Car Doors

People want to be helpful, and I appreciate that.  Sometimes, though, I get more help than I want—or need.  Case in point: getting in and out of cars.  Some well-meaning souls seem to think operating a car door is too complicated for someone with limited vision.  The truth is, it’s one of the few things that are still just as easy for me to do as before.

Well, almost, that is.  Sometimes I open the back door when I mean to open the front passenger door.  Oops.  It takes me a split second to realize my error and another split second to locate the front door handle.  It usually takes the drive a nanosecond to say, “That’s the back door!” as if opening it would detonate a car bomb.  Depending on how well we know each other, I might come back with something like, “Oh, I thought you wanted to make out.”

There are those who think they need to open the door for me, hand me the seat belt, and close the door for me.  I’ve had some try to fasten the seat belt for me, which makes me want to ask for my sippy cup and binky.  Maybe have them pop a Barney CD in the stereo. 

Getting into a car is so easy you could do it with your eyes closed.  Don’t believe me?  Try it sometime.  After years of getting in and out of them, you’ll find things are usually in the same place in all cars.  Swing the door open.  Use your free hand to locate the seat.  Lower your derriere onto the seat.  Bring your legs in.  Reach for the door and pull it closed.  You’ll find the seat belt is in the same place on virtually every automobile, though some are more convenient to grab hold of than others.  Ditto the part in the crevice of the seat.  Some are deep down in there, some are on a stem-like apparatus that practically meets you halfway.  Now you can open your eyes, especially if you’re in the driver’s seat.  Wasn’t that easy?

Let me do it myself.  If I need help, I’ll ask for it.

A few weeks ago I was sitting in someone’s car waiting for them to load something in the back before giving me a lift home.  A woman was talking to me while I had the passenger door open, letting the car air out after being closed up for several hours.  I was enjoying one of the first warm days of spring.  The fresh air revived me after a day-long writer’s conference inside.  Without warning, she pushed the door shut.  Fortunately, I hadn’t picked that moment to stick an arm or leg out of the car.  Apparently, she thought I not only couldn’t do it myself, but was incapable of deciding if/when I wanted it shut.  In the long run, she made things difficult for me, because I tried to open the door again but couldn’t locate the latch to open it.  That is one of the things about car doors that have gotten more complicated, not just for me, but for most people.  These days, it might be up next to the window or all the way down by the floorboard.  The driver got in and started the car before I ever found it and we drove home with the windows open while I tried to get over the irritation of having a simple decision made for me.

When in doubt, just ask.  When you ASSUME, you make an ASS of U and ME (but mostly U)

My Last Diabetic Day: A Tribute to My Donor

     It was thirteen years ago today when I got the call that changed my life forever.  A kidney and pancreas had been found for me.  Overnight I went from being a diabetic doing dialysis to being free from that life.  It’s a bittersweet day for me, because I know someone lost someone they loved that day.  It’s ironic how carefree that day was for me.  It was one of the few days I didn’t wonder if “The Call” would come that day.  It must have been a very different day for his family.

     This is an excerpt from my memoir, which I hope to have published.

Sunday, April 5^th.  Everyone had set their clocks forward the night before.  Since becoming visually impaired, the switch to Daylight Savings Time each spring has been one my favorite days of the year.  It meant an extra hour of light each evening.  That translated into ease of mobility, either by driving or walking. 

     My day started an hour later than usual.  It would take me a few days to get accustomed to the time change.  Not that it really mattered.  I was no longer working and by then, I usually slept almost twelve hours a day.

     It was a beautiful spring day.  The sun was shining, the wind wasn’t blowing too much, and it was warm.  After I got my morning exchange done, I went for a walk.

     An old railroad had been converted into a trail for walking, jogging, or biking.  It ran roughly parallel to

Riverside Drive

, except it weaved between homes, back yards and businesses.  It was more secluded than the path in the long narrow park on the riverbank, so it wasn’t used by as many people.

     My energy level was good and I was in the mood to explore.  Much of the trail was shaded.  I was surprised at just how close it came to the backs of some of the houses and I wondered how long it had been since it had been an actual, functioning railroad.

     It was nice to walk for pleasure, without needing to be somewhere by a certain time.  It was one of those rare times when I didn’t have a bus to catch.  There were no groceries to carry and there was plenty of daylight—an extra hour of it—left in the day.  There was no need to hurry.  This was a good thing, because I hate feeling rushed.  Besides, Sundays like that are too perfect to rush through.

     I must have walked a couple of miles, though it was hard to be sure because of the way the trail curved.  There were no street signs to identify which block I was on.  This was a rare moment for me, especially since my kidneys had failed.  To be at peace and content—“in the moment,” as they say—was a luxury.

     When I reached a point where I had used about half of my energy, I turned around and headed north, back home.  I remembered that there was a small diner near 21^st and Riverside and decided a hamburger would be good for lunch.  It was starting to get pretty hot out as I approached the building.  A cool drink would really hit the spot.

     It was locked.  That didn’t make sense, so I checked the sign for the hours of business.  They closed on Sundays at 2:00.

     What time IS it anyway?  Did I lose track of time?

     Usually, I am a very good judge of time, so it surprised me that I was off the mark by so much.  Then I remembered the time change.  It was later in the day than I thought it was.  I was only five or six blocks from home, so I headed there, with that eerie, slightly off-center feeling you get when time has tricked you.

     After I ate a small lunch (my appetite had dwindled over the past several months) and did another exchange, I took out the trash and spent a couple of hours painting in ink.  It was still mostly experimental, but now and then I managed to impress myself with the results.  I had just cleaned up after my painting when the phone rang.

     “James, this is Tawanna, we need you to get here as fast as you can make it.  We’ve found a donor.”

     Let me try as best I can to describe how I felt.  You’ll have to forgive me if it sounds cliché at times.

     Yes, my hands trembled, and yes, my heart skipped a beat—maybe two.

     Tawana, the transplant coordinator, continued, “Do an exchange and bring a bag of solution with you to do one here.”

     “OK,” I said, trying to stay calm.  This was important information.  I needed to pay attention.

     “Don’t eat anything before you get here.  What time did you eat last?”

     I told her when it was, what it was, and how much it was.  She might have asked what my last blood sugar test was—or maybe not.  It’s been several years and with each passing second, my excitement increased.

     As soon as she hung up, I called my parents.

     Oh, God, please let them be home.

     My mother answered the phone. 

     She already sounds tense.  Is everything OK there?

     “Mom, they found organs for me,” I said, so full of excitement, I could hardly contain myself.

     “I know, honey, she called here a few minutes ago.”

     What?  Why would she call there first?

     “She wanted to make sure your number hadn’t changed.  When she called you the first time, some girl answered the phone and didn’t know who you were.  I told her you live alone.  I guess she dialed wrong the first time.”

     So, if Mom and Dad hadn’t been home, I would have missed out on this. 

     “We’re getting ready as fast as we can,” Mom continued “It might be close to 9:00 when we get there.”

     “OK”

     They lived two hours away from Tulsa.  Still, I rushed around my apartment, trying to think of what I would need for a ten-day hospital stay. 

     Take shorts with an elastic waist.  My belly will be tender. And loose-fitting clothes, magnifying glass, and socks.  Clean underwear, that dialysis bag, sunglasses.  What else?

     An old episode of I Love Lucy flickered across my mind.  It was the one when a very pregnant Lucy enters the room and announces, “It’s time.”  Ricky, Fred, and Ethel panic and run around the room, trying to pack a suitcase and spilling it onto the floor.  In their haste, they run out and leave Lucy standing there.  I smiled, slowed down, and hoped my parents were a little more composed than that back in Greenwood at that moment.

     There were phone calls I needed to make.  One by one, I called my friends in Arkansas to share the good news.  My voice quavered and tears of joy ran down my face as I thanked them for all of their support.  This needed to be said, because what if I didn’t make it?    What if something went horribly wrong and I never had the chance to thank them?

     No, just don’t go there.  It’s going to be fine.  No dark thoughts now. 

     Sometimes I only reached answering machines.  I left frantic, overjoyed messages, trying to say all I needed to say as fast as I could.  I didn’t want to be cut off by a beep.

     Never before had my body sustained such an adrenaline rush for such a long period of time.  I tried to calm down.  I took deep breaths, exhaling slowly.

     After everything was packed, I did another exchange.

     Soon—very soon—I’ll never have to do this again.

     In my desk, I kept a temporary hold card for the post office, waiting for just this occasion.  It was all filled out except for the dates, which I filled in with orders to hold my mail until further notice.  Carefully, I clipped it to my mailbox by the door, proud of myself for having the forethought to take care of this detail in anticipation of The Big Day.  This day. 

     I hope I’m not forgetting anything.  Calm down and think.

     Milk and leftovers in the refrigerator went down the kitchen sink.  There were no perishables left in my kitchen to spoil while I was gone.

     Then, I waited, trying not to worry.  I listened to soothing music, and I thanked God.

     My parents knocked at the door.  I opened it and gave Mom a big hug.  We quickly gathered my things and hurried to their car, parked in the closest parking space they could find in the tiny lot.  A guy stepping out of a van said, “Hey, that’s for tenants only.”

     “He’s about to get a transplant,” Dad said “We need to hurry,” 

     An argument with this jerk wasn’t going to ruin this moment for me, so I said nothing.  He did, however, receive my frostiest “go to hell” glare.

     We were on our way.  It was dark.  In a rush and nervous, Dad made a wrong turn and we found ourselves in downtown Sapulpa, a suburb just west of the Arkansas River from where I lived.  Momentary panic set in.  I had never been to downtown Sapulpa, but this wasn’t the time to check it out.

     It didn’t take long for us to get our bearings and we sped along Interstate 44 to Oklahoma City.

     Just relax.  It’s in God’s hands now.  It’s your turn now. Your patience is about to be rewarded.

     From where I sat in the back seat, the dark landscape passed in a blur.  I tried to imagine what would happen to me in the next few days.  So much of it was a blank.  I had asked all the questions I could think of over the preceding months, but now it didn’t seem like enough.

     The car sped southwest under the dark, wide Oklahoma sky.  I hoped we wouldn’t get pulled over by a state trooper, delaying my big appointment with Fate.  I listened to more soothing music on my Walkman and closed my eyes.

     We reached the outskirts of Oklahoma City.  Dad found the exit we needed without any trouble and we found the streets quiet, late on a Sunday night.  A few of the houses we passed still had lights on and I thought of the occupants inside, having a typical Sunday night before starting a new work week, oblivious to this anything-but-typical day in my life.

     Dad found a space in the parking deck and we hurried through a door.  Only a few steps inside was an elevator, which we took to another floor, where the Admitting office was located.  With only a few minutes to spare until that office closed, we rushed through the halls.  If they closed before we arrived, I would have to be admitted through the emergency room, an extra step we didn’t really want to bother with.

      The three of us charged into the large waiting area in Admitting to find it deserted except for a woman behind a desk.  It was late.  She looked tired and would be getting off work in a few minutes.  Our excitement was contagious, which seemed to re-energize her.  It probably wasn’t every day a patient on the verge of receiving an organ transplant sat across the desk from her.  When we told her why I was there, she seemed genuinely happy for me.

     Moments later, I was in an examining room, wearing a hospital gown.  A doctor examined me before two nurses went to work prepping me for surgery. 

     I had been told to bring a bag of dialysis solution and supplies to do an exchange.  Actually, it was only to drain the fluid from my peritoneum from the last exchange I did at home.  This would be the last time I would do this procedure, something that had become as commonplace as brushing my teeth.  I made sure every drop drained out of me.  Never again would I feel that odd sensation of fluid being drained out of my belly through a plastic cord.  And I would be through with two shots a day, too.

     Soon, my abdomen would feel pain and tenderness and God only knew what other types of unfamiliar sensations.

For several years after the transplant, I thought of my donor every time I ate something sweet.  After being diabetic 21 years I had accepted the fact that I would live with it for the rest of my life.  Now, I don’t always think of my donor or the transplant when I eat sweets.  It’s one of the few ways my life has become more “normal” over the years.  But, today and tomorrow are sacred days for me.  I’ll never forget what my family, friends, and the donor all did for me.  I’ll never forget that I am a survivor.

When Hope Breaks Through

I’ve been back on my own for almost three weeks.  My strength is gradually returning, but it still has a long way to go.  It’s good to be in my own home, around my own things again.  I’ve found it hard to get started writing again.  It’s been hard to focus.  My brain feels as heavy and lethargic as my arms and legs do.

Maybe it’s a post-cancer depression.  I’ve found it hard to take pleasure in things I like to do.  After several days of cold (what happened to spring?), cloudy days, my mood has come to match the weather.  It doesn’t quite feel like I’ve beat the cancer yet.  The past few days have been especially low and I’ve slept more than I needed to.  I went to bed last night resigned to the possibility that this dissatisfaction with life might last quite a while.

But, when I woke up this morning, a positive attitude and dare I say it—happiness—was trying to sprout through the cracks in the depression, just like weeds in a sidewalk.  There it was, just under the surface.  I almost didn’t recognize it.  The dark mood that has dominated my thoughts for so long wanted to stomp on it, but I didn’t let that happen.  This, I knew, could be the cure I needed.  It could stop me from thinking I can’t do anything anymore.  And here I am, writing again, and feeling like I can do more than just sit and stare at the TV.  This is the first glimmer of hope that I am returning to my former self, or at least to a life I recognize.

What a gift this morning was.  I’ll make sure to remember how it felt to wake up in a much better mood than when I went to sleep.  I want to wake up every day feeling like that.  One way to help make sure of that is to shelter and nurture this sprout of newfound happiness and protect it from a late spring frost.

A Legally Blind Guy Drew THAT

From the time I could hold a crayon, it was obvious I was a gifted artist.  I could spend hours drawing my favorite cartoon characters and scenes from my imagination.  In grade school, I was the class artist and took private lessons in junior high.  By high school, my interests had become more social as well as earning money.  Art was placed on a back burner.

I majored in advertising in college so my creativity was exercised from time to time.  There were art class electives for me to choose from and graphics classes to fulfill my degree requirement.  After graduation, art took a long hiatus.

Fast forward several years to 2001 when I was living in a funky loft apartment in downtown Little Rock.  The Arkansas Arts Center was within walking distance and I decided to see what I could do—in spite of vision loss which had left my acuity at 20/200.  I could see most things just fine, just without a crisp edge.  I decided a pastels class might be best for me.  It’s a “forgiving” medium, meaning it’s easy to fix mistakes.

This would be a good time to mention my color blindness.  I’d always had a touch of it, but it grew worse in the early 1990s when my vision started its downhill slide.  Now it’s very hard for me to tall apart dark shades.  This class was going to be interesting for me, entertaining for my classmates.

The teacher, Dominique, was very patient with me.  In spite of my vision, my skill was right where it had been when I was a kid.  With guidance and practice, it improved to a higher level than it had ever been.  Nine years earlier, with my eyes covered in bandages after surgeries to remove hemorrhages, I never would have imagined I’d be doing this.

Dominique taught a figure drawing class the next session.  I had taken a class previously in college, but that was before 500 hours of anatomy and physiology class in massage therapy school.  I wondered what it would be like to draw people after knowing what muscles look like under the skin.  And because I had worked on so many different body types, I knew what they felt like, which would make it easier get the texture right.  One of the things I love about working in charcoal and pastel is using my fingertips to soften and blend the edges of an image.

My hunch was correct.  This came easy for me.  My limited vision didn’t slow me down at all.  As you may have guessed, the models were young, attractive, and nude.  No, I wasn’t there for a cheap thrill.  Art lessons aren’t the cheapest way to get a thrill in the age of the internet.  Needless to say, I did endure some teasing from my friends, though they were impressed when I showed them my work.

Fast forward again to September, 2010.  Since 2003, my vision has hovered around 20/400, so I haven’t been doing much art.  That doesn’t mean I wasn’t interested.  I had a feeling that in spite of, or maybe even because of, my current vision I could create some interesting works contrasting light and dark.  I heard about an open figure drawing session at The Fayetteville Underground, an artists workspace in an old bank building downtown.

With old art supplies in hand and almost no self-confidence, I went to check it out.  I had called the number provided in the NPR announcement and had spoken to a nice gentleman about model fees, times, stuff like that.  I mentioned I’m visually impaired.  It’s always a good idea to let someone know ahead of time in any new situation—especially if a nude model is involved.

The room had glass walls and door, so draperies hung just inside to make it private.  I went in, pushed through the curtains and saw about ten or twelve artists at work.  When I tried to follow their gaze to get some idea how close to the model I might set up, I saw . . . no model.  At the Arkansas Arts Center the model was usually in the center of the room, so that’s where I looked.  Tentatively, I walked between the easels, trying not to get in anyone’s way or clumsily knock something over.  I suddenly felt very self-conscious, probably even more so than the unclothed model—wherever he or she might be.

This was a bad idea.  You can’t do this.  What made you think you could do this?  Face it, you don’t see well enough anymore.  Get out of here.  This isn’t for you.

I started groping for the break in the curtains so I could get out of there.  It was obvious I needed help, which someone offered to do.

“I can’t see well,” I muttered in a tiny voice, keeping my head down.  I felt like a fly working its way to the slightly opened car window.  Once I escaped, the others would remember me as the blind guy who wandered in that time, if they thought of me at all.

“Yes, I spoke to you on the phone,” he said.  Then he helped me find a place.  There was a man seated lower than everyone else.  He was clothed but I thought he must be the model, but he didn’t have light shining on him.  He was in the dark.

“I don’t know if there’s enough light,” I said, pointing at the ceiling above.

“Maybe you should look over here,” he said, indicating someone behind me who stood on a platform about two feet from me.  The model’s back was facing me.  All I saw was lean, pink flesh and I felt very embarrassed.

OK.  I’m here.  I’ve located the model.  I’ve found a place to set up.  Breathe.  Relax.  Draw.

Because I needed to be rather close, I was near the stage, at one end of the horseshoe-shaped array of artists setup around the room.  The model’s arms were raised and I couldn’t see a face or other features determining the gender.  Something about the raised arms suggested femininity and I started to draw.  It was rough at first, but it was coming back to me.  Maybe I would get through the evening without feeling stupid.

The model changed to a different pose.  And HE turned out not to be feminine at all, but an athletic young man who could come up with artistically interesting poses, most of which were lost on me due to my vantage point off to the side.  If it was a pose I just couldn’t draw, I took the opportunity to walk around the room and look at everyone else’s work.  It encouraged me to find that my drawing didn’t compare unfavorably to theirs.  Maybe I could still do this after all.

So I went back in October.  This time there were two models—one male and one female.  It was hard for me to draw both in a single pose.  It was, after all, only my second time back after several years.  So I usually drew one or the other.  This time, I used white pastel on black paper.  It’s easier for me to draw light onto dark, probably because my vision is slow to adjust to abrupt changes in light.  Whenever I enter a dark room, the lightest or shiniest objects take shape first, followed by the next brightest.  My world literally comes out of the dark.

Here’s a photo of the piece I’m proudest of from that night.  She only held the pose for 20 minutes.  At the end of the session, other artists were surprised to find out I’m legally blind.  I LOVE that feeling!  It’s one thing for people to be impressed by my accomplishments when they think I can see as well as they do.  When they find out that I can’t, they look at me in a while new way. 

What WAS That?

Now that a recent health crisis has brlown through my life like a storm I'm left to analyze it.  I'm still a long way from full recovery.  In fact, my strength has been very slow to return.  The side effects of the chemo are gone, but I'm left with the worst cold I've ever dealt with.  It's certainly slowed my progress getting over the chemo.

Comparing my bout with cancer to the kidney failure, it ends up looking like a tornado, while both my experiences with kidney failurer were like hurricanes--slow moving with lots of advance warning.

No so with the cancer.  It was here with no warning and little time to prepare and look for shelter.  It was also more intense, with more damage and destruction crammed into a shorter duration.

My first experience with kidney failure and dialysis lasted exactly one year.  There was the same amount of misery, but spread out over a much longer period of time,  just like a slow, plodding hurricane.  The recovery period afterward was slow, just as this recovery appears to be turning out.

The second kidney failure required me to do hemodialysis, which is more miserable than the peritoneal, the the kind I did the first time.  It lasted six months and was the same level of discomfort squeezed into half the amount of time.

The chemotherapy lasted nine weeks.  That's quite a bit of unhappy discomfort squeezed into a fairly short, intense experience.

It's been over for three weeks and I'm still looking around at the mess, trying to figure out where ot start.  I guess I still have that "thousand yerd stare" people get just after a disaster.  This thing has swept in from nowhere, done more damage than I can calculate, and here I am, waiting for The Salvation Army.

Looking Back to Feel Better Now

Recently, my friend Micheal made a suggestion on my Facebook page.  "Hold on to the memory of a time that you felt really good and project that onto tomorrow and the next day."  Good advice and something I try to do, but chemotherapy-induced fog and the passage of time didn't make that any easier.  But, last night I got on YouTube and listened to a bunch of songs from my youth.  I found myself smiling more than I have in weeks, thinking back on better times.


There were too many for me to list here (or even remember now) but there were a few standouts I searched for or stumbled across. 


One thing I re-discovered was how great the soundtrack to Beverly Hills Cop is.  In 1985, I bought it on cassette and kept it in my car to listen to while driving--meaning it was one of my favorites.  I wore that cassette out from playing it so much.  There were plenty of hits from that soundtrack that year and plenty of other songs on there which had potential.  My favorite was "Rock and Roll Me Again" by The System http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwJVAjftml0.  It's a good example of what rock sounded like in the 80s.  To me, it just sounded like summer.  I liked listening to it while driving around at night with the windows down, feeling the warm moist air moving through my car.


That was the summer I turned 21 and was about to begin my senior year in college.  So much of life was still ahead of me.  My future sparkled and shimmered, tempting me onward, propelled by youth, optimism, and self-confidence that grew stronger with each passing month.  My body (finally) started to "fill out" and put on weight in the form of lean muscle, after too many years of being skinny and underweight.  For the first time ever, I felt attractive from the neck down.


Speaking of optimism, another song from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack was "Stir It Up" by Patti LaBelle http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raxKQH7TQFQ&feature=related.  It did me a world of good to hear it again last night.  Pay attention to the lyrics.  She's singing about being down and out but knowing the future is going to be better.


I stumbled across "Sweet Freedom" by Micheal McDonald http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SykNSv-1Dks.  It was being played on the radio a lot right after I moved to Tampa right after graduating from college.  For the first time since I was five years old, I was out of school and I felt more freedom than I'd ever known.  Life in a large city near the beach only added to that feeling.


Around that same time, "Girl Can't Help It" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXcWloohyy4 my favorite song by Journey was popular.  This wasn't one of their biggest hits but I've always loved it.  The best part is the drumbeat, loud and strong like a heartbeat--a young, vital heartbeat, ready to take on the future.  I can never just listen to this one once.  It has to be at least twice, sometime half a dozen.  It reminds me of being young and confident and making new discoveries of what I was capable of.


But, my favorite song from the 80s is "Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone" by Glass Tiger  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxGVEMW1cNI , probably due to its ability to instantly transport me back in time.  Whenever I hear it, it's 1986 and I'm living in Florida, on my way to the beach with windows down and the music turned up high.  My only care at the moment: making sure I got enough (but not too much) sun, looking good, and finding a good parking place.  That summer, I started using a health club and lifting weights.  My body looked better than it ever had and for the first time in my life, I received compliments on it.  My confidence in my appearance was at an all-time high and it carried over into other areas of my life.


After a couple of hours of music-enhanced memories, I felt better, healther, than I've felt in several weeks.  No, I'll never be twentysomething again, but I WILL feel stronger again when the cancer is behind me.  There will be more good times in my life and more reasons to look forward to the future.

C

Cancer--probably the scariest word in the English language beginning with C.  Now that I'm living with it, I realize it brings a host of other words with it that start with C.  So, at the risk of sounding like a

Sesame Street

lesson that didn’t make it past Final Edit, I present my Comprehensive Compilation of Cancer-Centric C’s.  It's a mixture of things you'll need and things that just come with the territory. 

Chemotherapy.  Short for "chemical therapy," it's a planned attack on the tumor by using strong--and I mean serious ass-kicking powerful--chemicals.  They're toxic to even the strongest, otherwise healthy bodies and can cause nausea, diarrhea, constipation, mouth sores, anemia, fatigue, loss of appetite and hair, and a long list of other gruesome party favors.  One of the meds in my arsenal is Platinum.  While it may be a benchmark in CD sales, it's a heavy metal.  The week I have this drug, there is a nasty metallic taste in my mouth that won't go away.  Even my sweat and urine have the bitter aroma of it.

Some people with a severe case of cancer opt to quit doing "chemo" and choose death instead.  It can be that intense.  I have a highly treatable form of cancer, so this option isn't even on the table as far as I'm concerned.  But I can understand how anyone would make that choice.

Courage.  Courage isn't fearlessness.  It's feeling the fear and doing what needs to be done anyway.  I've often been told over the years I have courage.  I'm not so sure about that.  It's always been a matter of live or die.  You simply do what you have to do to keeping living.  For some of us, it's harder and more complicated than for others. 

And I've been lucky enough to experience fearlessness.  Right now, my energy is low and I wish I felt better.  But I'm not afraid.  I'll get through this and move on to what life has in store for me next.  But I'll take some courage in the meantime, anywhere I can find it.

Coping Method.  This is for real.  Maybe spirituality is already a part of your life.  If so, you know how it can help you cope with life's smaller setbacks.  Don't worry, I'm not going to shove God down your throat.  Just don't be too quick to count God out, either.  Meditate.  Pray.  Count your blessings.  Visualize.  And if none of that is your thing, lean on your friends like never before.  And if you're old enough to be reading this, you're old enough to know the difference between healthy and unhealthy coping methods, so I won't preach to you about that.

Compassion.  My definition of compassion is to have sympathy for those on a different road--even if it's a road you've never travelled or even wanted to.  Cancer is one of those diseases most people can feel a high level of compassion for its victims.  That's good.  Right now, I'm too tired to be my typical feisty self.  But, with any luck, it won't be long before I'm ornery, feisty, and--if not feeling well that day--a total bear.  Middle-aged men (make that mean of any age) can be short-tempered and downright hostile when we feel like crap.  Please remember to have compassion for me than.

Challenge.  This word has become so common in the past 20 years, I'll leave it alone here.  Everyone gets this one.  Yeah, it's a challenge to fight cancer.  I'm also "visually-challenged" and once in 1983 I took The Pepsi Challenge.

Vitamin C.  The chemo reduces your ability to fight colds, viruses, and anything else.  Last week, my white blood cell count dropped to zero.  That means no immunity at all.  The numbers have improved, but I'm making sure I get my Vitamin C so I can hedge my odds.  This winter, I hope I have enough white blood cells to rub together with Vitamin C to ward off those nasty bugs waiting to ambush me.

Check-In.  Just having someone call and ask if there is anything they can do is a source of comfort.  This is especially true in the case of someone who can't get out and drive to the store even when they're feeling fine.  It's easy to feel forgotten by the outside world--the healthy world--passing them by.  Sure, it can be uncomfortable talking to sick people.  They can sound so frail over the phone.  You tell them what's going on in your life and suddenly feel as if you're flaunting your health in their face.  I've been on both sides of this equation, so I know what I'm talking about.  Maybe the sick person has grown bitter and resentful.  If they weren't like that before the illness, you can bet that when it's all over, they won't be then, either.  My friends have called to check on me.  I've told them, without going into unnecessary details, what's been happening with me.  Then I want to know what's happening with THEM.  I've already caught myself saying, "Tell me something good.  Tell me something interesting."

If you remember to check on people in my situation, I GAURANTEE you, if they're any kind of human being, they'll love and appreciate you the rest of your life.

Creativity.  Maybe you've never been a particularly creative person.  You might be someone who says, "I can't even draw a straight line."  Really?  Wnen was the last time you tried?  Maybe you have a lot to say, a lot to get out, and writing might be the best way to do that.  Whether visual, musical, or whatever, you could end up creating art which moves people.  If nothing else, creative pursuits can sure help take your mind off things.  When my kidneys failed in 1997, I took up art after a 15 year break from it.  To my astonishment, my skill level was right where it had been--even though I had lost some of my vision.  With practice, I actually improved.  This brought me greater peace than anything else I did, and it made me feel closer to God.

Communication.  This is another word that doesn't need much explanation.  We all have our own definition, but I feel it's worth mentioning here.  Communication is going to be even more important now.  For some of us, just asking for help when we need it is the first step.

Comedy.  Humor.  Laughter.  It really is the best medicine.  If you haven't experienced this first-hand, YOU NEED TO TAKE MY WORD FOR IT.  From my personal experience, laughter and fear cannot coexist.  OK, there's nervous laughter, but even that's a great pressure valve.  There's evidence of the positive effects of laughter.  It helps strengthen core muscles, breathing, and whole bunch of other physiological benefits.  There are now exercise classes devoted to laughter.   Through all the current and previous health issues, I've maintained my sense of humor, often to the surprise of others.  It's been one of my best survival tools and I simply cannot recommend it enough.  Laugh.  Giggle.  Chuckle.  Guffaw.  It's your God-given right and now that you're trying to stay well, it's more necessary than ever.  I know people are worried about me these days.  The only time to worry about me is when I stop laughing, or making other people do so.

Conquer.  I WILL conquer cancer.  In my case, I've been lucky enough (yes, lucky) to have already survived some serious, potentially fatal health issues.  I got through it and it has given me a type of self-confidence regarding this that I just wouldn't have had otherwise.  I hope you'll continue to follow my progress and share this adventure with me, because eventually, when this is over, we will . . .

Celebrate.  I'll celebrate the good news when I've conquered this.  And I'll celebrate the smaller victories along the way, even if it's something as minor as having more energy than the day before.  Celebrate every bit of good news.  Celebrate life.