Such an addiction is the side effect of our cancer. If you get a cancer diagnosis with a high success rate, chances are you're going to go with traditional Western medicine, place your entire being in the hands of the AMA, do your surgery, radiation and/or chemo route and travel through the Pit of Despair with reasonable certainty that you will come out on the other side with a future.
If, however, you get a diagnosis like ours you are pretty much on your own. Western medicine will still provide you with a Pit of Despair, you just don't get the road map to go with it. On your own, you either panic and fold or you go in search of Hope and Magic. Folding is for laundry and I'm not even good at that.
My addiction to placebos has reached a level of OCD.
The first was dietary. Absolutely nothing with growth hormones or antibiotics. Everything has to be made from scratch, without chemical preservatives, and I'm watching sodium levels. I'm doing everything I can to reduce sugar—it's only allowed in items I make from scratch that are so delectable as to be a religious experience, thereby providing a blessing that will override the negative aspects. The other allowance is chocolate because I'm convinced that in moderation the health benefits of chocolate cancel ANY negative effects of sugar. If anyone would like to fund the study, I'm happy to do the research.
I've upped the ante on herbals, researching and dosing foods and herbs that strengthen the liver without strengthening the cancer. He's wonderful about downing all the capsules I lay out for him every morning. It's more an art than a science. If doctors can “practice”, so can I.
I bought a Vita-Mix blender. THAT was a huge investment. Unfortunately, unless I can make the smoothie taste like Cindy's Margarita or Tina's strawberry milkshake, I've got a fight getting it down him. I have done run out of ways to hide wheat grass.
I bought a pressure cooker. Which has provided the added benefit of time savings as well as increased nutrition.
I pour E-Spring ™ filtered water in a Fibonacci carafe and set the carafe on a slab of Irish marble etched with four shamrocks. After the proper amount of time, it is mixed with Willard Water ™ and that container sits on a Reiki symbol. When he's in the hospital I schlep his water in as well as his food.
I nag, beg and plead for him to take his Protocel ™ as directed.
That's just oral consumption.
Rich always carries the four-leaf clovers Dr Everly gave him.
I bought a De-tox foot bath, and give him treatments regularly. I bought a Himalayan salt crystal lamp to detox the bedroom, and a Himalayan salt crystal heated foot rest. I bought a special UV light that my brother installed in the bedroom below the air condition to cleanse all the air that comes into the room through the unit. I've got an air purifier running in the living room.
My life long interest in aromatherapy has been ramped up to new levels. I work the reflexology and touch therapy to the full extent of my research. I orchestrate music and videos for all they're worth. I can practically recite every line from the Three Stooges, every Mel Brooks' and Christopher Guest's movies and The Princess Bride.
I spent $8,000 replacing carpeting with hardwood floors and countless hours striving to perfect the Fung Shui of this house. I bought a steam cleaner to achieve the best possible clean without chemicals.
I have bought three more books on Reiki, because despite having a Masters in Reiki, I might be missing something. I've bought more stones and crystals to place in the grid below my Reiki table. Because you can never have too much energy. I placed mustard seeds under the mattress of our bed. One for him and one for me.
Seriously. My placebo addiction has reached OCD proportions. I may not be able to fix this,but it won't be for lack of trying.
Now and then I come across a news story/theory that the cure for cancer has already been found, and then my brain shuts down as they launch into some conspiracy theory about why the cure is being withheld from the public... Whatever. Unless or until WalMart shuts down, and illegal drugs are legalized and taxed, cancer may be the fine thread that's holding our economy together. Between the AMA and the cottage industry of Hope packaged in placebos, cancer may be the silent driving force that ensures cash changing hands. Heaven knows I have spent a fortune on the placebos of cancer. And really, how is it any different from casinos and lotteries?
We're watching The Princess Bride for the umpteenth time as I write this. Rich's goal for this season's garage saling is to find a bellows like Miracle Max uses on Wesley because “he's not completely dead, just mostly dead.” I keep working on a “miracle pill coated in chocolate so it will go down easier”.
“I'm addicted to placebos. I'd give them up but it wouldn't matter.” --Steven Wright
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Grocery Shopping Part Deux
I sucked it up in the shower and we headed to the grocery store. Yes, I said we. Just go back and read the original blog on grocery shopping with Rich in a handicap cart and welcome to my Deja Vu. Difference being he was moving a bit faster this time and unfortunately, he was aware of the people around him being totally annoyed by his presence.
The man is not in the handicap cart because he's morbidly obese. He is visibly frail and obviously struggling. Give him a break.
A pair of (I'm guessing) nine and eleven year old girls are bouncing around him like Rich is an empty bench on the playground, grabbing things off the shelves and bumping into him while their dad strolls behind them making sure they get what's on the list, with no regard for their squealing antics. I'm at the end of the aisle behind them, watching, silently, focused on not jumping ugly. It took everything in me not to ram my cart into dad's ass with the same jolly fun his daughter's were enjoying.
Worse—adults in our age range were happily shopping and cutting him off and visibly displaying their disgust at his slow speed and frequent stops. At every turn there was more of the same. I was staying far enough behind him that people didn't connect that I was with him, so as we passed in the aisles they would roll their eyes and shake their heads like we shared the suffering of maneuvering around this man.
By the time we reached the check out I realized I was not embarrassed by Rich's efforts and I wasn't angry at strangers' responses to his efforts. For a brief moment I wondered if I just felt sorry for them..... No. That felt condescending, like they were somehow less than me because they aren't where I am. I realized I didn't have a word for how I felt about them. I felt happy for them and their innocence of where I am, and I felt sad for them for not having a clue. I know that probably doesn't make any sense, but like I said....my buddha doesn't speak.
I don't care anymore. I don't care if Rich's efforts to make his way through the grocery store brings the entire U.S. Economy to a screeching damn halt. I don't care if he commands the center of the aisle, or bumps into shelves, or disrupts displays. So roll your eyes, click your tongue and heave heavy sighs in our direction. I don't care. And I don't mean that in a defensive, petulant way. I mean that in the purest form and definition of those three words---I don't care.
I got him in the van, and loaded the groceries and I drove home without fretting about where we'd been or the mountain of tasks still ahead of me. Rich put some groceries in the fridge and then curled up on the couch. I keep putting one foot in front of the other. I've got dishes soaking and laundry going and I took a few minutes to write this just to purge. Mainly I wanted to offer a crumb of awareness.
Maybe that dad with two out of control squealing daughters is a single dad who works nights, and he's exhausted and doing the best he can. Maybe the retired couples in the stylish sportswear are struggling with life or each other or living between the demands of children and/or parents. Maybe we all just move through the grocery store in the pain and anonymity of our own existence. Maybe for everyone else a trip to the grocery store is just another task to be endured rather than a major adventure to be experienced, conquered and blogged.
Chop wood. Carry water. Today I'm hanging with my buddha.
The man is not in the handicap cart because he's morbidly obese. He is visibly frail and obviously struggling. Give him a break.
A pair of (I'm guessing) nine and eleven year old girls are bouncing around him like Rich is an empty bench on the playground, grabbing things off the shelves and bumping into him while their dad strolls behind them making sure they get what's on the list, with no regard for their squealing antics. I'm at the end of the aisle behind them, watching, silently, focused on not jumping ugly. It took everything in me not to ram my cart into dad's ass with the same jolly fun his daughter's were enjoying.
Worse—adults in our age range were happily shopping and cutting him off and visibly displaying their disgust at his slow speed and frequent stops. At every turn there was more of the same. I was staying far enough behind him that people didn't connect that I was with him, so as we passed in the aisles they would roll their eyes and shake their heads like we shared the suffering of maneuvering around this man.
By the time we reached the check out I realized I was not embarrassed by Rich's efforts and I wasn't angry at strangers' responses to his efforts. For a brief moment I wondered if I just felt sorry for them..... No. That felt condescending, like they were somehow less than me because they aren't where I am. I realized I didn't have a word for how I felt about them. I felt happy for them and their innocence of where I am, and I felt sad for them for not having a clue. I know that probably doesn't make any sense, but like I said....my buddha doesn't speak.
I don't care anymore. I don't care if Rich's efforts to make his way through the grocery store brings the entire U.S. Economy to a screeching damn halt. I don't care if he commands the center of the aisle, or bumps into shelves, or disrupts displays. So roll your eyes, click your tongue and heave heavy sighs in our direction. I don't care. And I don't mean that in a defensive, petulant way. I mean that in the purest form and definition of those three words---I don't care.
I got him in the van, and loaded the groceries and I drove home without fretting about where we'd been or the mountain of tasks still ahead of me. Rich put some groceries in the fridge and then curled up on the couch. I keep putting one foot in front of the other. I've got dishes soaking and laundry going and I took a few minutes to write this just to purge. Mainly I wanted to offer a crumb of awareness.
Maybe that dad with two out of control squealing daughters is a single dad who works nights, and he's exhausted and doing the best he can. Maybe the retired couples in the stylish sportswear are struggling with life or each other or living between the demands of children and/or parents. Maybe we all just move through the grocery store in the pain and anonymity of our own existence. Maybe for everyone else a trip to the grocery store is just another task to be endured rather than a major adventure to be experienced, conquered and blogged.
Chop wood. Carry water. Today I'm hanging with my buddha.
Failing to Arrive
Maybe it's just me, but I grew up believing there would come a time when I would Arrive. Stupid would be behind me and Wisdom and Experience would cloak me in Grace. Every step on my path was with that intention. I passed road signs that made me think I was Arriving....
I know what poison ivy looks like AND how to deal with it. I've learned enough about physics to know that anything with wheels is to be respected and if it has a motor, too---well damn, you'd just best be on your best behavior.
Judy Collins songs have entirely new meanings, and Paul Simon isn't really speaking to me personally.
I've learned my place on the planet and my responsibilities to Earth, and Her two-legged and four-legged children. (I'm still working on the legless ones that slither, but wholly shit I can't quite get there). With the exception of mosquitoes, I don't attack anything that bites me. I'm learning that “turning the other cheek” is not a sacrifice, it's a joy. I try every day to be a better person with random, occasional success. I speak less and with more sweetness. I fully embrace that Humility is NOT weakness, and Power is not a club but a gift to share with others. I'm getting better about where I lay my pearls and when I make a mistake I don't get pissed at the pigs.
So I've worked at all these things really hard and somewhere along the way I started wondering if maybe, just maybe I was close to arriving. Do I really, REALLY need any more BIG Lessons? You want to believe you've reached an age and understanding that will allow you to coast comfortably towards comfort. Which is not to say that I expected my end times to be easy. Just manageable.
Here's a tip. When the question “Am I There yet?” becomes the declaration “I have Arrived.” you have just so screwed yourself. You have a painted a HUGE bull's eye target on the top of your head, and there is nothing the gods enjoy more than humans who paint their own targets.
I thought I was still asking the question, but somewhere in the past couple of weeks I was so desperate for strength that I gave myself the pep talk that included the declaration--”you can do this....you've Arrived.” Well, Fuck me very much.
I went outside early this morning, properly attired and sprayed to brave the mosquitoes. I had a plan. I would NOT allow myself to be overwhelmed by the force of Nature and weeks of rain and neglect. I would eat the elephant one bite at a time. I would be Zen. I would be Winnie the Pooh himself. I would shut out the other voices and just listen to Otis. (my buddha doesn't speak, he just is). It would just be me and Otis and my buddha and we would pull weeds, carry water, and we would live in the moment.
I transformed the patio from the chaos it was into something very serene. The last step to perfection was to set up the fountain. This could be done with one major exception—lifting and positioning a huge granite stone into place and feeding the tubing through the hole so that the pump can spill water up and out and trickle into the pound providing both audio and visual esthetics sublime.
I actually spent 45 seconds considering if and how I could possibly accomplish this task without destroying my back so that I would never work or walk again. I gave up on that quickly and wisely and wandered aimlessly into the garden, cutting buds off garlic, pulling random weeds, applying supports to the heavily budded lilies. I was trying to stay Zen. I was trying to feel my buddha and listen to Otis. But the paths were screaming at me beneath the weeds that were choking them out. My beautiful stone and pebble paths that crunched softly and exquisitely beneath the feet. The plants are Richards. The paths were mine. I planned and built and groomed them as one does a prize rose. I bought solar lights to adorn the paths that are still in the box. Rich's plants and weeds have taken over and my paths are suffocating beneath them. In an instant Otis ran, I couldn't feel my buddha anymore and Sniffles was gearing up. (Scrapper and Comic observe the Sabbath so they're off today).
Used to be that my best friend was in the garden with me and we would shield each other from discouragement, and relish the endeavor and share the joy of our accomplishments. I have to dump on this blog because my best friend is occupied with his affair with cancer, poor man, and I am failing miserably at keeping his blessed garden in tact. Now I have to gear up to clean the house and attack the dishes and laundry, and the grocery store, so I can go back to work on Monday with the chaos subdued to a dull roar, and I have not Arrived at all.
As much as I could continue to wallow in this, it's 10:00 am, and if I don't get a move on I won't beat the Church people to the grocery store. Trust me, you do not want to be in the grocery store past noon on Sunday when the church people arrive and glide through the aisles with Holy entitlement to amazing levels of Rude that don't count because Jesus is their Savior. (Go back to sleep, Scrapper...)
Sometimes there's just nothing for it save a hot shower.
I know what poison ivy looks like AND how to deal with it. I've learned enough about physics to know that anything with wheels is to be respected and if it has a motor, too---well damn, you'd just best be on your best behavior.
Judy Collins songs have entirely new meanings, and Paul Simon isn't really speaking to me personally.
I've learned my place on the planet and my responsibilities to Earth, and Her two-legged and four-legged children. (I'm still working on the legless ones that slither, but wholly shit I can't quite get there). With the exception of mosquitoes, I don't attack anything that bites me. I'm learning that “turning the other cheek” is not a sacrifice, it's a joy. I try every day to be a better person with random, occasional success. I speak less and with more sweetness. I fully embrace that Humility is NOT weakness, and Power is not a club but a gift to share with others. I'm getting better about where I lay my pearls and when I make a mistake I don't get pissed at the pigs.
So I've worked at all these things really hard and somewhere along the way I started wondering if maybe, just maybe I was close to arriving. Do I really, REALLY need any more BIG Lessons? You want to believe you've reached an age and understanding that will allow you to coast comfortably towards comfort. Which is not to say that I expected my end times to be easy. Just manageable.
Here's a tip. When the question “Am I There yet?” becomes the declaration “I have Arrived.” you have just so screwed yourself. You have a painted a HUGE bull's eye target on the top of your head, and there is nothing the gods enjoy more than humans who paint their own targets.
I thought I was still asking the question, but somewhere in the past couple of weeks I was so desperate for strength that I gave myself the pep talk that included the declaration--”you can do this....you've Arrived.” Well, Fuck me very much.
I went outside early this morning, properly attired and sprayed to brave the mosquitoes. I had a plan. I would NOT allow myself to be overwhelmed by the force of Nature and weeks of rain and neglect. I would eat the elephant one bite at a time. I would be Zen. I would be Winnie the Pooh himself. I would shut out the other voices and just listen to Otis. (my buddha doesn't speak, he just is). It would just be me and Otis and my buddha and we would pull weeds, carry water, and we would live in the moment.
I transformed the patio from the chaos it was into something very serene. The last step to perfection was to set up the fountain. This could be done with one major exception—lifting and positioning a huge granite stone into place and feeding the tubing through the hole so that the pump can spill water up and out and trickle into the pound providing both audio and visual esthetics sublime.
I actually spent 45 seconds considering if and how I could possibly accomplish this task without destroying my back so that I would never work or walk again. I gave up on that quickly and wisely and wandered aimlessly into the garden, cutting buds off garlic, pulling random weeds, applying supports to the heavily budded lilies. I was trying to stay Zen. I was trying to feel my buddha and listen to Otis. But the paths were screaming at me beneath the weeds that were choking them out. My beautiful stone and pebble paths that crunched softly and exquisitely beneath the feet. The plants are Richards. The paths were mine. I planned and built and groomed them as one does a prize rose. I bought solar lights to adorn the paths that are still in the box. Rich's plants and weeds have taken over and my paths are suffocating beneath them. In an instant Otis ran, I couldn't feel my buddha anymore and Sniffles was gearing up. (Scrapper and Comic observe the Sabbath so they're off today).
Used to be that my best friend was in the garden with me and we would shield each other from discouragement, and relish the endeavor and share the joy of our accomplishments. I have to dump on this blog because my best friend is occupied with his affair with cancer, poor man, and I am failing miserably at keeping his blessed garden in tact. Now I have to gear up to clean the house and attack the dishes and laundry, and the grocery store, so I can go back to work on Monday with the chaos subdued to a dull roar, and I have not Arrived at all.
As much as I could continue to wallow in this, it's 10:00 am, and if I don't get a move on I won't beat the Church people to the grocery store. Trust me, you do not want to be in the grocery store past noon on Sunday when the church people arrive and glide through the aisles with Holy entitlement to amazing levels of Rude that don't count because Jesus is their Savior. (Go back to sleep, Scrapper...)
Sometimes there's just nothing for it save a hot shower.
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