Hi guys,

Yesterday while I was visiting him in ICU, Brad asked me if I was OK. It was typical of him to think of others while he almost died from a bad case of the flu which developed into pneumonia.

Physically I'm OK but since we got back from visiting Carol, I'm having some delusions.

The other evening I went to sleep around 8pm, and the dogs woke me up around 10 to go outside. I let them out and then went into Carol's bedroom to check on her. Her bed was empty, so in a panic I started searching the house. I was at the front door getting ready to go out and look down the highway before I realized that she was at Conifer House in Corvallis. I don't know if I was sleepwalking or just confused.

A few nights ago I fell asleep in the living room recliner and when I woke up I swear Carol was on the couch sleeping. When I got up and looked closer she was gone. At night I keep seeing her face with the blank look I got when I tried to hug her at Conifer House. She still doesn't recognize me.

All I know for sure is that I miss her terribly and for now I can't bear to see the state she's in.

This disease has affected our family so much, it's hard to even think about her being gone, but at least she's being cared for, which I'm ashamed to say I failed at. If it hadn't been for Donna and Brad things would definitely been a lot worse. Most of the last six months I've been in a daze and pretty worthless.

Here's a link to Conifer House in Corvallis.

http://www.coniferhousealmc.com/

After experiencing my wife Carol's dip into Alzheimer's, caused by her dementia combined with a UTI, (Urinary tract infection,) I realized what it was like to be the sole keeper of our precious shared memories. I could no longer ask her something like “Remember celebrating our anniversary at the El Tovar in the Grand Canyon? Was that our 9^th or 10^th?”

A memory can be a lonely thing if there's no one to share it with.

It's a terrible experience to lose a loved one, but I believe having a loved one lose their memory of you is just as bad or maybe even worse.

Thankfully Carol's full blown Alzheimer's symptoms were temporary and she has recovered her long term memory. She's taking drugs to alleviate the symptoms, (there is no cure,) and her memory loss now is mostly short term. She loses and misplaces things all day long, but I'll take that any day compared to her not remembering who I am.

Now when I ask her “Remember the moonlight on the snow that night at the ranch in Colorado? We played music all night long.”

“Yes, I remember! Every time I hear the theme from La Dolce Vita I think of that night.”

Learning to Live With Alzheimers

After the shock of realizing that my wife of 52 years no longer recognized or remembered me I was at a total loss. Should I go along with her delusion or should I argue and try to prove who I really was. Arguing proved to be pointless as she couldn't be convinced that I was anything more than a stranger. I didn't think that it could get much worse than that but I was wrong.

We got along fairly well for a week or so (as long as I didn't try to hug her or show any affection,) and one morning I asked Carol if she wanted to go to the grocery store in Newport with me or stay at home. She said she would rather stay at home with the doggies.

When I got back home with a car load of groceries and tried to take an armload into the house she met me at the door and said, “I'm not letting you in, you can't stay here!”

“I live here!” I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say, except, “At least let me bring in the groceries!” Reluctantly, she let me in, and while I unloaded the car and put the groceries away she shouted that I was not her husband and that as soon as I was done I had to leave.

She was sobbing while I got on the phone and left a message on our son Brad's answering service asking if he and his wife Donna would come over to help. By the time they arrived Carol had calmed down some and between the two of them talking to her she finally relented and agreed to let Brad take her to the emergency room at the hospital in Newport.

Later that day Brad called and told me that they diagnosed her having a urinary tract infection which for some reason, is known to cause big problems, including anxiety attacks in Alzheimer's patients. Brad brought her home with a prescription for Cipro, an antibiotic.

Several days later the four of us went to our family doctor and he prescribed some medicine to help ease Carol's anxiety and panic attacks and hopefully help with her memory loss. We're getting along pretty well now, I guess she thinks of me as some kind of family friend and we seem to do OK with that unspoken understanding, but I sure do miss those good morning and goodnight hugs and kisses.

I hope her memory of me comes back. I keep playing oldies on the boom box and looking at family pictures with her but for now I just have to nod when she asks me if I ever met her and Bob's son, Rick. I think to myself, yes honey, I watched him being born. Dammit! I'm Bob!

Legend

This morning I had to call 911.

Carol was having a bad anxiety attack, and I couldn't help her. She wanted “to go home to her family” and take the dogs with her. She was sobbing and having trouble breathing.

When the ambulance arrived and they were checking her vitals one of them said,”Oh my God! Do you guys know who this is? She's a central coast legend! She logged more volunteer hours than anyone!” He looked at her and asked, “Do you remember me? You helped break me in on driving the ambulance.” When I saw her face light up I almost cried.

In a few minutes it was old home week and Carol's anxiety slipped away as they remembered people they had worked with and where they were now.

Her vital signs had returned to normal and the head paramedic said that he didn't think that a trip to the hospital was necessary. I agreed.

After they left I asked Carol where her award certificates were. She found them in a paper grocery bag behind a chair in the living room. We sat down on the couch and looked at them. There was a whole stack of awards for 3,000 hours of volunteer service for a year. Only one of them was framed, and I leaned it up on a shelf where everyone could see it.

Alzheimer's Disease

Alzheimer's

We started out calling Carol's constant misplacing and losing things “Forgetfulness,” or the then humorous, CRS (Can't Remember Shit!) or CRAFT (Can't Remember A Frigging Thing!) As it got worse, we got serious and called it “Short Term Memory Loss.”

A trip to a Corvallis neurologist resulted in a diagnosis of “Progressive memory loss and Dementia” and a recommendation to the DMV to revoke her driver's license. (Which they did.)

For a few years we coasted along, hoping that the symptoms wouldn't get any worse, but there was always that Gorilla hiding in the shadows called Alzheimer's Disease. It wasn't so bad, going on treasure hunts every day looking for things that Carol lost or misplaced. I had a checklist of likely places to look, no matter what we were looking for: Refrigerator, freezer, microwave, couch cushions, under her pillow, trash cans, it was almost a game.

Then the Gorilla came out and punched me right in the heart.

It was a normal evening. We'd had our once a month lunch at the Salty Dawg and we were at home watching TV when Carol looked at me and said, “Who are you? I don't remember you!”

At first I thought she was kidding but when I saw the look on her face, I knew.

I knew.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I, I'm retired.” I stammered, at a loss for words.

“Huh, so is Bob,” she said.

“I'm Bob!” I answered, “We've been married for 52 years!”

I'll never forget the blank look on her face when she looked at me.

I was a stranger.

The Last Walk

I enjoy walking...always have. Especially on a beautiful day like this.

They told me that if I wanted to walk, I'd just have to go up and down the hallways. That's not the same thing, so today I left.

    This noisy highway isn't exactly my favorite place, but maybe I can find a more peaceful side road. Just because my memory fails me every now and then, they put me in that “home.” I hate it. The doctors say I have Alzheimer's and that I can't live by myself at my house any more. I was doing just fine until I got lost that time.

    Say, this gravel road is much nicer, I must have turned off the highway without realizing it. I can smell newly mowed grass, wood smoke and someone's backyard barbecue. The houses are farther apart now, and I'm getting into farm country.

    There's a white horse!

Zitz!

That's what we kids used to say whenever we saw a white horse while we were out driving in my dad's old Ford. And we used to read the Burma Shave signs, too.

THE BEARDED LADY
TRIED A JAR
NOW SHE'S
A FAMOUS MOVIE STAR
BURMA-SHAVE

How can they say my memory's gone if I can remember things like that!

     This is the one of the most enjoyable walks that I can remember, it's warm, a nice cool breeze is blowing through the trees, and my arthritis hasn't bothered me at all. In fact, I feel better than I have in years. I think I could walk forever.

     Sometimes when people come to visit me at the home and I don't know who they are, they get upset and cry. I try to remember them, but to me they're strangers. Other times, I remember my family when they visit. The doctors say I'm getting worse, but I don't believe them. No matter what they say, I can still remember lot's of things, like the music from the ice cream truck when it came around the corner of our block when I was a little kid, and my first kiss.

    I must have taken another side road while I was day dreaming, and this one is even prettier. There's grass growing between the tire tracks and the trees on the sides are almost touching overhead. It looks like the road ends here in a grassy turn-around. The moving sunlight and shadows on the ground are so mesmerizing that I think I'll sit against this tree and rest for a while. There are birds singing melodies that I've never heard before, or maybe I just don't remember them. It's cooling off as evening falls, but I'm warm and comfortable.

    I'll just sit here for a while and enjoy the sunset.

    I can remember everything now.

Our Soap Opera

Lately we seem to be living in a never ending soap opera.

The days of our lives are overshadowed by illness and heartache. As the world turns on it's axis, we spend much of our time in the dark shadows of General Hospital. We only have one life to live, but all my children are still among the young and restless.

In last seasons episodes:

Carols C.R.S.* problems worsened, and Roberts cancer was deemed “non aggressive.”

Adam was lost in a boating accident in Alaska and Aiden swam to safety. Nicole, Aiden and Isabell moved into their new house.

David and Allison moved into a new house. David started a new job. Walker started walking.

Brad also started walking (without a cane) and passed his drivers test using hand controls. He discovered that he can run when being chased by wasps. Donna is studying at Community College and awaiting an MRI for her episode of *C.R.S.

Don and Dianna split up, dividing their kids; Austin with Don, and Shelby with Dianna. Don had a stroke and began physical therapy. Don and Austin got in a fight and Austin moved out.

Taz got a hot spot on his butt and Squeak found new neighbors to bark at.

Expect more intrigue and excitement in the next seasons episodes.

*Can't Remember Shit!

Getting old sucks!

I've had Biopsies, Cat scans, MRI's, Echo Cardiograms, a Colonoscopy, Cystoscopy. an EGD (whatever that is) Xrays, countless blood tests and I still keep finding more things going wrong with my body.

I can't sleep on either side anymore because of arthritis in my hips, and I can't sleep on my back in bed because of apnea and snoring so loud I wake myself up, so I moved into the den and onto my recliner. It keeps my head and upper body elevated (to avoid acid reflux) and my feet elevated (for edema in my ankles and feet). Hopefully my Urologist won't advise me to elevate my junk, because my recliner won't bend that way.

I'm taking four different prescription pills, one and a half four times a day for Parkinson's, one three times a day for the nausea caused by the Parkinson's pills, and two once a day for prostate cancer. I quit taking the one for the constipation caused by the one that...Oh shit, I lost track.

I wear compression stockings, (Geezer squeezer socks) for the edema. The first time I tried putting them on I almost wiped myself out. It was like getting into a wrestling match with myself and losing! I finally found a Youtube video that showed a better way to put the damn things on. (It still ain't easy!)

I have alarm clock software in my computer that tells me when to take my pills, which I keep in a pill minder to keep track of what pills to take when the alarm goes off.

I know it could be a lot worse, I'm lucky to get around as well as I do. A lot of old timers who are hurting much more than I am will probably laugh at my meager list of complaints, but then, I'm probably not through yet!

I wrote lyrics several years ago about Parkinson's Disease; if your old enough you might remember Monty Python's “I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK.” If you don't, here's a YouTube link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zey8567bcg

I'm a shaky guy and I don't care

I drool on my pillow here and there

My jaw wiggles every time I yawn

I'm way too tired to mow the lawn

It's quite a sight when I try to eat

My fork keeps dropping that piece of meat

Everything I say is answered by What?

My voice is a whisper I repeat a lot

My writing is tiny of this I'm sure

I can't even read my own signature

It could be worse I do know that

I just sit here in my cowboy hat

drinking red wine in my favorite chair

I'm a shaky guy and I don't care

How To Mispronounce Colorado

I don't know when it started but somehow the pronunciation of the state name has changed. When I was a kid growing up and going to school there, everyone pronounced it Col as in doll, a as in duh, rad as in dad, o as in oh. Colorado!

    I first noticed this insidious change while watching Joe Buck announce a Bronco's game on TV. He repeatedly said Cal a raw do. I thought maybe it was just Joe Buck being ignorant as usual but when I started paying attention I realized that even the local news casters were mispronouncing it.

   Maybe since I left, (I live in Oregon now) too many Californians have moved there and changed it to Calorawdo, which is easier for them to remember.

    Don't get me started on Oar a gone!

Egg Hunt

At our age every morning is like an Easter egg hunt.

    A leprechaun or something comes in during the night and hides, among various other things, the TV remote, slippers, one sock, dentures, our favorite coffee cups or my reading glasses, (I have three pair, one for the computer, one for reading and one for really serious things like watch repair or brain surgery.) Sometimes all three pairs get hidden, and then I'm searching with a real handicap.

    No matter what's missing, I have a search pattern that I go through with varying success – (any of the above missing items have at one time or another, been found in the following places)... dishwasher, microwave, refrigerator, refrigerator freezer, bathroom medicine cabinet, under a bed, fireplace, patio, or in one of the dogs mouths.

    Once we say “Oh screw it!” and give up the search, the leprechaun (or whatever it is) usually takes pity on us and lets us find whatever we were looking for, usually in the last place we look. (Funny how you always find things in the last place you look!)

    Oh well, it's an every day challenge and it's kind of fun!)

Incarcerated

Don't get me wrong, over my 78 years I've been in the slammer a few times... but not lately. At least not until today!

This afternoon I went out to the greenhouse to get a seed packet, which I was going to take back in the house and tape it to a little stake so I could tell where the onion seeds I had planted were located. While I was fiddling around I heard Carol put something inside the shed that the greenhouse is attached to, and close the door. I fiddled some more and when I went to leave I discovered that she had put the screwdriver through the hasp on the door and locked me in!

I yelled and beat on the door but she'd already gone in the house. I looked at my watch...It was one o'clock. I probably could have kicked the door apart, but I remembered all the work I had done to repair it from storm damage a couple of years ago and I decided that would be a last resort.

Oh well she'll be looking for me pretty soon! I looked at my watch again, She's probably watching General Hospital and when that's over... Oh shit! It's Saturday!

I decided to make the best of it and so I swept the brick floor, cleaned out some spider webs and made sure the tomato plants were well watered. I looked at my watch again...A quarter past one.

There was an old dusty radio that I had left sitting on a shelf and I was pleasantly surprised to find that the batteries weren't completely dead and I managed to pick up a weak AM station that was playing oldies. I also found an old folding canvas camping chair, so I had tunes and a place to sit.

After sitting for a while I looked at my watch again...one thirty. I re-swept the floor and watered the tomato plants which were starting to look a little soggy, and that reminded me that I had to pee. As an avid fiction reader, I remembered that the kidnapped hostage was always given a bucket to go in. Well, I had several buckets, so that problem was solved. Now if only Carol or the dogs would come out I could try to get their attention. Several times I heard doors slamming but it was the neighbors coming and going and they were too far away to hear me.

If I'd had a Phillips screwdriver I might have been able to escape through the shed window that I had screwed shut years ago, but even my MacGiver Swiss army knife wouldn't budge the old rusted screws.

I looked at my watch...two o'clock. The radio station faded in and out while Eddie Arnold sang The Prisoner's Song. Oh if I had the wings of an angel, over these prison walls I'd fly!

I spotted a slug crawling out from under one of my newly planted tomato plants, (probably to escape form being drowned!) so I grabbed my trusty, rusty machete and murdered him. I spent the next half hour searching and hacking. (I got three.)

Back in my camping chair I looked at my watch...a quarter to three.

I watched the tomato plants but they didn't seem to be growing any. Roy Orbison was singing Only The Lonely.

At three thirty I heard one of the dogs bark so I began beating on the door to get their attention. When they heard the racket I was making they started barking in front of the door and finally I heard the screwdriver being slid out of the latch. When the door opened Carol and the dogs all looked at me like, What the hell are you doing in there? I just shook my head, went in the house and poured a glass of wine.

Bad Wednesday

I had a scary thing happen Wednesday.

I woke up early as usual, let the dogs out, made a cup of hot cocoa and got on the computer for while. A little later I fixed some bacon and eggs and watched the news on CNN while I ate.

I started to feel some discomfort which soon turned into a major stomach ache. Gas pain! I thought and started pacing back and forth waiting for some relief. Instead it got worse. By the time Carol got up I was in agony. “I'm going to have to go to the hospital!” I told her.

Since she doesn't have a drivers license any more, I drove myself to Newport and checked in to the emergency room. Surprisingly, I got right in and a nurse began taking my vitals. I knew there wasn't anything they could do for the pain until they figured out what was wrong with me, but I was really hurting. She tapped into a vein in my skinny arm, having a little trouble with my ropy veins, and took out what seemed like a gallon of blood for the lab.

After what seemed like an eternity, a doctor Graham came in to examine me. After poking and prodding my stomach, listening to my heart and lungs and questioning me about where it hurt he decided to schedule a cat scan. “How long will I have to wait?” I asked.. To my relief he said they weren't busy and it would only be about twenty minutes. Actually, it was only about ten minutes when the cat scan operator came in, helped me into a wheel chair and rolled me to the c-scan room. She and her assistant helped me onto the table and gave me instructions about when to hold my breath and when it was OK to breathe again. They injected something into the handy gizmo the nurse had left in the vein in my arm and rolled me in and out of the machine a couple of times. A few minutes later I was in the wheelchair heading back to my bed in the ER.

The pain in my stomach was radiating through to my kidneys and it was excruciating. I had had a gallbladder go out on me before and this was similar but worse. When the nurse asked me “How bad is your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?” I told her it was an 8or 9. I figured I'd save a little in case, God forbid, it could get worse.

After another eternity the doctor came back in with a serious look on his face. “I'm afraid I have some bad news.” he said, pulling up a chair next to me. “The cat scan showed a mass in your lower stomach that I'm afraid looks very much like stomach cancer!” I felt the bottom drop out of my universe. I already have been diagnosed with prostate cancer, my mother died from stomach cancer, my brother recently died from metastasized bone cancer, and my nephew was in the hospital in Corvallis being operated on for possible Lymphoma cancer, so I certainly have the family history to make me eligible for it. The look on the doctor's face worried me as much as what he had told me. I could tell that he was really concerned.

“Doctor Larsen will be in soon and we'll go over the results of the c-scan together and get back to you.” he said getting up to leave.

“Can I have something for the pain now?” I almost yelled.

“Yes, I'll have the nurse take care of it right away!” I looked at my watch and it was after one in the afternoon.

Blessed relief! As the Dilaudid took effect I began to realize why junkies and tweakers get hooked on drugs. The pain receded and I started to feel good, actually better than good.

My wife Carol and our daughter-in-law Donna came in, and the nurse filled them in on everything. I was kind of floating above the bed, happy to see them, happy to be pain free for a while.

Soon doctor Larsen showed up and we remembered each other from a hernia repair he had performed on me about five years previously. We shook hands, he looked at what the nurse had entered into the computer and after a little poking and prodding of my stomach, he left to confer with doctor Graham.

After a short time Doctor Larsen poked his head through the curtain around my bed. “You're going to get another c-scan! This time it'll be a high contrast c-scan similar to the other one, but much easier for us to read.” In a few minutes the cat-scan lady showed up with her wheelchair and she asked me, “Did the doctor explain the difference between the high contrast c-scan and the one you had earlier?”

“Not really,” I answered.

“They never do.” she sighed. “Instead of injecting dye into your arm we inject it into the other end!”

“Oh!” I said.

After enduring what was basically an embarrassing enema by the two nurses, I went through the c-scan with no problems, and was soon back in my ER bed. Carol and Donna were doing their best to cheer me up and then the nurse gave me another shot of Dilaudid to ease the returning pain.

I was floating again when the two doctors came in. Doctor Graham's face was covered with a big grin as he said,”We have some wonderful news for you!” Doctor Larsen asked, “How would you like to go home today?” The high contrast picture shows that it's not a cancer!” They took turns explaining that my gut has some weird twists and turns that confused the first pictures and that all I had was what boiled down to a heavy duty case of constipation.

After they left, Carol said, “You might as well get dressed so we can check out.”

“I already have my clothes on!” I said.

“No you don't!” Donna chuckled.

“Oh!” I said.

It must have been the Dilaudid, because I didn't remember getting undressed.

“While you're checking out I'll get some gas in the car and some Tylenol for dad's pain and meet you out front.” Donna said.

We made it out through the ER entrance in record time, but there was no Donna in sight. “I hope she didn't have any car trouble!” Carol said as we went back inside to get warm. When the ER receptionists looked up at us I said, “We like it so much here, we just can't leave!”

Donna drove up a few minutes later and took us home.

Voyage

I settle into the captain's chair with the controls at my fingertips. With no destination in mind, I'll let the solar winds set my course. A motor hums as I recline the seat into the familiar and comfortable pre-launch position.

My eyes grow heavy and my body is beginning to relax into the semi hibernation needed for the trip, when a commotion interrupts the tranquility. A late arriving passenger is requesting to board, and no sooner than I accommodate him, another one arrives. Finally, the three of us are settled in and comfortable. Let the voyage begin.

“Honey, you're wanted on the phone!”

The dogs kick me in the crotch as they leap off my lap and start barking. I fumble for the recliner control so I can get out of the damn thing. Once I find the right button and the motor slowly lowers the foot rest I get to my feet and stagger to the phone, only to get a dial tone.

“I guess they hung up,” Carol says, “Maybe you need a space ship with an ejection seat!”

Still Lost

Still Lost in Lost

We started watching the old TV series Lost this summer on Hulu but when we got tired of the ads, (even on the pay version, Hulu Plus) we switched to Netflix. Even though it was a lot better without the noisy ads, Carol gave up after we had watched the first season's 25 episodes. She's not as much a science fiction, supernatural fan as I am, so I started watching two or three episodes at a time in the dim confines of the Den, or Computer Room, or as I like to think of it, as my Bat Cave.

I enjoy the good acting, writing and jungle scenery, and I became determined to watch every one of the 121 episodes. It actually goes pretty fast watching without ads.

The main characters, survivors of a plane crash on a jungle island, whose lives are intertwined in flashbacks, flash forwards and flash sideways, keep you guessing as to who are the good guys and who are the baddies. To further complicate things, time travel and alternate universes abound in the story line. Just when I think I've figured it out a little bit, the writers throw me a curve and destroy my theories. I have thought that they could all be in Purgatory, waiting to be judged for their past sins, or they could already be in Hell. Maybe I'll find out when I watch the last episode. Right now I'm up to season 6, (the last one) and I only have a dozen episodes to go.

What will I ever do when it's over! I may have to come out of the Bat Cave!

The Attic

 

It wouldn't have been so spooky to me if it hadn't been for the head. It sat there expressionless, but somehow threatening, waiting patiently to come to life and fulfill some kind of evil purpose. For my brother it was the rattlesnake.

With the warm light of day shining through the dormer Window, the third story attic was a treasure house of wonderful things. Full Indian war bonnets, a tomahawk, crystals and minerals, ten-gallon cowboy hats, a bullwhip and a huge rattlesnake skin hanging from floor to ceiling; souvenirs from all over the country; collected by grandfather before he died. There was an old pump organ in the corner and it's off-key moaning could make our hair stand on end, even in the friendly light of day.

My little brother John and I were told to sleep in the attic when we visited grandmother's house. Our beds were made under the sloping paneled ceilings, and were surrounded by the shelves and cabinets full of grandfather Ferry's memorabilia. We were welcome to look at the collection, but not to play with any of the pieces. Except the organ - it was old and leaky, and grandmother said she was going to have it hauled away when she got around to it. We were free to play with it, no matter how much the eerie sounds scared us, or how long into the night they echoed around the museum-like room.

My cousin Tom and his mother lived with grandmother, and his bedroom was at the foot of the attic stairs. He was my age and I had confided in him about our fear of the attic. "Aw, there's nothing up there to be afraid of," he said, "grandmother keeps it locked up most of the time, so I can't even play there. You guys don't know how lucky you are, there's all kinds of neat things stored away in the drawers!"

On an Oak cabinet overlooking my bed sat the head. It was the bronze head of a woman; her hair piled on her head in smooth waves, her eyes closed as if she were dreaming and a look of sadness on her beautiful metal face.

In the night as I lay trembling under the covers, I knew she opened her eyes and looked down at me, and her face was no longer sad, but incredibly angry. I could see her eyes in the darkness, burning through the blanket I had pulled over my head, even through my closed eyelids. My brother tossed and moaned, dreaming snake nightmares. The next morning I turned the heavy bronze bust around so it faced the wall, but that night when we climbed the stairs to go to bed, I saw that grandmother had turned it back.

A scraping noise woke me from a restless sleep and then a hideous face appeared over me. My heart stopped until I realized that it was just Tom with a flashlight under his chin. "Gotcha!" He said, climbing onto the bed and turning off the light. I punched his shoulder for scaring me and we were giggling about it when John's voice came from across the room, "Hey you guys," he whispered, "be quiet, I hear something!"

A loud buzzing noise began to fill the air and Tom turned the flashlight on. The beam of light searched across the hardwood floor until it came to rest on the source of the noise; a huge Diamondback Rattlesnake lay coiled in the middle of the room, its head raised, a hissing sound coming from between its dripping fangs. Its tail was a blur of motion, rattling a warning of death. Tom jerked back in terror, and the light illuminated more horrors; an Indian with a skull face, wearing the war bonnet and wielding the tomahawk, and beside him a skeleton cowboy with the bullwhip raised to strike. Then a voice dripping with malevolence came from the cabinet above us, "Well, well! Look at the tender little boys!" Tom pointed the shaking light up at the bronze head. Its once placid face was a grimace of evil, the eyes looking down at us, its mouth opening to reveal sharp pointed teeth.

We all found our voices together and screamed in unison. We were still screaming when the overhead light came on and Grandmother shushed us. "What's the matter with you boys," she said, "this is just an ordinary attic. See, there's nothing here!" Sure enough, when we opened our eyes the snakeskin was back on the wall, the tomahawk, war bonnet and bullwhip were resting innocently in their places, and the head just had the face of a sad woman.

With the attic door securely locked by grandmother, the three of us crowded into Tom's bed downstairs and said goodnight. After grandmother closed the bedroom door, I quietly got up and jammed a chair under the attic doorknob. Just in case.

Lost in Lost

After enjoying countless episodes of Doctor Who, Doctor Who Classics, all of the new Who episodes, a half a dozen BBC specials about the show, and the so called “Missing Episodes,”we had pretty much run the gamut of “Whodom.”

Looking for new TV territory on Hulu, we decided to try the 2004-2010 adventure series, Lost. Carol had seen some of the 118 episodes years ago, but due to it's late air time and my early bed time, I hadn't seen any of them. (Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise!”) (I'm still waiting for that last part to happen!)

We're up to episode 8 now, and from what we've seen so far, we should have a lot of wintertime evening entertainment.

For those of you who didn't see Lost when it was originally broadcast, it's about a group of commercial jet passengers who are stranded on a mysterious, deserted island when their plane crashes. It starts out a little weird and quickly gets weirder and weirder, just our kind of show, although some parts are a little more than weird. A Polar Bear on a tropical island? It's full of metaphors, mythology and the supernatural, so I guess anything goes.

YouTube Gardener

Last year I learned how to grow pumpkins in a greenhouse by watching videos on YouTube. I learned how to tell the difference between male and female Pumpkin flowers and how to hand pollinate them. If it hadn't been for the Internet and YouTube I probably would have been running around with a net trying to catch some bees to turn loose in our greenhouse.

This year, along with the usual Tomatoes, I'm trying Cantaloupe. I found videos that show how to tell the male and female blossoms apart, which is similar to Pumpkins, but more difficult due to their small size and my failing eyesight. Like Pumpkins, the male flowers are first to appear in great numbers but the shy females take their own sweet time to make an entrance. A small artist's paint brush works to transfer the pollen, and an electric tooth brush imitates the buzzing vibes of a bee. (Oh yeah, I got that from a video about Tomato pollination!)

Tomatoes are different; the flowers have both male and female pollen, the bees just stir it up when they enter the flowers. One video I watched was called “How to spank your Tomatoes!” It showed a guy whacking his plants with a rolled up newspaper to distribute the pollen. Another espoused the electric toothbrush method which I liked much better.

If I can find a Yellow and Black striped Tee shirt, my Bee imitation will be complete.

The Big C

Options

The dreaded phone call came in the afternoon.

“Honey, your doctors on the phone!”

I was expecting the worst and I got it. “I got the lab report back from your biopsy and they found cancer on both sides of your prostate. We need to make an appointment so I can talk to you about your options.”

We agreed on a date and time, and after hanging up I told Carol that my biopsy was positive for cancer. I think we both were in a daze as we sat on the patio staring at our glasses of wine. “At least we caught it early!”Carol said.

“Yeah, I hope so.” I said, thinking of my brother JC and the devastation prostate cancer wreaked on him.

Carol accompanied me into the doctor's office and after a short wait he came in. Very explicitly he explained my options starting with the most drastic being surgery, a radical prostatectomy. He explained the nasty side effects of several types of radiation therapy, chemotherapy, hormone therapy and to my relief, and my favorite, “active surveillance.”

He explained that in my case we could wait until my next checkup in 6 months and see how my PSA level is. Evidently prostate cancer grows slowly and in a lot of cases in older patients like me,watchful waiting is recommended.

My PSA level last year was a little over 3, it had raised to 8 at my latest checkup causing my primary care doctor to recommend the biopsy.

Since this was the same doctor who treated my brother I asked him what JC's PSA was when he finally got checked. He looked up the records on his computer and shook his head, “Your brother's PSA level when I first saw him was 700!”

So, anyway I'll be walking around for 6 months with a big “C” for cancer, hanging over my head, (actually it's hovering around my crotch.) or maybe a big “P” for Parkinsons stamped on my brain, or maybe the “P” stands for proststate.

All I know for sure is that I'm not going down without a fight. (I know, everyone says that.)

Me And My Prostate

Since my brother John (JC) had died from metastasized prostate cancer, and when my last checkup showed a significant increase in my PSA level, I was sent kicking and screaming into the referral system. My primary care doc had recommended that I have a prostate biopsy done, but unfortunately the nearest urologist is 60 miles away, in Corvallis. I envisioned a trip to get another exam from him and then another 120 mile round trip to do the procedure. When Carol asked me what the doctor had said, I couldn't remember the word “Biopsy” so I said, “I need to have a core sample taken!”(A term from my mining days.)

At the Corvallis Clinic the nurse gave me a container and directions for a “clean catch” urine sample and after I supplied that she led me to an exam room where I waited for the doctor. When he came in we shook hands and he said,”You look a lot like your brother!” and I realized that he was the same doc who had treated JC. We talked about how JC had waited until it was far too late before seeing a doctor, and then he explained what the biopsy procedure would entail.

“We can do it now, if you're ready,” he said.

“oh,” I weakly answered. Shit, I'm not ready for this!

“OK, lets do it !” I said in a brave voice.

“The nurse will get you ready, and I'll be back in a minute,” he said.

“Take your shoes, pants and undershorts off,” she said,”You can leave your shirt and socks on.” I stood there waiting for her to leave the room so I could undress but she said over her shoulder as she worked, “Don't worry I'll keep my back turned. When you're ready, get on the table, lie on your left side and I'll cover you with a blanket.”

When the doctor returned he sat down and helped position me so that my bum was in a handy position, at least for him.

“Now this instrument that I'm going to insert will take ultrasound images so I can see exactly what I'm doing, It also will inject a local anesthetic and take the biopsies. Biopsies! When did it become plural?

“This won't hurt, it'll just be a little uncomfortable.”

OW!

I couldn't see what he was inserting back there but if it did all the things he said, it must be like a medical Swiss army knife, or maybe like one of those robots on the Si-Fi channel that have interchangeable gadgets on the end of their arms.

“You'll feel a little pinch now.”

OW!

“That was Lidocaine, the anesthetic, and there's one more.”

OW!

“OK, I've got a good picture on the ultrasound, I'll show you the pictures when we're done.” I can hardly wait!

“Now when I take a biopsy, you'll hear a loud snap like a mouse trap going off, so don't let it startle you.”

SNAP!

OW! ...Well, I'm glad that's over!

SNAP!

OW! Biopsies! Plural, remember!

The mousetrap in my butt went off 6 times and then there was a pause, but my hopes were dashed when he said, ”Now we'll do the other side!”

“How are you doing? Any pain? Just uncomfortable, right?”

“Yeah, piece of cake!” I answered. Just get that thing out of my ass!

SNAP! OW! SNAP! OW! SNAP! OW! SNAP! OW! SNAP! OW! SNAP! OW!

“I'm going to withdraw it now.” Thank God!

Afterward, he proudly showed me a string of ultrasound pictures that looked exactly like a bunch of blobs. I might as well have been looking at someones pregnancy ultrasound pics. Was it a boy or a girl? Should I name it yet?

After I got dressed he informed me that it would be 3 or 4 days before the results would come from the lab and that he would call me when they showed up.

Carol was waiting for me in the hallway, and she walked with me as I waddled along out to the parking lot.

Hooked On Who

Recently I connected our laptop to the living room TV and we started watching streaming video on the Internet. We subscribed to Hulu and watched some episodes of Sleepy Hollow and Almost Human that we had missed when they originally aired. I watched Jon Stewart on the Daily Show and we watched a bunch of YouTube videos, mostly about dumb kids crashing on skate boards.

I started browsing through the extensive list of available shows on Hulus menu and when I checked out the BBC network I discovered that there were over 400 episodes of “Doctor Who” available to watch, going all the way back to 1963.

Doctor Who is a British Sci-Fi program produced by the BBC. The program is about the adventures of the Doctor, as he explores the universe in his “Tardis,”a time traveling space ship. Its exterior appears as a blue British police phone booth, which was a common sight in Britain in the 60s. It's huge inside, complete with complicated machinery and even an indoor swimming pool! Along with a succession of companions, (mostly female,) the Doctor faces a variety of enemies while working to save civilizations, help ordinary people, and right wrongs.

The doctor has been played by a succession of 12 different actors which is neatly explained in the show as “regeneration;” when the doctor dies, or is killed, he regenerates into a new body.
We started out watching some of the first black and white episodes, which are pretty corny, but fun to watch. Then we got into the newer shows which have first rate special effects, beautiful sets, good acting and good writing. Soon we were watching 3 or 4 episodes every evening. Now around three or four pm one of us says, “Is it time for the Doctor?” or “Is it Who time?”

Its not a bad way to pass the time during these rainy crappy days, but unfortunately we've gone through almost all of the later episodes. Now all we have to do is travel back into the 60s,70s, 80s, and 90s with our own time machine!