I have decided to run for a 2-year seat on the Plains
Township Board of Commissioners. For a number of reasons, the 2-year seat works
best for me.
Almost as soon as I started circulating my petition, Fringeville
had an uptick in hits from Russia.
Let me be clear: I have never been to Russia. I have never
eaten chicken wings in or ordered chicken wings from Russia. I don’t even like
Russian dressing.
I do like the occasional white Russian, as long it kicks
like a mule and has about a thousand calories.
As to this guy, recently seen leaving my house, yes he bears
an uncanny resemblance to the Russian leader, Mr. Putin. But this is my old
college fraternity brother, Vlad …ummm… O’Hooligan. He’s from Moscow, in
Lackawanna County.
Rumors he was wrestling a bear cub in my backyard while
shirtless are utterly untrue. On rumors he was wrestling the cub’s mother, I
have no comment.
* * *
I have had an enormously distracting problem since June of
2016. Barbed wire pee. Sounds as bad as it feels. Yes, it was looked at. The
opinion of my urologist at the time was that I had passed a stone, based on tests
and my symptoms. He cheerfully told me I have another stone that is “non-obstructive.”
He assured me the stone will let me know with a hammer blow of pain if it
decides to pack up and move from its comfy spot in my kidney to a nice home
with a view in my ureter.
“What then?” I asked.
“We pulverize the sumbitch with sound waves.”
I considered strapping speakers to my abdomen and blasting
AC/DC or Metallica and just pulverizing the sumbitch myself, but I didn’t know
how my other organs would fare. Heavy metal isn’t good for the liver.
The stone hasn’t moved, but the barbed wire torture hasn’t
gone away. And yes, that’s been checked again after an episode I’d rather not
go into. No blood or infection in the pee. Just, apparently, barbed wire.
Since last summer, I’ve dreaded every trip to the bathroom.
And the other side effect of all this is that I make a LOT more trips to the
bathroom. A warning: If you’re in Wallyworld and you hear cussing coming from
the men’s room, it’s probably me kids. I’m harmless. All bark, no bite, just
lots of wincing and cussing.
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| For your protection, they barricade the Wallyworld bathroom until I am done so little ones don't hear me cussing. |
I am convinced this is tied directly to the prostate cancer
I’d hoped to be cured of. I say this because I have been watching my PSA number
rise from a post-surgery zero (undetectable and possibly cured) to this past
week’s result of 0.23 ng/ml (nanograms per milliliter of blood).
While there a number of conflicting studies on what measured
PSA number post-surgery signals a recurrence, a number of studies point at 0.20
as the threshold. And the longer you go before you trip that threshold (if
ever) the better it is for your long-term prognosis.
I won’t bore anyone with all the details, but I can say
simply this: 0.23 in less than 3 years is not good.
I expect some feedback from my team at Penn Medicine. They may
want to wait another 3 months to see if I stay above the threshold. However, I
fully expect them to recommend I pursue treatment options to delay any metastasis.
It is likely I may have bad little bastard PSA-churning cancer cells living in
the prostate bed (where that organ used to reside) or, less likely, somewhere
else in my body.
It struck me immediately after the latest result that I now
have treatable prostate cancer. If I live long enough (meaning I don’t choke to
death on a chicken wing, die driving through tornadoes1 or meet my
maker some other way) it will eventually spread. Once it does, the clock to the
eternal heavenly wing fest begins ticking. Prostate cancer can be very slow to
metastasize, so it really is likely I’ll ride off into the sunset for some
other reason. Unless I’m an unlucky bastard (Hint: I’m Irish. Do the math.)
In the meantime, every time I manage to put cancer out of my
mind a bit, it’s time to f****** pee again.
1 See the next bit for driving through tornadoes
* * *
 |
| From paweatheraction.com |
My wife’s Neon blew a radiator hose. I actually got the
right one from the parts store, and my son and I replaced it. We finished just
as the rain turned steady yesterday.
I suggested taking it “around the block” which on my street
means a trip through Laflin and down Route 315 to Plains again. As the Neon
chugged up the hill in Laflin, the temperature needle started to rise.
“Dad, I think it’s hailing. Isn’t there a tornado warning?”
“It’s expired. It’s only hailing a little.”
A couple two-tree2 minutes later we were on 315
moving at five miles an hour with hail, torrential rain, wind, an engine running hot
and defrosters kicking out cold air, totally fogging the windshield.
“You’re off the road!” my son shouted. He rolled down his window
to see where the shoulder was and his ear was pelted so hard with a rain/hail
mix that he rolled the window back up.
We eventually found a place to pull over until the storm
passed. We got off the highway, and pulled over again because the engine was
almost screaming hot.
We got back to the house, fixed (we think) the issue with
the car, and went for an uneventful test drive.
A bit later, we learned there was, in fact, a tornado a few
miles from where we were. It turns out the watch was extended 45 minutes, and we
were off gallivanting in it.
God forbid what if we had driven into it?
Well, no more barbed wire peeing, so there's that.
But since it is the Irishman’s lot to suffer, we were
unscathed and my barbed wire saga will continue.
2 Two-tree is advanced Pittstonese for 2-3, for
those of you not from NEPA
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