100other clean addicts. I probably gave/received 200 hugs today. Doctors say we need 4hugs a day to stay healthy - my cancer's gonna be cured at this hugging rate. Sort of the 12 step version of "laying on of hands" healing.
One of the dead/passed/crossed over was a cancer victim - leukemia - after three years of chemo and radiation. I know she was worn out, tired and in such regular pain that it had to be a relief to finally go. Toward the end, she insisted on detoxing from all the pain killers doctors had her taking. She wanted to be clear headed, and then she touched many in those last few days. She was the one who soon after my diagnosis called me out of the blue and shared dealing with cancer experience. She related to my fear, sadness, anger, and even the gratitude for life lived so sweetly. She is the one who gave me the gift of knowing chemo is my friend. Thank you Andrea!
The other service was for my friend Bill. I love him still. His last initial was G, just like me. So in our recovery community there were two Bill G's. He and I called each other OBG - Other Bill G. When the initial news spread of his death, many thought it was me. He was a large, kind, gentle and loving man who was always amazed that so many cared for him. He leaves a legacy of love amongst us, and I miss him.
The thing about this death stuff is that I have no sense of mine being any nearer now than 10 months ago. Still no felt symptoms of the cancer, only of the chemo pill. I think mostly of life and living with so many who love me - far more than I realized BC. Today, I experienced two memorial services. Both were clean recovering addicts seeking spiritual growth. Their paths of seeking were from differing directions of belief and faith, but I say they were headed toward the same ending - a closer contact with God at the source of all the love we experience on this planet. Some call it heaven. That's where Bill and Andrea are now, and it is where I will go and you will go and we'll all have a meeting. See you there. Count on it!
OBG
Another day of grouting between the tiles, another day to apply three coats of gloss sealer, let it thoroughly dry. Another day to give it one more coat of gloss. Next day finally moving stuff indoors and unpacking boxes of small stuff. The next day it rained. Whew!!! Thank you God. The tile is beautiful, and it feels extra good to me because it is the first big project I have been part of since being diagnosed.
I got tired each morning after a couple hours working, took a break, work a little more. The feed everyone lunch, work a little more and then take my friend, the little white pill. Several days the was someone here I could trust while I chilled and dozed upstairs, and a couple days I just sent everybody home at `about 1:30.
Two mornings toward the end, I awoke before 5:30am and got moving, planning the workers day to make the most of the newcomer helpers we paid. Almost all involved were in our exctended cirle of recovering addicts. Several friends and sponsees volunteered and some we paid just because we could and they needed to earn. Sorry to go on and on about tiling a couple floors, but maybe it gives you a sense of the "going on and on" of the project. I had NO IDEA!!
Today Jacki and I attended two separate services for friends recently deceased. First of all, these fellow drug addicts died clean. At each gathering were about 100other clean addicts. I probably gave/received 200 hugs today. Doctors say we need 4hugs a day to stay healthy - my cancer's gonna be cured at this hugging rate. Sort of the 12 step version of "laying on of hands" healing.
One of the dead/passed/crossed over was a cancer victim - leukemia - after three years of chemo and radiation. I know she was worn out, tired and in such regular pain that it had to be a relief to finally go. Toward the end, she insisted on detoxing from all the pain killers doctors had her taking. She wanted to be clear headed, and then she touched many in those last few days. She was the one who soon after my diagnosis called me out of the blue and shared dealing with cancer experience. She related to my fear, sadness, anger, and even the gratitude for life lived so sweetly. She is the one who gave me the gift of knowing chemo is my friend. Thank you Andrea!
The other service was for my friend Bill. I love him still. His last initial was G, just like me. So in our recovery community there were two Bill G's. He and I called each other OBG - Other Bill G. When the initial news spread of his death, many thought it was me. He was a large, kind, gentle and loving man who was always amazed that so many cared for him. He leaves a legacy of love amongst us, and I miss him.
The thing about this death stuff is that I have no sense of mine being any nearer now than 10 months ago. Still no felt symptoms of the cancer, only of the chemo pill. I think mostly of life and living with so many who love me - far more than I realized BC. Today, I experienced two memorial services. Both were clean recovering addicts seeking spiritual growth. Their paths of seeking were from differing directions of belief and faith, but I say they were headed toward the same ending - a closer contact with God at the source of all the love we experience on this planet. Some call it heaven. That's where Bill and Andrea are now, and it is where I will go and you will go and we'll all have a meeting. See you there. Count on it!
OBG
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
During
I do not think I have blogged during my afternoon twilight zone funky period. Everyday I take the chemo pill and a few minutes later the effects start coming on. At this moment I am 40 minutes in so this is prime "peak" time.
Phone call, so now it is about 55 minutes in. The call ended 10 min ago but I forgot. My fingers don't want to type - they are slower than usual. My eyes feel like when you pull back on the skin around them wondering what you would look like with plastic surgery.. I wobbled when I got out of my chair a bit ago. It is not a good time to go upstairs and for sure I must not drive. My hand keeps going to my forehead to press firmly and push backward. It feels a little good to press and push back, but more it is more like necessary. In a few minutes I will need to get horizontal for awhile. I may or may not sleep, but horizontal is required.
That will take me about 2 or 2 1/2 hrs into it and then it is a gradual process of these minor symptoms decreasing over the next two hours so by about 5 p,m I will be able to drive, converse well and be ready to be active. Today I am transplanting some flowers and cacti.
Meanwhile our home is a wreck with stuff moved and stacked to clear our office for laying tile after the carpet damage. The tile was delivered today and I have help coming in the morning to put sealer on the tiles before laying tile on Saturday.
Last night I was at a men's recovery meeting. Several new guys shared "from the heart" about the huge mess they are in, which is fine, they need to get it out. We can all identify with making a mess of our lives. Many meetings go like that - new guys, then some more experienced guys maybe talking about problems but then solutions other than getting loaded or saying f**k this and running like we always did. Instead another new guy shared and went on and on. About ten minutes of pointless spewing about nothing specific. I kept waiting for someone to politely ask him to stop, "Your time is up."
We talk about sharing the message not the mess. I personally felt taken hostage. Other guys chance to share dwindled. So, finally, I spoke resectfully as I could asking him to, "stop, your time is up" I am known to do that, and I always wonder why me? Do other members really want to let someone go on and on about their mess? We ask at beginning of every meeting to "Please limit your sharing to 3 to 5 minutes." Do we not mean that? Are we still afraid to speak up for ourselves?
One of the very impressive aspects of a meeting for me has always been a subjective feeling seemingly "in the air". As I have studied our literature over the years, I have noticed a phraes in our books mentioned I think 12 times: "Atmosphere of Recovery." That is a treasure to me in my recovery. It is the respect of one addict sharing and all others in the room listening. It is the "sharing the time" of sharing so that most if not all in the room have a chance to talk and be listened to. Addicts just do not do that. Most often we are busy thinking about ourselves and listening to the chatter in our own heads.
That is a big why for having our meetings - most of an hour out of own heads and maybe hearing the message of how to stay clean and find a new way to live.
There, it is almost two hours since taking the pill, and I functioned well enough to write the above. Thanks for stepping out of your own head long enough to read. You ever step out of your own head and watch yourself think? It can be quite entertaining. Smile!
Bill
Phone call, so now it is about 55 minutes in. The call ended 10 min ago but I forgot. My fingers don't want to type - they are slower than usual. My eyes feel like when you pull back on the skin around them wondering what you would look like with plastic surgery.. I wobbled when I got out of my chair a bit ago. It is not a good time to go upstairs and for sure I must not drive. My hand keeps going to my forehead to press firmly and push backward. It feels a little good to press and push back, but more it is more like necessary. In a few minutes I will need to get horizontal for awhile. I may or may not sleep, but horizontal is required.
That will take me about 2 or 2 1/2 hrs into it and then it is a gradual process of these minor symptoms decreasing over the next two hours so by about 5 p,m I will be able to drive, converse well and be ready to be active. Today I am transplanting some flowers and cacti.
Meanwhile our home is a wreck with stuff moved and stacked to clear our office for laying tile after the carpet damage. The tile was delivered today and I have help coming in the morning to put sealer on the tiles before laying tile on Saturday.
Last night I was at a men's recovery meeting. Several new guys shared "from the heart" about the huge mess they are in, which is fine, they need to get it out. We can all identify with making a mess of our lives. Many meetings go like that - new guys, then some more experienced guys maybe talking about problems but then solutions other than getting loaded or saying f**k this and running like we always did. Instead another new guy shared and went on and on. About ten minutes of pointless spewing about nothing specific. I kept waiting for someone to politely ask him to stop, "Your time is up."
We talk about sharing the message not the mess. I personally felt taken hostage. Other guys chance to share dwindled. So, finally, I spoke resectfully as I could asking him to, "stop, your time is up" I am known to do that, and I always wonder why me? Do other members really want to let someone go on and on about their mess? We ask at beginning of every meeting to "Please limit your sharing to 3 to 5 minutes." Do we not mean that? Are we still afraid to speak up for ourselves?
One of the very impressive aspects of a meeting for me has always been a subjective feeling seemingly "in the air". As I have studied our literature over the years, I have noticed a phraes in our books mentioned I think 12 times: "Atmosphere of Recovery." That is a treasure to me in my recovery. It is the respect of one addict sharing and all others in the room listening. It is the "sharing the time" of sharing so that most if not all in the room have a chance to talk and be listened to. Addicts just do not do that. Most often we are busy thinking about ourselves and listening to the chatter in our own heads.
That is a big why for having our meetings - most of an hour out of own heads and maybe hearing the message of how to stay clean and find a new way to live.
There, it is almost two hours since taking the pill, and I functioned well enough to write the above. Thanks for stepping out of your own head long enough to read. You ever step out of your own head and watch yourself think? It can be quite entertaining. Smile!
Bill
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