A short set of radiology treatments for me is in the planning stages. As soon as the radiologist completes the necessary calculations, etc., they will begin a 2-week (two consecutive 5-day sessions) series of treatments in an effort to eliminate or minimize pain associated with the spots on my spine. Yesterday, the oncologist’s nurse prescribed some very low-dose fentanyl patches that are applied to the skin and left for 3 days, then replaced with another patch for another 3 days. Laws (and/or treatment protocols) limit the strength of the initial prescriptions, but if necessary the strength can be increased over time. I hope the patches, which can be used to supplement the painkiller pills (or vice versa) prove effective. Time will tell.
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The post I began writing early this morning remains unfinished. It began as an effort to use comedic fiction to deaden the unpleasantness swirling around in my head. Instead, it evolved into a verbal Rorschach test that took a wide array of disconcerting directions. Two hours or more into it, I set it aside in the hope my head would clear, allowing a more appealing voice to leave its linguistic emotional mark on the screen. When I returned to it later this morning, my attempts to replace the dark smudges I had abandoned earlier grew into an even more dense and ominous layer. So, I gave up, surrendering to the reality that beating one’s head against the sharp edge of a guillotine blade is not a shortcut to serenity. And here I am. So, what can I say? Well, mi novia is at the pharmacy right now, picking up my pain-reduction patches. Earlier today, she took my car to have its windshield—damaged by a rock on the first of our unsuccessful trips to M.D. Anderson—replaced. And we’re expecting someone to come by later this afternoon to install our dishwasher, which could not be installed when delivered by Lowe’s because its original installation was considerably more involved than most “slide in” dishwasher installations. The installation is one of the dozens of things we need to have done by someone else because I am no longer sufficiently strong and agile to do it myself. The sense of worth that comes with the feeling that one can figure it out and get it done by oneself becomes vapor. I have never been the world’s most skilled handyman, but I’ve been able to wing it fairly well for most of my life. My confidence in my perseverance and in my physical capabilities has gone by the wayside. That’s the way of the world. There may have been a time when I mocked old men who were bitter about being unable to tie their own shoes without help. Now I think I am one.
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I saw some posts on Facebook this morning…or yesterday…about fresh, sweet Georgia peaches. Now, when I think about those posts, the glands in my neck urge me to drive to “peach country” to pick some peaches off the tree. But I might fall off the ladder while trying. Maybe I’ll order them online.
