I know what a motherfucker is. A motherfucker is the guy you work for. The guy that is dumber than you but has all the money because his Daddy gave him everything. A motherfucker makes you do things you don't want to do. A motherfucking cocksucker is the guy that runs the store across the highway. He won't sell beer and cigarettes to a seven year old kid no matter how many notes his Dad writes. A motherfucking cocksucker trumps a motherfucker.
A motherfucker is a teacher who drags a boy with shitty corduroys down the hall to the principals office. She doesn't like being told she is a motherfucker. The principal doesn't like being told he is a motherfucking cocksucker while he is on the telephone trying to convince a mother to come and get her shitty son.
The stench of anger competes with shit to permeate the room. The anger fills me, makes me fat and happy like the tomcat on the back of the sofa. Not a couch, a sofa, because a couch is hard, abrupt, uncomfortable. Couch. A couch is where your sister is caught with her boyfriend and her panties around her knees. A dirty place.
Sofa. That soft cuddly place where Mom eats Almond Roca's, sips Pepsi and watches Days of Our Lives. A place where little boys get booboos kissed. But little boys must become BIG BOYS and go to school. BIG BOYS don't shit their pants and tell people they are motherfuckers and motherfucking cocksuckers. BIG BOYS MUST GROW THE FUCK UP, YOU'RE NOT A BABY ANYMORE WAIT UNTIL YOUR DAD HEARS ABOUT THIS.
Anger flops on the couch and swats the tomcat. The tomcat and the no longer a little boy scamper out the backdoor. Out with the dogs and cows and the horses. The tomcat sits on the porch rail and yawns as the big white dog happily follows the shitty little boy back to a world they both understand. Anger stays at the house.
The mare softly blows snot into my hair as her foal stalks the dog. Stiff legged the foal advances, quivering with anticipation. The dog eats a horse turd and pretends to ignore her. As the velvet muzzle touches the white tail, the dog whirls, barking happily and the foal races away, pursued by DON'T LET THAT GODDAMNED DOG CHASE THAT FILLY HOW MANY TIMES HAS YOUR DAD TOLD YOU YOU LITTLE SHIT. Anger slams the screendoor as it goes back to the daytime drama. Motherfucker. Motherfucking cocksucker.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Anger
I am angry. I feel the rage inside as a lump of lava in my gut, building, pulsing, looking for a chance to explode. I clamp down, squeezing like a sphincter to keep the excrement inside. Regardless of the thoughts of psychologists there is no healthy release for rage. When the rage bubbles over, everyone is covered in shit.
I think I have always been angry. It feels as if I am back in first grade sitting in class. The teacher is reading some interminable story, Dick and Jane are struggling up the hill while I sit and squirm in my chair, too scared to raise my hand. You have to tell her, in front of the class, number one or number two. So, I sit and squirm, scared and angry. I imagine the snickers and giggles if I raise my hand. I imagine the warmth of shit spreading through my pants, the reactions around me as the stench reaches out and slips greasily down the throats of the vacant eyed aliens that threaten my world.
The story drones on and on. The pressure builds. The big hand on the clock, placed cruelly above and behind the teacher, never moves. It hangs there. It speaks in a language I don't even understand, yet, but I know it is mocking me. I fidget. Fidgeting is not allowed, not in this world. Around me the aliens sit, both feet on the floor, hands clasped and resting on the desks, shining faces forward, mesmerised.
My right hand reaches upward, pleading. She never looks up, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, held by strings like the ones that hold my mittens to my coat in winter. Perhaps her mother is tired of her losing them and causing the family to suffer because they must be replaced. My hand flutters, so does my gut. Panic.
This is a world I don't understand. In my world of woods and fields I have never suffered. When the need arises find a bush, drop your pants and go. No different than the horses and cows and dogs, my friends.
I flee. Sliding from my desk I flee. Muscles clenched, ears burning, alien eyes tracking me as I flee. It is too late. Shit bursting forth, pouring out. Tears blinding me as shit stained corduroy pants chase me out of the room and down the hall.
My metaphor of life. I flee the smell of shit.
I think I have always been angry. It feels as if I am back in first grade sitting in class. The teacher is reading some interminable story, Dick and Jane are struggling up the hill while I sit and squirm in my chair, too scared to raise my hand. You have to tell her, in front of the class, number one or number two. So, I sit and squirm, scared and angry. I imagine the snickers and giggles if I raise my hand. I imagine the warmth of shit spreading through my pants, the reactions around me as the stench reaches out and slips greasily down the throats of the vacant eyed aliens that threaten my world.
The story drones on and on. The pressure builds. The big hand on the clock, placed cruelly above and behind the teacher, never moves. It hangs there. It speaks in a language I don't even understand, yet, but I know it is mocking me. I fidget. Fidgeting is not allowed, not in this world. Around me the aliens sit, both feet on the floor, hands clasped and resting on the desks, shining faces forward, mesmerised.
My right hand reaches upward, pleading. She never looks up, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, held by strings like the ones that hold my mittens to my coat in winter. Perhaps her mother is tired of her losing them and causing the family to suffer because they must be replaced. My hand flutters, so does my gut. Panic.
This is a world I don't understand. In my world of woods and fields I have never suffered. When the need arises find a bush, drop your pants and go. No different than the horses and cows and dogs, my friends.
I flee. Sliding from my desk I flee. Muscles clenched, ears burning, alien eyes tracking me as I flee. It is too late. Shit bursting forth, pouring out. Tears blinding me as shit stained corduroy pants chase me out of the room and down the hall.
My metaphor of life. I flee the smell of shit.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Getting Personal
Never having seriously considered my own mortality the words "fibro sarcoma" spoken by the doctor rocked my world. All I actually heard was "sarcoma". I knew it was a form of cancer. I am dying. But then, everyone is dying. Life can be prolonged through medical procedures but eventually we all die. So, the question is, do we die on our terms or someone Else's.
Medical professionals will line up around the block willing to tell you what you must do, as long as they are getting paid. The surgeon tells you that the tumor must be removed. Of course he gets paid to remove tumors. The radiation oncologist will tell you that you must have radiation therapy. He gets paid for providing that therapy. Everyone in the medical field has an opinion, all of which they will share with you, for a fee.
So, where do you go for advise? Family and friends, while great, offer little in the way of actual information. Everyone has a cancer story, whether it be themselves or someone they know. There are endless anecdotes about Aunt Marge and Uncle Willie who either did everything the doctors told them to or ignored all medical advise. The one thing that all the Aunt Marges and Uncle Willies have in common is that they all died, or will die.
I turned to the internet and began reading. Amazingly, there is a lot more information on soft tissue fibro sarcoma as it pertains to cats and dogs than there is about the disease in humans. No large studies have been done on humans with this form of cancer. The cancer help sites offer basic cancer information but very little about the actual disease. Mostly they link to support groups. I have no desire to hear others whine about themselves, I am doing enough whining of my own.
A biopsy of the tumor was "inconclusive". The biopsy was studied by three different pathologists, one located at Johns Hopkins University. The phrase the surgeon used was "it is probably not malignant". After the tumor was removed it was sent to three pathologists. Two of the three said benign. The third said fibro sarcoma. Terrific, even the experts disagree.
Now, every expert tells me that I need 30 radiation treatments. Five days a week for six weeks. When asked how many cases of fibro sarcoma they have dealt with every expert says "none". They have dealt with various sarcomas, just not this one. From my reading I have discovered that fibro sarcoma is thought to be a result of previous radiation therapy for other cancers. Wait, you guys want to treat a disease with the therapy that is thought to cause the disease? Perhaps there is something here that I am incapable of understanding but the logic escapes me.
After more reading I found this statement, "The use of radiation therapy following the removal of a fibro sarcoma is recommended but has not been proven to be of benefit as it relates to survival rates". And this, "the 5 year survival rate of those diagnosed with fibro sarcoma is 60%". 6 out of 10 people with this disease lived longer than 5 years after diagnosis. What is not said is how many died as a result of the disease.
Decision time. This may be the most selfish thing that I have ever done. I will not have radiation therapy. Once this huge hole in my back is healed I will return to living. I will return to work. I will once more ride my motorcycle like an idiot. I will fish and hunt and play golf, fibro sarcoma and medical experts be damned.
Regardless of when I die, be it tomorrow, next week, next month, next year or decades from now, it will not be fibro sarcoma that killed me, it will be living.
Medical professionals will line up around the block willing to tell you what you must do, as long as they are getting paid. The surgeon tells you that the tumor must be removed. Of course he gets paid to remove tumors. The radiation oncologist will tell you that you must have radiation therapy. He gets paid for providing that therapy. Everyone in the medical field has an opinion, all of which they will share with you, for a fee.
So, where do you go for advise? Family and friends, while great, offer little in the way of actual information. Everyone has a cancer story, whether it be themselves or someone they know. There are endless anecdotes about Aunt Marge and Uncle Willie who either did everything the doctors told them to or ignored all medical advise. The one thing that all the Aunt Marges and Uncle Willies have in common is that they all died, or will die.
I turned to the internet and began reading. Amazingly, there is a lot more information on soft tissue fibro sarcoma as it pertains to cats and dogs than there is about the disease in humans. No large studies have been done on humans with this form of cancer. The cancer help sites offer basic cancer information but very little about the actual disease. Mostly they link to support groups. I have no desire to hear others whine about themselves, I am doing enough whining of my own.
A biopsy of the tumor was "inconclusive". The biopsy was studied by three different pathologists, one located at Johns Hopkins University. The phrase the surgeon used was "it is probably not malignant". After the tumor was removed it was sent to three pathologists. Two of the three said benign. The third said fibro sarcoma. Terrific, even the experts disagree.
Now, every expert tells me that I need 30 radiation treatments. Five days a week for six weeks. When asked how many cases of fibro sarcoma they have dealt with every expert says "none". They have dealt with various sarcomas, just not this one. From my reading I have discovered that fibro sarcoma is thought to be a result of previous radiation therapy for other cancers. Wait, you guys want to treat a disease with the therapy that is thought to cause the disease? Perhaps there is something here that I am incapable of understanding but the logic escapes me.
After more reading I found this statement, "The use of radiation therapy following the removal of a fibro sarcoma is recommended but has not been proven to be of benefit as it relates to survival rates". And this, "the 5 year survival rate of those diagnosed with fibro sarcoma is 60%". 6 out of 10 people with this disease lived longer than 5 years after diagnosis. What is not said is how many died as a result of the disease.
Decision time. This may be the most selfish thing that I have ever done. I will not have radiation therapy. Once this huge hole in my back is healed I will return to living. I will return to work. I will once more ride my motorcycle like an idiot. I will fish and hunt and play golf, fibro sarcoma and medical experts be damned.
Regardless of when I die, be it tomorrow, next week, next month, next year or decades from now, it will not be fibro sarcoma that killed me, it will be living.
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