Fringeville #131, July 05 2015: Out of the Wilderness

...Trekking out of the wilderness...

My good friend David Yonki, author of the LuLac Political Letter, has said more than once that the secret to blogging is "being there." People won't follow your blog if you don't show up. He is out there blogging, often daily, and has been at it since 2006. He is closing in on 3000 posts. He's a legend.

I've got a measly 131 posts, counting this one. Clearly I haven't "been there"on a regular basis since I started back in 2011.

Last year, though, the blog improved. It became more personal. Some of the posts were difficult to write, as much of last year I was fighting prostate cancer. My last post for the year was on November 23, 2014.

And then I fell off the map until April 03, 2015 where I posted that I was going to post on the upcoming weekend.

And then I promptly fell off the map again.

Why? In short, nothing kills creativity more than working 2 full time jobs and doing some side work as well. I really didn't have a choice. After successfully (so far) winning the war on prostate cancer I faced the reality of recovering financially from both the disease and the plunge in my income since 2011. I'd planned to look for a second job at the start of last year. I finally had a day job that had great (but expensive) health care. The plan was to find a 2nd job by the spring. But first I decided to get an overdue checkup now that I had health care again.

And it's a damn good thing I did, because the blood work rang alarm bells for my doctor. In a very short period of time, my PSA level had jumped significantly. Instead of hunting down a 2nd job, I found myself recovering from a robotic prostatectomy.

It's a testament to modern medical science that I have not only remained disease-free to this point, but that I recovered sufficiently to take a full-time 3rd shift job at a local hospital starting December 1, 2014 (which was about a week after I vanished from the blogosphere).

Financially, it was a very smart move. I was able to go on the hospital's benefit program, which was vastly less expensive. The money is lousy, but the strategy of shifting the benefits far more than made up for the low hourly wages. Plus, I once again had life insurance, dental, disability, a 401k and more. The wife wouldn't have to bury me in the backyard next to her cat if I keeled over.

The only thing I didn't have was time.

I went to work for 3rd shift, then immediately to my day job (where I was also hourly). I had to get 40 hours at each job, each week, to start getting ahead of things. But I was only sleeping about 3-5 hours most nights, and had to pull off the occasional 28-hour stretch to meet my few remaining outside commitments.

The job at the hospital was very physical. I was posted in the ER (which I loved) in the housekeeping department. The pace could be incredible at times. I literally never stopped moving from the moment I punched in until I left (with the exception of breaks).

What I didn't take into account was how long it takes a 57-year old man to recover completely from major surgery. Frankly, I struggled. I fought a losing battle with weight, consistently dropping pounds despite eating anything in sight. I perspired so heavily you could wring out my uniform and fill a bucket or three. I repeatedly got sick, usually some type of bronchitis

I felt trapped. I had no choices. I absolutely had to have the second job with its benefits. The first job was essential because the hourly wages were significantly higher. I found myself making occasional Facebook and Twitter posts about looking for balance in my life.

It was eluding me.

But as I often have in my life, I began to look for my own personal Kobayashi Maru (a nod to Star Trek, for those of you who are not science fiction fans). I had to find a solution for a seemingly unsolvable problem. It didn't seem to make much sense to overcome cancer and literally work myself to death.

...I didn't cheat, but I DON'T like to lose.

Two things happened to make my Kobayashi Maru a reality: First, came an opportunity to transition into a different role on the night job, doing housekeeping in another department. Still hard work, but at a sane pace. And better yet, it's a Monday-Friday job. Weekends and holidays off. (If you have ever worked in a hospital, this is the crown jewel of schedules.)

The second critical piece was shifting from hourly to salary on the day job. I have been functioning as office manager for a long time. I'm responsible for A/R, A/P, Payroll, Taxes, tech stuff and more. A salaried "manager hat" isn't a stretch here.

The net result (and this ties directly back to where I started ...with "being there") is that I'm sleeping more, and have a block of time each weekend to both blog and resume writing fiction. So, David, I'll there at least once a week. I can't match your production and would never try.

But I'll be there each weekend. Starting today.

* * *

Fringeville #129, November 23 2014

...the corpuscles look like little chicken wings...

(Please note in the post below I am talking only from my own experience as someone whose prostate was surgically removed as primary therapy for my cancer. When I talk about PSA levels, etc. it is from my perspective as a surgical patient. Radiation therapy is a whole 'nuther bag. After radiation therapy, PSA may take a long, long time to drop to its lowest level. The prostate wasn't removed and there may still be some healthy prostate cells cranking out PSA. Whether surgery, radiation or some other therapy is the best choice for a patient is something that has to be decided on a case-by-case basis. There is no one-size fits all for prostate cancer. What worked for you may not be the best choice for me, and vice versa)

This past week I had to have blood drawn for my 6-month PSA check. With the surgical removal of my prostate, what the blood test should confirm is that my PSA (Prostate-specific antigen) levels are undetectable. Because we yanked the lil' sumbitch.

I have this test every 3 months post surgery. The first was in August. Last week was the second. And I've noticed a little something about myself when it is time for these tests. I dread them. And from what I've read, most guys in my shoes dread them as well.

I am not a needle-phobe (though my sister Mitty is...she was a legendary needle-phobe back in the day). It's relatively painless, and the most difficult part of it is getting to the testing center in Hazleton. I can't have it done at a regular lab because it is an ultra-sensitive test. They are looking for incredibly small levels of PSA, and they really shouldn't find them (because as mentioned above, we yanked the lil' sumbitch).

The dread is that the test will find measurable PSA.

How is that possible?

Let's say a couple of those bad boy prostate cells took a pleasure cruise up the river lymph, or otherwise got out of the box before the prostate was removed. Those little peckerwoods will multiply. And they will produce PSA. Therein lies the dread. Because as anyone with prostate cancer knows, you are cured until you're not. In the case of folks like me, who had the prostate removed, the longer you go without a return of detectable PSA the more likely you were cured. If it becomes detectable, well the later that happens and the rate at which the PSA level doubles guides the approach to treatment. If it starts showing up a decade from now, and rises slowly, that's not a horrible scenario. At that point, I'm much more likely to choke to death on a chicken wing than to die of prostate cancer.

But if those PSA levels return early and rise quickly, that's when a fellow starts to feel like a milk carton with an expiration date.

And so fellows like me ...who had the lil' sumbitch yanked ...go about our lives and push our cancer to the back of our minds. Until it is time for the test. And the intervening time from test to results is when we drum our fingers as we drink our morning coffee and wonder what we'll do if we lose the PSA lottery so soon after surgery.

And I still hate the term for the unwanted return of PSA. They call it 'biochemical failure', which somehow sounds like it's our fault.

Doc: "You've got biochemical failure, Mr. Hooter."
Patient: "But I stayed up all night studying for the blood test!"
Doc: "Yeah, well your PSA tells a different story. Slacker."

The dread motivates someone like me to some sort of action. In my case, I took a look at where I was in life and made some changes over the past few weeks:

• Because I'm hopefully cured, I've taken on a second full time job because staring at piles of bills doesn't make them go away.
• Because I may not be cured (unlikely but possible) I have adopted a 5-year horizon view of my life. If I become a milk carton, that's what I'm looking at as time remaining to get things done. This is just my own level of neurosis picking that span of time. Five years  is chunk of time that I can work with.
• I have begun backing away from things that take me away from my family.
• I have begun letting go of making all the big decisions around Jimboville.

And that segues me into the next piece of this blog...

* * *

...ignore the ugly blob and campaign stuff. Focus on the car.

See that beautiful red Buick behind that butt-ugly guy in the white shirt? That's Bess. I love Bess. Bess has been the HQ for two political campaigns. In the summer, when the air conditioning is on, it even has an indoor pool in front of the passenger seat. I used to call it "Lake Laureen" because when Laureen Cummings ran for Congress in 2010, that was her seat and she had to strategically place her feet where they wouldn't be submerged in those dog days of summer. Congressional candidate's feet shouldn't squish when they walk.

For the past couple of years, Bess has been my daughter's car. Bess has picked up some bumps and bruises, and if you lock all of her doors you can't open any of them. You have to break in. She's also become steadily more expensive to maintain.

With the impending addition of my second job, I realized we were facing a major dilemma in Jimboville: A 5-3-2 crisis. Five jobs requiring vehicles. Three people for said jobs. Two old vehicles to carry the burden.

I realized this wasn't going to work, and as I went into this past week facing the dreaded PSA test I decided to guide my daughter Courtney through her first car purchase. Before I got sick, her role in the whole process would have been to sit quietly and listen while I worked everything out with the dealership's sales and financial folks. I would have cosigned the loan, and she would have a dependable vehicle. But she wouldn't have learned a damned thing because I'd have done the whole shebang, and I'd have been her safety net financially.

But the worm has turned.

I knew that while unlikely, there was a possibility I might not be around when she buys her next car. So I did two things which are very, very difficult for me. First, when the salesman asked if I was helping on the loan, I said no. And that hurt. A lot. The second thing I did was shut up for 95% of the entire process. I watched her work with the salesman and then with the finance officer. If there had been any red flags during those sessions, I'd have stopped things dead in their tracks. I wouldn't sit there and let my daughter get taken advantage of. But I had faith in the dealership, was impressed with the salesman, and appreciated the way the finance officer took his time carefully explaining each piece of paperwork. He knew it was her first car purchase, and he wants her back next time. (A big shout out to Ken Pollock Nissan. Job well done. And if  you're looking for a car, ask for Keith Onyshczak.)

In the end, my daughter got a great vehicle. And I learned just how well she can handle herself. And oddly, that was bittersweet, because on the one hand I am enormously proud of her, but on the other hand she really doesn't need me any longer. Like her brother, James, she is smart and self-sufficient. Though she hasn't actually left the nest (and if she sticks with my plan of not dating till she's 40 she'll be here a while) she can make her way in the world.

So the two big takeaways are:

1) My wife and I have raised two fully functional and self-sufficient adults.
2) I have Bess back. Come summer, in the hot and steamy dog days, you'll find me cruising down the highway with the only mobile lake in Northeastern Pennsylvania.

* * *

...time to eat yet? I just made a Hack Sandwich.

Lastly, I watched the NCAA sanctions in full bloom as my Lions came up flat ..as usual ...on offense and the D just ran out of gas. I'm not hitting the panic button. The Lions only had their mouths smashed once this year. 4 of 5 losses (including the holdup-by-zebras against the Buckeyes) were by a handful of points each. Any kind of consistency on offense and ...don't laugh ...we're a one-loss team and Coach Franklin is a miracle worker. But the reality is that we don't have the horses, thanks to the NCAA.

I will be in State College for the Michigan State game next week with my brother. I really don't know what to expect. They are a very, very young team and this will be an emotional game. The best we can manage, including a bowl win, is an 8-5 record.  But quite honestly 6-7 is a very distinct possibility. The NCAA wanted to damage the program. Mission accomplished.

But 2015 comes quickly and with it the ability to rebuild to full strength.  I'm already thinking about the Blue-White game and a belly full of Five Guys grub next spring.

* * *

Fringeville #115, August 28 2014

...A Cheese Steak Day?

Today is Philly Road Trip Day. It's the first of a number of visits over which I will learn if I am still on the curable curve for prostate cancer, or if I have meandered into having a "treatable" disease.

So, ever the optimist, I'm going to try to get the most out of a couple of hours in Philadelphia. There may be a cheese steak on the agenda, depending on the mood after my doctor's visit.

I'm going to make this a multi-post day, so this edition of Fringeville will be a little different. Stay tuned.

* * *

The verdict from my doctor: I remain very firmly on the curable track. I am doing exceptionally well. The all-important PSA level is undetectable. I was particularly worried about the first post-surgery PSA result. If that showed a biochemical failure, then part of the visit may have covered options for "salvage" therapy.

Salvage therapy.

Like I'm a '57 Ford being rescued from the crusher at a junk yard. Prospects of radiation therapy with some hormones tossed in to keep things interesting. An uncertain future. 

Pardon me for not wanting to be "salvaged." I don't want to be treatable. I want to be cured.

In other good news, my post-surgery progress is excellent. My weight has stayed down. My urinary system is healing and I'm not dashing to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Really ...the news could not have been better.

I made the offer to be a resource for other men facing this disease. I do that kind of thing now as a cochlear implant volunteer. It just seemed like the natural thing for me to do.

Other than parking in the wrong damned lot and paying $21 for less than two hours to stable the Neon, nothing about the trip was a downer. But $21 bucks? Sheesh! That's two wings-and-suds meals up here in NEPA. I love Philly, but some things down there ain't cheap.

As to the rest of the day in Philadelphia:  I wanted to blog live using my phone, but I couldn't login to blogger. I have some cryptic password I cannot remember and I don't have a local copy of it on my phone. So I settled for posting a picture of a Geno's cheese steak on Instagram.

Here are some other all-important cheese steak pics:

...this might make a dent in my weight. Frankly, I don't care.

Geno's was busy but not crazy.

...I think the missus is texting she'll kill me if she ends up on the Internet...

* * *

Fringeville #111, August 19 2014

...serves me right.

I said I'd be back soon ...and this time I really was.

I mentioned in my earlier post that I would get my PSA results before I went to Philly to see my doctor. That was the plan and a marvelous, splendiferous plan it was. I'd go to my usual lab, have the blood drawn today, get the results early next week, and take'em with me. And read them ahead of time, of course.

So I schlepped down to my lab today and handed in the sheet for the blood draw.

"We can't do that here," I was told.

Why?

It turns out it is an ultra-sensitive PSA test. Why "ultra-sensitive?" Because, with no prostate, my PSA should theoretically be non-existent or nearly so (less than 0.1 nanograms per milliliter, or the PSA equivalent of a reality TV star's IQ). We're looking for mere smidgens of smidgens of smidgens of PSA here, kids.

And my lab doesn't do the smidgens of smidgens of smidgens of PSA tests.

The nearest labs that did, and which took my insurance, were in Scranton or Hazleton. Scranton is closer as the crow flies, but pure hell as the PennDot flagger's flag flies, so Hazleton it was.

I found the lab and got the blood drawn. I asked if I would be e-mailed a copy ASAP.

Nope. They're gonna snail-mail me a copy.

Oh, Joy!

"When will I get them?"

"After the doctor does. The blood goes from this lab to Philadelphia, and then to California. You'll get the results later."

This meant that from the moment the blood was drawn until next Thursday I will be in the very place I was trying to avoid: THE DARK.

On the upside, at least my blood is seeing America. Happy vacation, corpuscles! Stop in Memphis and have some barbecue. Say hello to the antibodies for me. Miss you guys.

Now my family will be forced to watch me grow ever more manic with each passing day as I dwell on whether the ol' PSA is undetectable or if I will discover I have "biochemical failure." That's a fancy way of saying my prostate cancer has taken up residence somewhere else and is happily churning out PSA ...and multiplying ...in some nook and cranny of my body.

Even though that is highly unlikely so soon after surgery, this will be the torturous game I have to play for a long, long time. Blood draw. Anxiety. Relief. Or "biochemical failure."

So my strategy is this:  I am going to focus on getting shit done. (Sorry for the cuss, but it is the only accurate way to put it.) If it turns out that I am the equivalent of a milk carton with an early expiration date, I will make a helluva lot of milkshakes before this ugly-ass carton goes bad. (Yes, a truly terrible metaphor, but I get a pass on that today. And at least I didn't dangle a damned participle.)

Ciao for now.

Their stomachs growling, the wings cooked. Sorry I couldn't help myself. 

* * *

Fringeville #110, August 19 2014

I'm a little hard to live with these days...

I said I'd be back soon. Soon is in the eye of the beholder, and this for me is soon.

It's been hectic since the last post on July 20.

My church had their annual Festival. It's a big commitment on my part. I practically live up there from Thursday night through Monday morning. When I had surgery in May, I was concerned whether I would be up to the demands. I have to say that I was probably in better physical shape this year than any of the last several, despite being just two months out from surgery. For one thing, my weight is down, so tackling the hill to the rectory from the grounds several times a night wasn't as big a problem. It's amazing what being a tad lighter does for your knees.

Anyway, I not only got through the Festival without issues but it was one of several things which lifted some of the darkness evident in my last post. Being involved in stuff does that for me. It keeps things in perspective.

I also had a chance to speak at a local Rotary about my cochlear implant experiences. That was uplifting as well, because there is always someone in the room that can either benefit directly from a cochlear implant or has a friend or relative who might.

I also had a chance to connect with a number of friends who are facing challenges. When you get cancer, you tend to turn too many thoughts inward. But I know people whose lives have been turned upside-down. I don't know how they cope with it.

Yet sometimes, turning thoughts inward seems unavoidable. I'm getting my first blood work done in preparation for my follow-up visit to Philly next week.  I am hopefully going to have an undetectable PSA. And hopefully that will be the case from now on.

But cancer is never about certainties. There is a good chance that somewhere in the next decade, my PSA will start to rise. If it does, depending on how soon and and how quickly there will be decisions to make. Decisions which I don't want to have to make. And that is why every PSA test is a source of anxiety, especially in the early going after surgery.

One of the downsides to all the research I did is that I will see that test before the visit. I know what to look for. If I like what I see, it should be a nice day in Philly and maybe a cheese steak downtown. If I don't like what I see, that trip will be one I dread.

But I am here. I am still kicking and kicking hard. I am somewhat impossible to live with right now (just ask my family) but over time I hope to become more my old self.

In the meantime, there's stuff to do. Lots of it.

But ..ahem ...I'll be back soon. Promise.

* * *

Fringeville #102, April 12 2014

It's yours, free, if you just take it and leave!

What do I know about PSA? That's a teacher's union, right Doc?

Sometimes it's the phone calls you make, sometimes it's the phone calls you take. This time it was both.

Let's start with the call I made.

The woman who answered the phone at the doctor's office had a very, very pleasant voice. Cheerful, in fact. The perfect voice for answering incoming calls.

"How can I help you?"

"I'm calling for my biopsy results."

"Your name?"

"James O'Meara."

"Your date of birth?"

I gave it to her.

"Do you mind holding? I'll see if they came in."

I waited, and as I did so my mind wandered back to the things I had left to do that day and over the coming weeks. For the day, I was on my lunch and had a pile of work to get back to after the phone call. For the immediate future, there was a political campaign ahead. I had filed my petitions to run for Republican State Committee earlier in the week (the day before my biopsy, in fact). I was anxious to see what ballot position I would draw later in the month for the Primary Election.

Then my mind focused on the following day, one I was looking forward to. It was one of my days to pick up my grandson at daycare and drive him to school. We would have a half hour in the car together, and I would use every moment to the fullest. I would recite the name of every street we passed and we would play our "lunch game." The game works like this:

"What did you eat for lunch, James?" I ask. (My grandson is the third in a line of James O'Meara's ...I started a dynasty.)

No answer.

"Did you have elephant soup?"

"No."

"Alligator toes?"

"No."

"Snail soup?"

"NO."

"Zebra gizzards?"

"NO!"

On and on we go until he has a grin the size of Oklahoma.

These half-hour trips are precious to me. On this particular Thursday afternoon, March 13 2014, I was also thinking about the route to take on Friday when I drove my grandson to school. He likes me to change things up, and always asks to go "a different way." It was becoming a challenge because there are only so many ways to go from one end of Pittston to the other.

"Mr. O'Meara?"

Oh, but her tone had changed. Softer, almost a whisper.

"What number can doctor call to reach you?"

That was it. Bang. Zoom. My life had just changed, and I knew it.

I gave her my mobile number and sat at my dining room table, waiting for his call.

"Well," I sighed to myself, "You finally get yourself in a race you might win and then you go and get cancer."

* * *

The first indication something was amiss started the previous autumn. I was working two part-time jobs. One of those jobs was for a national retail chain, where I was a home improvement sales consultant. That's a fancy way of saying I sold hardware, lawn and garden goods, and a host of other items. I applied for the job strictly for the challenge. I was a middle-aged deaf man with bilateral cochlear implants which restored my hearing. I wanted to see if I could walk up to total strangers, engage them, and learn to sell. I wasn't a great sales consultant as far as numbers go, but in the time I was there I began building a core of customers who would come looking for me when they needed something. It didn't pay well, but I had a blast. It was a job requiring me to be on my feet all the time. I liked that aspect of it, once I got used to it, because it kept my butt from growing so large it needed its own zip code.

I started the job in August of 2012, and for the first year things were fine. Then, as the seasons changed and the colors of autumn emerged in 2013, something odd began to happen as I worked. One minute I'd be fine, and the next I'd get an urgent call from Mother Nature that the dam in my bladder was going to burst. I would zip off to the men's room, answer her call, then zip back to the sales floor. At first this happened maybe once a shift. As time went on it happened more often. Usually it wasn't a big deal because frankly we weren't all that busy. But occasionally a scenario like this would play out:

"Hello, and thanks for coming in to visit us today. I'm Jimbo. I see you're thinking about a lawnmower,sir."

"Maybe."

"Can you tell me a little about your yard?"

The customer would start talking about the size, terrain, etc. and suddenly an urgent message would be sent from my bladder to my brain: "Jimbo, wrap this up. The tank's full."

But of course, I couldn't wrap it up. I was just getting started.

"How does this electric start thingymabob work?"

I would start answering the question, and the others that followed, and a new message would arrive from below my belt line: "Jimbo. It's me. Your bladder. Maybe you missed my last call. Remember the movie 'A River Runs Through It?'  Well, in about 30 seconds that's gonna be your pants."

Panic!!!

"Let me go see if we have these in stock in our warehouse!" I would blurt out, then hurry off.

Of course, we had a ton of mowers in stock, but once I was in the warehouse I could make a dash to the men's room, tap the kidneys, and go back to my sale.

Occasionally, though, it was difficult to peel away. When I said I wanted to check stock, my customer would stop me and ask even more questions. Usually it was just one or two, but occasionally someone put me through the retail version of the Spanish Inquisition. I would stand there, cross-legged and spit out the answers. On a couple of occasions I came within seconds of saying: "Buddy it's yours, free, if you just take it and leave right this second."

Sure, I'd have been fired. But I'd get to pee, and at those particular moments in time all that mattered to me in the entire Universe was peeing.

I suppose I should have been alarmed, but I simply put it down to getting older. I felt great otherwise. My bladder was just a little excitable.

When my other part-time job became full-time with benefits in December of 2013, I left my retail job. I also made a mental note to see my primary physician sometime after the holidays. I hadn't been to the doctor in more than two years, largely because for much of that time I'd had no health care benefits. When I finally got limited healthcare benefits in January 2013 from my retail employer, my schedules were insane and I put off scheduling an appointment. The full-time job as "the office guy" for a local shoe store offered a lot of flexibility. I could finally make an appointment and get a good once-over. I had routine blood work done in early February 2014 and on the 13th of that month I finally found myself in my doctor's office waiting to be scolded over my cholesterol levels and for putting on a few pounds.

"Well," he said, "You're due for a colonoscopy but there's something else we need to look at first. Your PSA rose from about 1.8 to over 6. I'm going to refer you to a urologist."

And with that, my happy race to heck in a handbag began.

* * *