I finally decided to write one of my rambling random bits. I will let it meander wherever it wants to go. I may have started the engine, but I’m not taking the wheel. Whatever pops into my brain goes to the post. That might be dangerous but I am 60, cantankerous, and I really don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of me these days.
Random rambling is my elected form of self-therapy; heaven knows I need something.
* * *
I’ve been working on this post for
weeks months. I
have abandoned it and resumed multiple times.
I began by trying to somehow make cat poop funny. That’s how far gone I
am creatively these days. I abandoned the cat poop fairly early on, but the
post continued to morph, twist and change. It’s been a couple of weeks
months and most of its innards have been ripped out and redone over and over
and over ad nauseam. In the end, I ripped the long post into chunks, and today
is the first piece I’m letting out of the box, along with a nod to current local
Let’s get started.
I don’t know what’s up with me. Maybe my brain is starting to go. Maybe it’s more subtle effects from the dreaded manboobs pills I am still taking. I do believe they factor into this. One thing I’m fairly certain of is that when you find yourself writing about cat poop, something is clearly wrong.
In any case, the initial prescription for the manboobs pill ran out. I had semi-annual bloodwork done and all is as expected. I don’t see my oncologist until October, so I contacted his office to see if I was done.
The doctor wrote back. In essence, he said: “You’re still growing boobs. I phoned in a refill.”
|REFILLED. OH, CAT POOP!|
I want badly to be done with my anti-androgen. I am not the same person, physically or mentally, that I was when I started taking it over a year ago. It is, however, doing its job. Between radiation and the manboob pill, the cancer appears to be arrested.
That’s a fun way to look at it: a little chemo paddy wagon, with a burly sergeant driving and waving his nightstick at the wayward cells: “You…over there…hiding behind that pelvic bone. You’re not going anywhere, boyo. Get in the fecking wagon or I’ll rap you good. Move along! Get in the back with the rest of the mutants, you dirtbags!”
One must keep a sense of humor, I suppose, especially when at times it seems it is all I have left. But the sad clown thing? Oh yes, I get that. I really do.
In short: I do as the doctor orders. He may keep me on it because it seems to be working with just a few annoying side effects: intermittent fuzzy thinking, physical weakness, weight redistribution (I am becoming a Weeble), total shutdown of the manly bits, and the possible need for a training bra (you will not see me working shirtless or wearing slim fit clothing).
On second thought, scratch the Weeble comparison. They don’t fall down. These days, I do plummet to earth every once in a while.
* * *
In something akin to a seismic event on local talk radio, Sue Henry has left WILK. I don’t know the circumstances, but they are not germane to my post.
When Renita Fennick asked me to run for State Representative in 2010 (and that’s how you get things done, kids…you ask someone) one of my first stops was Sue Henry’s show on WILK. I requested to come to the studio. I only had one cochlear implant at the time, and was still regaining my hearing. I was, honestly, afraid to do an interview on the phone. She understood and had me come and visit. I was a nervous wreck, but she was gracious. I learned then, and in a few other calls to the station over the years, that you had to come prepared to talk to Sue, regardless of which side of the political fence you were on.
Sue taught me to do my homework (and good teachers do that, in and out of the classroom).
I listen to very little talk radio these days due to my various work schedules, but hers was the only one I tried to catch. Sue, thank you and God Bless. Local radio will go on, nothing sits still, and while the powers that be will fill your slot, they will never, ever replace you.
* * *
Be good to each other.
* * *