Columbus and the Valley

Nothing Like a Warm Toilet Seat

After my last Thursday meeting with Dr. Pippas, we’ve circled back around now and I’m on the full 800mg daily dose of Votrient. As I suspected, my quality of life has taken a noticeable hit. The superficial — and easiest to handle — change is that my eyebrows went stark-white within three weeks on Votrient.

My new hair is snow white as it grows in and white is winning the battle over light brown. Right now, I look like I’ve been coloring my hair, but have decided to give up and stop. There is a one-inch band of pure white hair coming out of my scalp and each successive haircut will reveal more of the white. My women (if you know me, you’re aware of the passel of sister wives it takes to run my life) say they like it. That it gives me a distinctive look. I think it makes me look like Father Time, but it is what it is.

The side effects of the medication that are anything but superficial and are very difficult to manage are the gastrointestinal issues. Nausea and diarrhea are a constant stealthy threat. Stealthy isn’t what you really want with these guys. I’d much rather see them coming so I can be prepared. But no, they just jump right up and bitch slap me at a moment’s notice. Not fun right now. Not fun.

I still can’t taste, although using plastic utensils and taking zinc have made my tastebuds more intermittent than a  total loss. There are some things that I still can taste. I’m thankful for that.

Thanks to my brother, Eric, I got to ride along on my first quail hunt last Sunday down in Albany. I went with a borrowed shotgun that I had never fired and I was nervous as hell about what I was supposed to do. We got the safety talk and because of my weakened legs, I was allowed to get out of the buggy and be ready for the first covey rise.

Here’s the scenario: I have determined that my left eye is my master eye. This is probably why I haven’t ever been able to hit anything shooting a right-handed gun. So, I went with a borrowed over and under shotgun, which I shouldered on the left side. The first covey got up and I picked a bird and dropped it with my first shot. I got so excited and nervous, the next four shots were all attempted with the safety on. Let me tell you, that almost never works. You can’t shoot a bird when the gun won’t go off!

I was over-thinking all the safety concerns (if that is possible…I don’t think it is.). Worried about shooting that expensive, beautiful bird dog. Worried about pulling a Dick Cheney and shooting somebody. Worried about looking like a dumb ass in front of my brother and his friends. (I’m pretty sure I blew that one, though, with the four consecutive attempts to fire the gun with the safety on.) I got tired really fast and decided that I’d go out while I was ahead and take my place back in the bird buggy. I think I hit every bird I shot at. One. Technically, the safety-on misfires were called strikes, so I can’t claim I batted a thousand. Let’s just put it this way: I got a quail. I got to experience what a luxury, high-end quail hunts looks and feels like. I got to spend some good time with my brother and some of his best friends. And, If I had had a trunk full of Japanese toilet seats, I could have made some money that day.

I have been wanting to tell this story for months, but have been worried about how it would be taken by the male readers of this blog. So, Sunday, I tried out this story on a dozen or so of the manliest guys I know. They’re all rugged outdoorsmen. They like to cuss, drink, lie about women, shoot guns and grill large chunks of meat. I’m thinking this is the perfect crowd to test drive the Japanese toilet seat story. So I let it fly.

Some background first: I have given my sons some serious advice about how to keep a relationship fresh. There are a couple of bodily functions that should NEVER be shared with your mate. If it is possible to have your toilet in a separate room with a door, than that is what you should always shoot for. Anything that you’d do or any sound that you’d make while sitting on a toilet should be kept there behind that door. As long as you keep this to yourself, your relationship will always have a sense of mystery and have a better chance of being kept fresh for the long haul. This has been my philosophy and my sons will attest to the fact that I’ve counseled them in this regard.

So, let’s move on to the days after my back-to-back back surgeries. I had the excruciatingly embarrassing need for hospital techs to clean me in the bathroom on several occasions while I was still in the hospital recuperating from major back surgery. I couldn’t bend and reach like before the surgery. All I could think about was that someone was going to have to do this for me after I got home. By the time I got home, thankfully, I was able to take care of myself, but the horror that one day I might not be able to just stayed on my mind.

I started investigating Japanese toilets several years ago. They were unbelievably expensive when they first hit my radar. A couple of thousand dollars was the going rate and they were generally a modified, electronic entire toilet. Now, they have been engineered to be an electronic toilet seat that will simply replace the seat on most types of toilets in use today.

Okay, we’re back to Sunday in south Georgia. On a quail buggy with a dozen cussing men. I described in very vivid detail about my Coco toilet seat, what it does, how it does it and how it makes my life more comfortable and more easy and private. I swear if I had had a dozen of them, I would have sold out that day. I don’t know when I’ve been more uncomfortable at the start of a story to have it go so well. The Sunday story at the quail hunt was my warm up for this blog post.

I ordered the Coco 9500R a few months ago and despite my rather unhandiness, I was able to completely install it by myself, including retrofitting the electric wall plug to a GFCI (ground-fault circuit interrupter) plug. It took only about a half-hour to do the wiring and replace the seat on our Toto elongated toilet. I can easily say that this incredible piece of electronic equipment has changed my life. Now, I’m prepared for whatever life throws at me and I can be confident that I’ll be able to maintain my dignity in the bathroom and the mystery in my marriage.

I wasn’t able to find anyone who sells these locally, but if someone steps up and confirms that they sell this seat locally, I’ll give them a special advertising deal in Columbus and the Valley magazine so they can let people know about it.

Please accept my apologies about these blog posts being sparse. This medication has, among other things, rendered me unable to write, at least write to my satisfaction. I’m hoping it’ll begin to turn me loose as my body adjusts to the dosage. I miss writing and from the encouragement I get when I see my great readers, many of you are missing these posts, too.

 

All Saints Story Buoys Cancer-Fighting Spirit

Let me tell you a story.

During my cancer journey, since May 25, 2009, there have been so many people who have done or said just the right thing at the right time to buoy my fighting spirit. One of those things happened a few days ago. I have waited to share this incredible story until it played out. It fully played out during our All Saints Feast Sunday at St. Matthews in-the-Pines Episcopal Church in Seale, Ala.

If you’re familiar with the Episcopal Church calendar, All Saints Day was November 1. We celebrated the day in a very interesting way this past Sunday. The Rev. Donna Gafford, our priest, challenged us all to come to church on Sunday and bring a story about our favorite saint. This saint could be a real saint, or it could be a favorite relative, a pet or a teacher from our past.

I am kind of a church curmudgeon in that I really don’t like to participate in church. I don’t want to do any kind of interpretive dance (Several years ago that happened at our church once. I’m not kidding.) I don’t like to try to stump the priest. (That has happened, too.) I want to go, hear a great sermon, sing some soul-stirring songs, pass the peace and go home. So, I had decided not to participate in the saint discussion.

Jill felt that I was being unreasonable and that I should reconsider my curmudgeonly stance. As you know, I’m still recovering from two back surgeries and food poisoning. Sunday, two weeks ago was the first time in many weeks that I had been to church. So, I was feeling disconnected and really didn’t want to do the saint thing.

Late in the day this past Friday, Jill handed me a package. I was involved in a payroll situation, so I dropped it on my desk without looking at who might have sent it. After I finished my task, I picked up the package and noticed that it was from an old friend, Kate Nerone. We worked together many years ago at Aflac and I have always had great respect for Kate’s sense of humor, her writing ability — and her legs.

Several years ago, Kate joined me for dinner at the old La Grotta restaurant in the basement of a condominium complex on Peachtree in Atlanta. There is a new version of the restaurant in the Holiday Inn Ravinia on the north end of the city. I like the old world feel of the old place, the mustachioed wait staff who speak very little English and their penchant for strong-arming diners into choosing Italian bottled mineral water over Atlanta tap water.

I had arrived early and was sipping on a drink when Kate strutted in, decked out in a low-cut black minidress, ridiculously high heels and fishnet stockings. She stopped the show that night. She has a habit of stopping shows when she walks into a room. I’ll just say that we got snappy, grade-A service that night. It was quite a lovely evening and it was fun to watch Florio trip over himself to serve us.

I ripped open the package. It contained a box, which I tossed onto my desk, and several sheets of paper. I read the sheets in order, because that is just the way I roll. The first sheet was a note from Kate. The other sheets were an Easter meditation she had written a few years ago for her former sister-in-law Amy Nerone, who puts together the meditations each year for the Chattahoochee Valley Episcopal Ministries, an outreach arm of the local Episcopal parishes.

She also included a riveting poem, which her friend Hope Winsborough shared with her. Here’s where the story gets really interesting: Kate mentioned that there was a box in the package. It contained, she said, a St. Michael medal, which her husband carried as a paratrooper in Baghdad, Iraq. She said that it had protected him and that now she wanted me to have it. The medal was being repurposed to protect me from cancer.

By the way, St. Michael is the patron saint of paratroopers, firemen, policemen, drunkards and fools. You all know I don’t wear a uniform or a badge, but I’m glad I made the cut! Jill walked into my office and said, “What did Kate send you?” I held up the medal, which was then and now attached to my car key. She got that wry smile and said, “Well, there’s your saint!”

Fast forward to Sunday. I walked into church with the poem in hand and the St. Michael medal in pocket. When Donna described how we were going to substitute the saint discussions for the sermon, I asked if I could go first. Selfishly, I knew my story was going to blow everyone else out of the water and I wanted the shock and awe effect of a great story to kick off the festivities.

The time came and I went up to the lecturn and delivered my story. I read Kate’s favorite poem and I told our parish about why I was the new owner of the medal. Needless to say, the story killed! The fact that this wonderful story dropped into my lap just over 24 hours from the time I needed it is just so cool.

The icing on the cake was that Karen Rankin’s favorite saint was me! She delivered a tearful thank you to me for being an important part of their life here in Seale. This service that I was dead set against participating in, turned out to be an amazing love fest with sweet sentiments, great food and fellowship under the pines in our little church. This is exactly why I love our church. It is casual, warm and friendly. I leave there each week feeling great and uplifted and during the summer, I get to wear shorts. How cool is that?

 

 

A Good Place to Pray

I awoke this morning to back pain. I wrote in an email to a member of our family who is an emergency room/trauma physician that it feels like two tectonic plates of stone jockeying for position in my back with an overtone of toothache-style siren song pain. The seismic stuff can be talked into calming down with a twist or wiggle or repositioning my back. It is that ever-present siren pain that makes me the most uncomfortable. [Read more…]