Letter From Dad: To Aubrey

Sent: Wed 12/28/05 11:50 AM

Aubrey,
My computer sorta froze up not long after I sent you that email last night. I had to unplug it to get it to shut down. Until I did that the computer wouldn't function and the phone line was tied up and unusable. It's not a good idea to just unplug a computer because some data may be lost. Fortunately, nothing seems to be wrong with it today.
There are a few chores to do here for Gma. Getting things ready for the cold, freezing winter. Covering waterpipes and faucets, checking rain gutters, covering special treasures exposed to the elements, etc. Getting the chicken pen more comfortable for her 2 hens is almost done. I moved it up into the front garden area and the hens are having a great time scratching around thru the raised planter beds.
The Mercedes is ready to go except for the battery not keeping a charge very well. If I use jumper cables to start it, it will restart fine as long as it doesn't set too long before attempting to restart. Otherwise it will only groan and click. Will have to buy a new one before the trip. Either Costco or Walmart. Diesel vehicles require a much more powerful battery than the standard vehicle. So, more expensive. Sure don't want to have battery problems twenty miles outside of Baker or Primm. I got the first hint of battery problems the day I was trying to leave for Calif. from Rachel's parking lot on my last visit. Heidi had to help jump-start my car in the parking lot with her truck. Twice.
There is a rain storm here for the next 3 - 4 days. Temps are in the 30s to 40s.
Gma seems a bit sad that I'm leaving. She is very happy every time she comes home and finds me still here. The other women at her work are either sick or visiting with family so Gma is expected to fill in for them and make sure the DR's office runs smoothly. She is working every day and the days are long. Normally there are 3 to 4 women in the office. Today they are down to one other lady besides Gma and the other lady is complaining about her husband being sick and she is not feeling well. Gma is as stable as a rock, always reliable and faithful. She is a special and a great woman. She certainly deserves many blessings now and in the hereafter. We attended church at her ward on Christmas Day.
Well, better go. Things to do and I have to go to Sonora to see where my money is before I can even leave for UT.
Love you, (and your sisters)

dAd

Rex's Version of Success, 2003

Sent:	Sat 4/19/03 1:34 PM
To:	idispatch4911

Cool,
Maybe we will have to take the boat out for a spin and some fishing if the weather is pleasant. Bring your 'boomstick' and we'll "drill some holes" at the range, the indoor one on Yosemite Ave. here in Motown and the Gun Club range in Jamestown.

I sure feel better after a good nights sleep. Just slept until I wanted to get up. Woke once during the night and took a pill then went back to sleep. Refreshed today. Usually have more restless nights than last night. Am starting the process of scaling back about 25% on my meds. I am really getting tired of basing how much work I can do on the pill intake. Have done this before. I know when I have reached the point to where I'm overdoing the work based on the meds helping me to feel I can do more work. It can become an ever increasing cycle of pill taking, so time to scale back.

Rest more. After all, I'm not in my 20's anymore and can't work at the pace of a 20 or 30 year old.

The theory for becoming a success is "Find a NEED and fill it".
What I need to do is hire Mexicans. haha. That is what everybody else that is really making it in this business is doing. Housing is certainly a "need". Here is the formula that is working for the construction industry :



1. Hire truckloads of Mexican or any cheap labor to do the work. Doesn't matter what 10 to 15% of the work looks like or how badly it is done, just keep cranking it out. This small percentage of loose ends created by the cheap labor will be dealt with by step 2:

2. Hire a nucleus of 'key' guys, good at problem solving. One guy, particularly good at Supervising/Delegating. A Leader. Under this 'leader' there is a need for someone that can be creative enough to fix the screw ups the 'cheap labor' created. This creative position may be 1 to 3 individuals, maybe each with their own specialties. Pay these 'key' guys more to keep them around and happy. These guys are also the eyes and ears for the Leader. There needs to be a loyalty within this nucleus.

3. Turn out a product that meets the minimum acceptable standards for the industry you are involved in. Always make sure your product hovers around these minimum standards. No flashes of brilliant ingenuity accepted unless it can be cashed in on somehow thru a marketing campaign. Remember ... the bottom line.

4. Have a willing, sheep-like people with tolerable credit ratings and an unquenchable desire to feed their own egos and every whim with 'the latest' or the newest' fad or fashion. They want to show off their acquired possessions to their envious friends and neighbors/co-workers. In their own minds, they must 'feel' as if they are doing better everyday. They must get more, every day, every paycheck. More stuff. Newer stuff. Once acquired, there is the need to 'store' this new stuff.

This is easily resolved by upgrading one's housing situation. What is needed is more space. Buying homes with three car garages and extra bedrooms can resolve the dilemma. This added square footage can be turned into guest rooms, media/music rooms, hobby rooms, sitting rooms, reading rooms, display rooms, etc.

In earlier times, say 50, 100 or 200 years ago, this country's backbone was the family. The big family. In a one or two room house. The living, sleeping and dining quarters were all found within the same square footage. Multipurpose rooms. Great families with large numbers of children were raised without the benefit of each having their own room or 'space'. They learned to share because it was essential. There was no other way.

Today, if people would only cut down on the number of children they feel they need, to have a 'complete family'. Hey, that also frees up a room for 'stuff'. If there is a void felt by not having that one additional child, this can be rectified by the addition of a pet. Usually a dog. These animals tend to be interactive with the humans in the house. They can sometimes be trained to not damage too many of the acquired items that are in storage or on display. They tend to require less maintenance than a child and are less costly. They are not inexpensive, just cost less to maintain than a child.

Goldfish and cats are sometimes chosen as the preferred pet. These are much less interactive. Personally, I found that watching goldfish for a few minutes after a crazy day to be therapeutic.

It is not known why people have cats for pets. Having had the experience of being a husband and father for about 16 years, I saw no need to have a pet who also ignored me.


Whoa, sorry Rachel. I went thru a stream of consciousness thing.... This could be an essay with more work on it.

Love dAd

As A Writer: A Chemo Update (September 2004)

Date: Fri, 17 Sep 2004 03:22:58 -0400
Subject: An update...


When we agree to sign a contract to purchase a home, we know that we will be making a payment every month of every year for 20, 30 or more years. That's if we don't fiddle with things. You know what I mean. Refinancing just to bail our butts out of a self inflicted mess.

Similarly, purchasing a vehicle, new or used, requires us to stick our necks out, or exercise our faith in our future ... and commit for a prescribed period of time to pay incrementally for the use of a source of transportation. If you read the fine print carefully, for the most part, it is "cut and dried". The quality of the vehicle you picked and whether it will last the entire contract is where your neck's vulnerability and your faith ... face off with each other.

When it comes to ongoing medical care there appears to be no agreements or contracts where one feels as if there is guaranteed progress being made towards an end.



After five chemo treatments, I kept thinking I was near the end of treatments just because the doctor says there would be 6 treatments. Not so.



Once I had experienced one complete cycle of outpatient chemo and it's side effects, earlier this summer, I figured I could handle it. To me, a complete cycle is from the start of the treatment (whether a day or a series of days) all the way to just before the next "start" of a treatment. The period of time right after being released from the clinic as an outpatient (3 to 6 hours of treatment) or ... the hospital as an inpatient (4 to 6 days of treatment) can be from two to three weeks before another treatment is scheduled. At least mine is.

This time period is when the side effects make their presence known. The list of possible side effects is almost too long to type so I won't. Extreme fatigue is the most notable ... unless you are experiencing nausea. Then I guess nausea would certainly be more in the forefront of one's mind. Some of the drugs suggest side effects of constipation and diarrhea. How those two can be listed in the same sentence was a puzzle to me until I had the experience. Like the swinging of a pendulum, the two side effects ravage me for days, every cycle. Toss in the aforementioned fatigue..., some "long bone pain" from the over workings of an injected drug administered to stimulate the bone marrow to speed up blood manufacturing to combat anemia..., shortness of breath, the heart pounding for no reason, and the fact that every single little "ouchy" tends to get infected, starts to add up. Every day becomes a swim in Lake "Me".

I did realize there would be accumulative effects and they would have to be dealt with. It seems that just before another treatment, I tend to feel at my best. Not my very best but the best I can expect. The effects of radiation or chemotherapy tend to leave one feeling a bit worse than the last cycle. I noticed this each time but all in all, I felt I was up to it by the time the next treatment was scheduled.

But, believe me, I don't take it lightly. There is a degree of fear, and trying to muster the courage to go in for treatment is difficult when there is a certainty of experiencing fatigue, nausea and pain for days at a time. Tears might be shed. There is a feeling of life not being fair.

When there is a change in the course of treatment, it leaves you wondering. Half way through my series of chemo treatments the doctor suddenly changed my schedule from this nice outpatient series of treatments ... to ones which required me to spend days in a hospital, enduring round the clock administering of drugs and other "pokings and proddings" usually inflicted upon me by nurses.



Nurses... ahhh! Angels of Mercy? ... or Inflictors of Torment. Definitely their services are necessary. All I know is there are three shifts of them coming to the hospital, showing up like fresh troops. Before the tired troops pass the baton on to the next shift, they are comparing notes called 'taking report'. As a patient, one does not get to refresh much. You tend to feel as though you are "pinned down" in a firefight. There is always one coming in, moving the curtains, asking too many questions, disturbing my erratic sleep or my attempts at bathing or toiletries.

At 11 PM and 1 AM I'm awakened to be given pills. At 3 AM someone from the lab comes in to draw blood. I'm too tired to ask why they want to draw a sample from each arm. Isn't it all the same? It makes no sense and seems to be a painful dream but in the morning there will be more bandages on each arm.

They want to weigh you at 4 AM and when I protest that I will still weigh the same at 8 AM they just roll their eyes, holding the scale in front of me which looks more like a big handtruck with a digital readout on it. Just after drifting off again another nurse-type will come in and check my blood pressure and temp.

They will bring you food, then ask why you didn't eat it. They will ask why you haven't "peed" enough and why you aren't drinking enough. I was asked if I'd "pooped", "poo-pooed", "had a movement", or, "moved my bowels" at least once a day by various nurses. Imagine one of them opening the bathroom door just as you've settled onto the throne, attempting to relax a bit. Suddenly seeing a 350 LB nurse at that indelicate moment does nothing to aid in the attempt. They have free reign and appear to be calloused to private moments.

When an even larger nurse comes to your bedside, you start to get the impression that they find new nurses at the Stockton shipyards and that that there is an over abundance of stevedores, or Lumpers, as they are known in the trucking industry.

When she asks if I'd like to get cleaned up, I hesitate. Mostly because I was trying to read what her tattoo said. When she offers to wash my back, I'm too afraid to say anything to stir her to anger. I submit, fearful that she is still so fresh off the docks she may treat my tender backside like a big crate on the dock needing to be moved, have some paint stripped or a sticker removed.

Then occasionally there is the nurse ... fresh off the banana boat. Communication, no matter how simple, is a problem. I worry about them reading things correctly. A young Hispanic guy, Raymundo, comes in to ask me some questions. He's dressed like a male nurse and his credit card sized name tag offers enough info that he has earned some capital letters to be placed after his name. I think about how hard or easy it is to get a fake name tag with fake letters after the name. It's not hard to picture him wearing a huge Raiders jersey and a bandana, short pants that end at the calf and some $200 sport shoes. There is a whole list of things that the hospital wants to know about me and my medical history and Raymundo is here to extract it from me, one way or another.

Raymundo is new to America or at least the English speaking North American continent. He is probably as articulate in English as I was in high school Spanish, where I was very fortunate that the Spanish teacher, who was also my baseball coach gave me a token C grade inspite of the fact I probably didn't deserve it. It was the only way the teacher could keep me on the team. He really needed a third baseman who could also pitch middle relief, if necessary and by the end of the season was batting .411.

Anyway, Raymundo kept stumbling over the words, pronouncing (or "slaughtering" is another word that comes to mind) this list of medical history terms. Did I wear eye glasses? Did I wear contact lenses? Dentures? Pacemaker? Any major surgeries? All said with a heavy, broken accent. It reached it's peak when he was asking me about my hair piece. Almost with the frustration of someone attempting to use bad sign language, I was telling him my hair was gone because of the chemotherapy and I could grow a fine head of hair normally. Again he asks about a hair piece. Again I try to explain about chemo. After he asks for a third time I realized he was asking about ... "HERPES". Sadly, by the time Raymundo is done asking (or axxing) me the list, my blood pressure has risen and I'd like to throw him out of the room.



My most recent stay in the hospital started the day after Labor Day. I was expecting to stay for 6 days, just like the last time, which would have kept me there until that Sunday evening. I was admitted at 2 PM and was not even hooked up to any drug until 9 PM. Seven wasted hours. They didn't even send in my dinner. Missing a hospital meal is something to feel fortunate about, so no great loss but I'll never get that seven hours back.

Wednesday evening until Friday afternoon was my most nauseating experience yet. There was no eating during those days and in fact the very smell of food could set me off. As he does every day I'm in, this Friday afternoon Dr. Mehdi came in to see me. He said there was no reason to stay another day and I could be released that day as long as I took the last of my chemo in pill form. I was thrilled but as we talked I mentioned this being my last treatment.

He said," Oh no, my friend. You have many treatments ahead of you." I was stunned. Many? How many? I thought there were going to be six. I distinctly heard the number six.

He said we could talk more about it at the next office visit which we set up for the following Wednesday. He said we'd also talk about the transplant.



"TRANSPLANT?!?!' I asked. My mind races to think about which organ might be aching and therefore failing. Kidneys? Liver? The side effects info even mentioned heart damage from the drugs.

"Yes. Haven't I mentioned the transplant?" He asked. We discussed bone marrow transplants for just a minute.



The entire weekend, my imagination was going crazy about bone marrow transplants. I'd had a bone marrow biopsy that I'll never forget. My family and many friends all were more than willing to offer themselves for such a procedure in my behalf.

Wednesday, Dr. Mehdi explained that I'd be most likely going to Stanford or UC San Francisco for the transplant(s), or at least these institutions would be involved somehow.

I said there was a long line of family and friends willing to submit to a donor program. He said that was not exactly what was in mind. He said the problem with others donating to someone in my condition is that 3 out of 10 recipients of such donations are dead within a month. Not the donors, the recipient. That's not very acceptable numbers to me.

Dr. Mehdi said we'd be trying a "RESCUE" of my own bone marrow which would be removed and cleaned. Then I would receive very heavy doses of chemo in an attempt to kill all my existing bone marrow. Then my own, now "cleaned" bone marrow would be transplanted back into me. Hmmm.

I asked how good the process was of "cleaning" my already infected bone marrow. I believe he said it was 'pretty good'. I can't remember his exact word. I wish I could.



Dr. Mehdi scheduled another dose of outpatient chemo at his clinic for 8:30 AM Monday the 27th of Sept. Then the next day, the 28th I enter the hospital for the remainder of the week. More good food ... sassy nurses ... hospital roommates ... and memories.



I haven't mentioned the people that I share the room with. No matter how bad I have felt during my stays at St. Joseph's in Stockton. Whether it be late at night, midday, or in the wee hours of the morning. Hearing the moans and groans of my roommates helps me to realize that no matter how I feel, at least I don't sound as bad as things are in the next bed. For that, I am grateful.

Apparently, in the Grand Scheme of Things... I am supposed to be learning something during this ordeal. Being humbled for some as yet unknown reason. Maybe so I can have greater insight and compassion into...uh, maybe the suffering of others? I don't know that I am really learning any great, deep, secret of the universe type thing yet. No great promptings except to maybe get my affairs in order. Make another hard run at my genealogy. Have another talk with the non LDS members of my family. Squeeze in another trip in between treatments to see my kids.

I will say I have managed to cultivate an incredible assortment of supportive friends over the years. Many have done more for me than I can ever repay. For this I feel very blessed.

Sorry I just burned up the last 15 minutes for you. Have a great day and hug your family. Do something fun with them this weekend.



Rex

Rex the Pack-Rat: Yahoo Answers

Question asked: What foods should I get rid of in a pantry moth infestation?

Answer by McBrex:

Sometimes, the idea of throwing otherwise usable food away seems wasteful. Especially if you are looking at large quantities. You certainly do need to get things under control. After the cleaning of the cabinetry, I've had good luck with re-packaging the items then freezing for fairly long periods of time in the deep freeze. If there's room, that is. The freezing process will end most life cycles. Gross as it may seem, you can still use many grain based products unless you allow the "Princess Factor" to stay in your head. If you are too queasy about it and the idea of minor issues with insects being in your food is repulsive, that's your call. There are some things I'll just decide I can tolerate. But then I'm a bachelor. There's probably impurities or bugs in it we couldn't see anyway when we brought it home from the store.

Essay by Rex: August 2004

The Lumps...

I first noticed it in the shower in 1993 while performing the normal exploratory functions with a sudsy washcloth and a spray of water. That walnut sized lump in the right armpit was an instant attention getter. I knew it was more than an ingrown hair because it appeared to be deeper, larger and closer to the upper ribcage. It was firm and there was no soreness. It was something that I'd keep track of almost subconsciously afterwards like one might keep checking a chipped tooth or an ugly hair growing out of a mole on one's face.

I even had Hurricane feel the lump. Hey, she was a registered nurse and certainly more familiar with the anatomy than I was. For all I knew it was a collection of old pizza stored in a humongous fat cell. Her advice was to have a doctor check it out. Good advice from someone who hadn't as yet earned the nickname I would later give her.

My visit with the surgeon, who was also head of the large medical group next to the large medical center in town was less than I expected. A quick exam by him and he said I shouldn't worry about it. If it bothered me, he was willing to remove it. At the time I did not see it as a threat although I was having some strength, muscle control and numbness problems with that arm and shoulder. Two years later, in 1995, the two symptoms would be linked by two surgeries performed within 3 weeks of each other. That first surgeon's casual lack of concern for the lump would become a costly oversight. To me, not him.

Anyway, I figured if he wasn't worried, then I shouldn't be worried. I equated it with me being at his house on a home repair call. If I advised him to get the dry rot fixed ... he would consider it. If I said not to worry, that it appeared to be dormant or already treated and under control somehow, then maybe he wouldn't worry. ( Maybe the analogy doesn't work but I tried.)

Note: I don't mean for this to be a "lump by lump" description of my medical history ... like a sports announcer describes the back and forth pounding two boxers dish out on each other. I really am trying to set up an experience that took place last year which rattled my comfort zones and someone else's.

During 2001, another lump started ... in my throat this time, below the jaw line, left side. Pea sized at first, I grew a beard to hide it as it got visibly noticeable. Dumb, You say? You're probably right.

There was no money for health insurance as I was dealing with the District Attorney's Family Support Division office who didn't like deadbeats to get behind in child support. Stiff penalties are meted out to those who mock the system or genuinely don't have the kind of money coming in to support two separate households. I know this through experience.

The summer of 2002 my employer offered me medical coverage which I jumped at. After locating a good primary care physician (PCP) that autumn, I was set up with a surgeon to do a biopsy, labs and eventually my PCP referred me to the oncologist. Radiation followed over the holidays of 2002/2003. Then it was "sit and wait" to see if the diagnosed lymphoma would respond.

As you might imagine, I had by this time begun to equate "lumps" as being ... problematic, ...prone to painful procedures ... and costly. I tried to be aware of any new lumps that might show up. Last year one did and I was not thrilled with it's location.

Setting up an appointment with one's PCP isn't difficult until the young lady on the phone starts asking too specific questions about the reason for making the appointment.

"Well, uh, I've located another lump." Now she doesn't know me from any other male caller she's dealt with that day but gives me a day and time.

Once in the exam room, days later, the anxiety is ramped up a bit. A nurse takes the vitals and asks what I am seeing the doctor for.

"A lump. I have a history of them."

"Where is it?"

"Uhhh, the...uh... (my high school biology and anatomy terminology is a bit rusty) ...the scrotum."

She makes a note, quickly mentions the doctor will be right in and leaves. I am not anymore comfortable when Dr. Yee comes in, asks the reason for the visit, and asks me to drop my pants to check things out. I jokingly tell him it seems that I have gained another 'family jewel'. The rubber gloves go on and he says that considering my history, this needs to be checked out by a sonogram at the hospital. He would set one up. He asks if I've had a prostate exam lately, plunging me into a near state of panic which I tried not to show.

"Nope. Never had one". I was just about to turn 49.

He said "Let's do it." Apparently I hesitated because he asked if I wanted to think about it a little. I really did want to get the heck out of there but had already passed thru a couple levels of comfort zones. Refusing ... and having to go thru this again just to be probed seemed dumb. After all, I had showered before coming, Mom would be proud that I was wearing clean underwear, and at the moment they were around my ankles anyway ... Go for it.

Assuming the position, I was surprised that there was no foreplay but, in retrospect, didn't know what foreplay might consist of during such a procedure. He said it felt fine. I said that was only his opinion, not mine. He said to be glad he didn't have larger fingers. I was just glad it was over but for the rest of the day it felt like I'd been in to Quik Lube for their $49 oil change and lube job special.

Arriving at the hospital for the sonogram had me a bit stressed. I had also heard the word 'ultrasound'. Someone was gonna be checking out "my boys" with a machine I was unfamiliar with ... and taking pictures besides. Sure, the machine had been rolled around on my wife's belly during pregnancies but that was a much bigger target. The procedure never did show a little guy with a 'johnson' in those pictures. I had fathered all daughters. I was also worried about just how photogenic I might be.

My name was called after signing in and I began following a cute little brunette, 27ish with very long hair, down the halls towards wherever this was going to take place.

"Hi, my name is Kiersten." followed by a bit of small talk. The small talk was hers, not mine. I was busy passing thru mental comfort zones as we walked. Some doctor guy would soon be taking my picture and it wasn't going to be a "glamour shot" either.

She looked at the clipboard and said "Ok, we are going to be taking an ultrasound of your....... skuh......(a pause)... skuh...rotum." All I could say was "You?" Now, if this had been a blind date I'd be thrilled, but it wasn't ... and I wasn't. Apparently she wasn't either.

She was very professional as she reviewed with me the steps of the procedure about to be done, maybe for her own benefit as well as mine. Neither of us really wanted to be there at that moment.

The machine was turned on and there was a blanket of sorts for modesty. She produced some towels and a lubricating gel, warmed for comfort. Awkward attempts were made to let her have the best angle with the handheld scanner being rolled over my privates. My focus was to think very generic thoughts and not react to stimulation. I succeeded in spite of everything mentioned.

After about 10 minutes of searching for the '3rd jewel' she admitted she wasn't having any luck and it wasn't showing up on the monitor. I said it tended to make itself more available when I was standing rather than lying down. This was a problem. She then asked if I "could find it" and help her to locate it. So now my hand, her hand, warm lubricant and a wand thingy was down there. The comfort zones whipped by like traffic signs on a freeway.

Eventually, it appeared on the monitor and she was getting the pictures. She then said a doctor or someone else should look at this. 'No snickering' was a request I thought to myself. She left and soon a tech guy or doctor type with a white smock came in, studied the monitor a couple minutes and said they'd better try to get some color pictures of what they were seeing. I think to myself "they can do that? take color pictures? I couldn't imagine. Maybe I misunderstood. They both left... (for some instamatic film from Walmart perhaps?) Then she came back in to finish up the new series of pictures.

She offered me the towels and apologized for the mess she made. By that time I'd been celibate for almost ten years and I may have forgotten some things. To break the tension ... an "R" rated question popped into my mind. "Did we just have sex?" ...Gosh, I'm glad I didn't ask it out loud.

I've been writing these experiences partly for my own therapeutic reasons, maybe to gripe or to vent. Sometimes to just to enjoy laughs with those who read them. I also wish to offer these experiences to educate readers of the challenges one may go thru in the grind of medical procedures. A diagnosis may take many return trips to a doctor who will order tests before something might be found. Keep after it.

A casual conversation with Craig Ewert once re: 'lumps' and the one he found is something to get checked out. He did and I'm glad for his sake and for that of his family.

My advice is to take any lump you may find or other symptom seriously. Also, in my case a second initial opinion may have saved me a lot of grief or at least gotten me an earlier diagnosis.

Something else which may have aided me and the doctors in finding lumps sooner would be to watch your weight. If you get too portly, the lumps from consuming pizza, burgers, that late night dish of spumoni ice cream ... or even your wife's RS homemaking night inspired good cooking may hide that lump that isn't merely a fatty tissue deposit. (Whew, sorry for the long sentence.)

Now that my diagnosis has been fine tuned a bit from Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma in general to Mantle Cell Lymphoma I told my oldest daughter Rachel just what I had. She did a search on Google and called me back a day later giving me a few details of what it was. She was not very cheery about it but we had a good conversation. One of those daddy/daughter conversations that I cherish. That night I looked at 2 or 3 websites dedicated to MCL. It came close to crushing my positive outlook on the treatments.

My doctor has not mentioned anything like how much time is left but early on he said people live for years with this condition. That would be comforting except for the fact that I already have been living with it for years. More or less since '93. Just where on the timeline am I?

I will say that the treatments are most unpleasant but I can deal with them. The increase of swelling in different areas is distressing. Painful. This disease will eventually get me, I guess. Everyone dies from something. I know that my attitude and the faith and prayers of my friends and family will sustain me for however long I'm supposed to be here. Only Heavenly Father knows how many more years of Scouting I am going to see. Or if I'll live to see grandchildren. How many buckets of KFC I will get to buy or the number of worms I'll drown not catching fish.

I have all the confidence anyone can have in my doctor, Dr. Mehdi. A really great, kind man. Eventually, relying on medicine though, is a bit like relying on "the arm of flesh" isn't it? Any thoughts?

I have not been writing much in the past months. I am not in a concise groove of wordy expression yet. I promise to be more brief. I really need to get back to chronicling all the cranky nurses I get to contend with. All these treatments expose me to plenty. Somehow I just bring it out in nurses. Dr. Mehdi put me in the hospital for 5 days the last week of July. The nurses outvoted him and decided I should leave after 4 days. I couldn't have agreed more.

Rex H. McBride

Sunday, Aug. 8, 2004

Dad's Testimony - Sent May 2005

Dear Rachel, Aubrey and Heidi,

Hi girls,

It's getting late Sunday evening and I'm pretty tired of deleting junk email.

I just wanted to tell each of you girls before I go into this next 2 months of medical unpleasantness that I really love each of you. You each have talents and strengths I admire. Each of you are good people, fun to be around, with much to offer others. You each are a credit to society and to the McBride and Carson families. I'm proud that each of you is striking out on your own to live life, develop your talents and skills and be more rounded personalities. You'll each have challenges ahead but that's what makes life interesting.

I've often wished we could have grown up closer together, had a more gospel based family life and that we'd have logged many more hours, days and years of experiences together by now. This has been a gnawing regret in my life and really don't know where I could have done things differently under the circumstances we faced (except to have been a better example of what a husband, dad and a priesthood holder should be). I have always wanted to be closer to each of you. You each should have had better. My hope is that what you've been through will not sour you too much as you face the challenges of adulthood. I'm proud that each of you will watch out for each other.

I go into these medical procedures buoyed by the strength I feel from each of you. It may be a bit selfish but I want many more memories with each of you, individually and together. I go into the UC Davis Medical Center willing to face all they can throw at me ... and more, if necessary to be able to see you girls farther into your adult years.

If, though for some reason things don't come out the way we expect, I must say this one thing. There were a couple of things I did correctly in relation to you. Your Mom and I saw to it that you were blessed and given names as infants in the Lord's Church by proper priesthood authority. I entered the waters of baptism with each of you and used my priesthood authority to perform that most sacred of saving ordinances. It is so critically important an ordinance that even Jesus, the most perfect person to ever walk the face of this earth sought out someone with the proper priesthood authority (John the Baptist) and submitted himself to be baptized. Any question or doubt how important the ordinance is?

I laid my hands on each of your heads and confirmed you each members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. You were each given the gift of the Holy Ghost, a gift to use as you see fit. Live by the gospel teachings and the gift will be a great blessing in your lives. Your conscience is the "Light of Christ" mentioned in the scriptures. Ignore it and the gift will fade away little by little. But, if you call upon it, it can be a help and a companion to you in times of making personal decisions or even in times of danger. Nurture it as if you would nurture a seed to grow and it will be a guide and bloom into something of great worth throughout your lives. These ordinances were the best things I could have helped you to experience. They were not gifts I could offer to you myself. I have no power myself except that I was ordained to be able to do these things by the power of the Holy Priesthood.

Heidi mentioned once that she could barely remember the experience of baptism and so felt it had little meaning for her. She has a good point, and it is a fair and understandable observation. I happen to remember mine because I was 14 and a half when I was baptized.

At the age of eight it could be very easy to be just doing what the family considered acceptable. As your parents, we should have helped Heidi (or each of you) to better appreciate what she was going to experience. That she was baptized at 8 years old and the divorce took place when she was 9 years old tells us that other stresses were on each of us and we perhaps "dropped the ball" in guiding her at a critical time.

We all got "beat up" in the divorce in one way or another. It does not however make Heidi's baptism or anyone else's less valid. Each of us still has the responsibility to guard our membership in the Lord's Church by living the Commandments to the best of our ability. We all will stumble and we all can resolve to do better. It's part of the repentence process.

You've heard these words before but they are nevertheless just as true. There is a true church on the earth. A church that is guided and organized the way Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would have it done. Joseph Smith was, and is the prophet who was the Savior's representantive on earth to do the job.

There is a man living today who serves us as the current prophet for our times. Gordon B. Hinckley.

If we keep an ear to the Lord's prophet today, we can be assured of not being lead astray from the critically important things in this life.

The Book of Mormon is a true record of a people who lived centuries ago on this American continent. It is a record of God's dealings and teachings to these ancient people through prophets who left their words and testimonies for us to consider. If you have any doubt about whether the Book is factual, you are offered a promise and challenge to find out for yourselves of it's truthfulness. I've accepted Moroni's challenge (Moroni 10:3-5) many years ago and know for myself. I may not be the best example of how to live a righteous life but I know it's true.

I challenge each of you girls to become familiar with the Book of Mormon. Take Moroni at his word and find out for yourselves what all the commotion is about. It's either true or it's not. If it's not, if all this true church stuff is a lie, Heavenly Father will warn you off such a crazy book. If it is true, (and you find this out by reading, pondering and praying to find out) it will be the most important discovery in your entire lives.

Love always,

dAd

Rex the Gardener: Yahoo Answers

I recently found this answer Dad wrote for a question someone asked on Yahoo Answers about saving tomato seeds to plant for the next season. I found it interesting.

Written in 2008

Question: Is it possible to save tomato seeds for later planting?

Answer by McBrex:

Yes, I've done this. Saved some seeds from tomatoes I've especially enjoyed the flavor, texture, or size of. I've done this even from restaurants. I'll simply wrap some seeds up in a paper napkin, writing basic info on the who, what, where, when characteristics of the fruit and put it in a zip lock bag. Then keep it with my other seeds and garden supplies. If the tomato is an old standard variety, sometimes known as an "heirloom" you should have success. If the tomato is of a hybrid variety, you will be disappointed. The plant will grow... it may bloom... and even bear fruit but chances are the tomato will be different from what you remember the dining experience being. You will have invested a lot of time, energy and garden space for not much of a payoff. Whole cherry or plum sized, salad bar varieties have worked for me. One variety I loved would grow as a volunteer every year in my garden. It would just be in a different spot, where ever the seeds had ended up during fall clean up. I'd have to keep an eye out for the little plants while prepping the soil each spring.

At my craziest, I had 30 tomato plants growing, several varieties. After a while my neighbors didn't even want to answer their door because I was giving away bags full. You may be bordering on being a nut... like me about gardening.

Information Source(s):

Sites? Well, my garden sites at my various homes over the last 54 years. Credit or blame goes to my mom who, in her mid 70s still needs to "garden" every year. She made me help in the garden as a kid. Guess I caught the bug from her. I still have to help her which is fun. Then there's my own garden if there's time and also help my grown oldest daughter who is a gardening nut when not caring for her one year old twin daughters. Her husband doesn't speak 'garden' like some of us.

Letter From Dad: Favorite Movies and Haircuts (January 2003)

Hey. I saw an ad on TV at the Wandviks last night. TNT channel... whatever that is. Ted Turner? A new (made for TV) movie spread over 3 nights...

"from the makers of LONESOME DOVE"

Starring...

Tom Selleck, Isabella Rossilini......... then one of the Wandvik kids screamed and I took my eyes off the screen. Never did see or hear the name of it. But the Cowboy Western flavor of the ad was intriguing. Check out if you can find it.

Your Mom always liked Tom Selleck in Magnum P.I. ........Hence, that is why when I was asked 'how I wanted my hair?' by whomever was cutting my hair, my response was to make it look like Tom Selleck. It never worked.
Why is it that when a female went in and asked for a Princess Di, or a Jennifer Aniston cut or whoever is the current trend of the week ... THAT is what they get. By the way, just what IS the current trend?

Back in the day, during the married years, I'd ask for a "Tom" and all I get is a stare. Even now, younger hairstylists just ask "Who?" Explaining 'who' Magnum P.I. was, becomes a problem for most hairbabes mid 20s or younger. Don't these gum chewing, tattooed, over-coiffed, over-pierced, and sometimes over fed 'professional' mallrat hairstylists ever watch daytime TV? I know Magnum is still on somewhere. I know he is more "OUT" than Hootie and the Blowfish but just who is "in" these days? Enrique Iglesias? Is he in? Ricky Martin? Him? Tom Cruise? I don't even get a "Tom" Cruise haircut offered to me.

Would I get a better cut if I asked for a BRAD PITT? Then, would my guy friends come up to me at the construction site and say "Oh, you got a Brad cut. It looks dreamy." ....I DON'T THINK SO.

I guess I should be just glad that my hair is shorter when they are done with me, and that I'm not bleeding anywhere.

whoa..... sorry Rachel... I almost went off on a tangent. It's good that I caught myself before doing any real harm.
Better close and say I love you. (and your sisters too)

dAd

Unposted Blog by Rex - Written October 2008

I've been trying to "hack" Dad's accounts, and by knowing one password, I've been able to change all the other passwords that I didn't know. I thought I'd share some of the "Blog Drafts" that Dad wrote but never posted...




"In my dream, I'm in public and not wearing pants..."



Well, it's not that bad a situation I find myself in...
but if the next time you see me...
...and I'm not wearing any pants...
...but AM wearing a nice white long sleeve shirt and tie...
It'll mean I didn't get this problem resolved yet.

I hope, when you see me it's not in public, or where considered rude, weird, or indecent.

I promise... I can explain.

And...

Please... don't be shy, ask ...if something seems amiss.

I'd be grateful for the warning.

I am in a bit of a jam.

One I don't fully understand yet.

It's not Alzheimer's.

It's a skin condition on my hands.

I am sitting here at my laptop typing this stupid thing out.

A couple of my fingers can still work, just not for what I need them to do...

...which is....

Unbuttoning the top button on my white shirt (which is a bit tight)

...and the two little ones which give "a button-down collar" it's name is a real challenge.

This is my evening...

These tiny buttons are always a bit tough.

My dexterity is really hampered... today.

Well... everyday.

But, more so today.

There are small cuts and cracks on my fingers that are extremely tender.

I think it was caused by a chemical cleaning agent I used to shampoo some auto upholstery.

If I were a housewife, I'd blame it on doing too many dishes.

I'm not a housewife... and use paper plates like all self respecting divorced guys.

I'm surprised though, that I got the buttons fastened this morning.

Very little trouble.

This evening I sit here at a computer, shirt and tie on, ...no pants...

...well, correction...

I'm wearing "jogging pants" or "warm ups"... an activity which the said garments have yet to experience.

Like a poodle awaiting it's first bear hunt. Not ever gonna happen.

I don't jog. I don't warm up.

I'm a bit worried that there's little chance this shirt and tie will come off until my fingers heal.

Sure, I could grab a steak knife, look in the mirror,

and start sawing at buttons.

But since I'm still wearing the shirt...

sawing near my neck with a sharp edge,

keeping in mind ...the need to reverse-translate the exact opposite...

...or is it backwards view in the mirror?

...from what my eyes see?

This might prove deadly. Or, at least ruin my best white shirt.

I could slip and there'd be a nasty stain to remove.

I forget... does tomato juice get bloodstains out or is that just for skunk smells?

I'll Google it later, but well before I get woozy from blood loss.

A steak knive at my throat?

I am pretty darn good with tools.

Unless you start counting my fingers.

Or start counting the scars on the remaining fingers.

It just so happens I have fewer fingers than most people.

It's not a genetic thing... because when my daughters were born, I counted.

My beautiful daughters all have ten fingers. (but I just now thought that maybe it skips a generation. If so, I apologize to all my future grandkids.)

My right hand is visual evidence that in 1981 there was a brief moment when I lost my focus...

...and three fingers. One of which was re-attached.

That finger, I nearly broke off on a gate latch before the stitches were even out.

It's still crooked.

The hand is quite entertaining to young children.

My carelessness is their delight.

I make up stories about how and why it happened.

****** obedience to adults.

We won't go into the locations on my body...

where I've shot nails out of nailguns,

driven screws with screwguns,

Blackened countless fingernails,

ruined perfectly good pairs of pants with skilsaws.

Twice.

Got stitched up from a chisel stuck in my thigh.

Broke my thumb with a 3 pound sledgehammer.

You know... the run of the mill stuff.

More stitched lacerations than I can count on one and a half hands full of fingers.

This is not some sicko fetish or hobby.

It is a tradesman who loves his work but isn't very careful with tools.

You know, now that you mention it, that does sound a bit sicko...

Maybe I can try Krisco shortening or softened butter to slide out of the shirt collar. I'd apply it liberally with something dull or a rubber spatula.

Or, maybe just wait it out.

If I lost some weight I could probably have less tension on the buttons.

But by that time, my fingers could heal and ...problem solved.

This could take days.

I'd be the best dressed carpenter in the shop complex.

But soon I'd also be the most fragrant.

Doing laundry while still wearing it has never caught on much, although Tarzan became quite well known for such things.

I feel like a chimp with it's hand stuck in a jar of goodies.

Greedily hanging onto the food inside,

Unwilling to give up the treat.

Unwilling to let go in order to free itself.

I'm sure you can see my dilemma. I'll let you know when I've solved this problem.

Letter From Dad: To Aubrey, For Valentine's Day

From Aubrey: I was going through some boxes of my memorabilia recently and found this Valentine letter from Dad. It has no date on it, but was probably written in February 2006. It was written in true Rex McBride style- in all caps and on yellow legal paper! :)

It reads:

HI BOOB-

CONSIDER THIS NOTE YOUR VALENTINE'S DAY CARD AND BOX... OF CHOCOLATES, HANDFUL OF FLOWERS... NO... A DOZEN ROSES... NO MAKE THAT 2 DOZEN ROSES AND A 5 lb BOX OF SEE'S CANDY....AND DINNER AT A FANCY RESTAURANT. SINCE WE'RE PRETENDING... 2 TICKETS TO THE OPERA AND A WEEK IN HAWAII. SEE HOW MUCH FUN I AM? I'LL BE JUST AS GENEROUS WITH YOUR SISTERS.

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH...AND WANT TO WISH YOU THE BEST IN LIFE. I LOOK FORWARD TO EACH AND EVERY CONTACT I HAVE WITH YOU.

YOU ARE MENTIONED IN ALL MY PRAYERS AND I'M PROUD OF YOU. DO YOUR BEST AT WHATEVER YOU ATTEMPT. YOU MAY ARRIVE AT THE CONCLUSION THAT YOU'VE DONE ENOUGH AND MOVE ON. BUT YOU KNOW YOU'VE RUN THINGS TO THE END AND DECIDED ON A COURSE CORRECTION.

YOU GIVE ME MORE OF A REASON TO FIGHT AND DEAL WITH MY OWN CHALLENGES AND SEE THEM THRU. I'M FAR FROM PERFECT BUT YOU MAKE MY LIFE MORE SO.

LOVE ALWAYS,
DAD.

Essay by Rex: January 2005

I correspond with a sister missionary I served with in Hawaii in the early 1970s. She is in the last months of battling a form of thyroid cancer. She's 52 , lives in Salt Lake and just got her youngest son off on a mission last Sept. This is a recent email to her.
We've had many discussions, a couple about whether it's a good idea to have our missionaries come home for funerals if things got to that point. That issue has been brought home to me since my middle daughter, Aubrey left to serve in the Ohio, Cincinnati Mission in December. Since I had a close call in September, I told Aubrey I didn't think her coming home would do any real good, would only serve to be a disruption in her momentum as a missionary and who knows maybe I'd get to see her some way anyway.
Aubrey's parting words to me were that I had to live at least 19 months so we could see each other after her mission. I laughed and told her I'd try and work that into my schedule for 2006. We had a wonderful time visiting before she left to enter the MTC.
I suspect I may have many years ahead of me. Some, miserable and some not. My attitude will be the key. Three wonderful daughters to do home repairs for down the road and unfinished genealogy could keep me here into my eighties.

Rex

---

Dear Rene',

Thought I'd 'return and report' and otherwise check in to see how you are doing. Hope you are enduring things well. Since you and your husband decided against the surgeries and anymore chemo or radiation, how are you dealing with the pain factor? Is it still in the tolerable stage? Are you staying home or are you in and out of the hospital? Is your son serving his mission, dealing well with the uncertainty of the news?

It's interesting for me that there is no relief with morphine. When Demerol was administered I accused the nursing staff of 'trying' a placebo to see if it would help instead. Several injections made no difference. I literally felt no change. Funny that the best relief I get is Vicoden and it just takes the edge off.

I entered the hospital for more chemo on the 27th of Dec. Was there until late Thursday night (9:30 PM) on the 30th. It was the roughest experience yet. The nausea was greater than ever, almost never letting up. My roommate, this time, had a different type of lymphoma and was getting a different regimen of chemo treatment. When it was meal time and the trays were brought in, he'd start right in, eating. Unfortunately, the smell from his food drove me out of the room into the hospital hallway just to get away from it. I'd get up and unplug the pump administering the chemo to me and roll the chrome stand with the plastic bags hanging from it out the door and down the hall away from the rooms. Amazing how far the stink of food will travel.

I'd push my tray away and let them take it back. Even when the anti-nausea drug was given to me it took a couple hours to feel the waves of nausea disappear. I think I picked at 3 or 4 meals in 4 days. Scrambled eggs could sometimes go down. Jello worked. And water.

Cups of coffee is a regular staple on the meal trays. Never touched it but finally thought a cup of hot chocolate might go down. I requested some on my meal order. When it arrived, there on my tray was an individual foil packet of cocoa. No hot water. No cup. That's the catholics for you. Small "c" intentional, out of respect, of course.

At least one meal a day and sometimes two meals a day has a big, steaming pile of peas on the plate ... usually spilled all over the other food items on the plate. Who serves peas for lunch? They do here. I've even been served peas on the plate with a side bowl of split pea soup or more often: veggie soup with more than a fair share of peas (I'm not kidding).
I hate peas. I've always hated peas. I'm 50 years old and I don't have to eat peas. I'm beginning to think that all those peas and lima beans my parents forced me to eat as a child may be the cause of lymphoma.

I think the catholics believe there are some curative powers in the consumption of peas. As often as peas are served, I can just imagine the loading dock at the St. Joseph's Medical Center kitchen facility. I visualize dump trucks backing up to the dock, unloading. I picture pallets, dozens of them, setting at the dock with 55 gallon drums of peas, maybe even stacked one on top of another.
I picture the kitchen help who look like Oompa Loompas (from Willy Wonka fame) driving forklifts around moving incoming shipments of peas.
Oompa Loompas, wearing respirators, safety glasses, rubber aprons, rubber gloves and hip high rubber boots are hacking the tops of the 55 gal. drums off with fireman axes and shoveling peas into stainless steel wheelbarrows. Other kitchen helpers (also Oompa Loompas) wheel the peas inside and dump them into huge vats where they are super heated to get the most out of the taste and smell.
I visualize a long service counter where more funny looking help is lined up using shovels the size used to clean out ashes in a fireplace. They are scooping big individual sized steaming piles of peas onto plates set on serving trays.
Once the peas are loaded on the plates, then the kitchen help (can you picture them?) start to see what else is supposed to be on the menu. Sometimes there's a lot. Sometimes, there's not. Since the plates are two-thirds full of peas, there is a much smaller crew finishing the plates off with condiments, etc.

One of the specialties in the dessert dept. is a biscuit, sliced in half with a piece of canned fruit on it. My description is not an exaggeration. A real biscuit. Maybe a small peach half, maybe a pear half. The top of the biscuit is positioned on top. No imagination. Barely any flavor. No real attempt to trick patients into believing it's a real honest attempt to create a dessert. After a couple of days of this kind of food service I checked the window in my room. It was bolted closed. Every one of the 7 rooms I've been in since has been bolted shut. Believe me, I've checked.
I'm certain that previous patients had attempted to escape and the maintenance dept. worked overtime to secure the facility. If there was a mass escape and everyone left ... what would they do with all those peas?

Part of this hospital building is actually 100 years old. The walls are too thick to even allow me to listen to most radio stations. The one station I can receive well is the International Catholic Radio Network. Another station I can tune in is some Jesus Saves christian station. It is a labor for me to keep a religious attitude when this stuff is being presented.


I was released on the evening of the 30th of Dec. On New Year's Eve and for the next week my life consisted of sleeping, reading, napping at my shop and one trip to the cancer clinic to get an expensive injection of Neulasta to hopefully boost my blood counts so I could fight off infections.

On Friday eve, January 7th I drove to the mountains to visit my Mom for the weekend. Figured I'd attend Sacrament with my Mom, then drive back to the valley and attend my ward in Modesto. I had big plans to get some organizing done at my shop during the week. I could work a bit, nap a bit and make the most of what was supposed to be my best week, energywise in between treatments. I was scheduled to have my last week of chemo treatment starting on the 17th of Jan.

My visit with my Mom didn't go as planned. The expected energy wasn't there. I mostly slept and Saturday night / Sunday morning was awful. I was hot, cold, sweaty and boils or other types of skin eruptions were showing up all over my body. Bruises appeared all over. Looked like I had been worked over in a street fight. Sunday evening my temperature went to 105 degrees. My Mom drove me to the local hospital ER where blood was drawn (twice to make sure) and the ER Dr. said a normal persons' white blood cell count should be in the 250,000 range. Mine was at 4000 and I needed to be hospitalized. Like in September, I had another infection that was going to take me down fast. I needed a megadose of antibiotics and a blood transfusion.
The ER Dr. said they could help with the antibiotic (which they did) but I needed a transfusion of irradiated plasma and there wasn't any in the county. The only oncologist in the county refused to see me considering my poor condition. I didn't blame him a bit. A ride by ambulance to the hospital 75 miles where the staff and info was available was my best option.
I arrived at the hospital in Stockton at almost 2 AM Monday morning. I was immediately put in isolation and for the next 2 days didn't see a human face. Just people with masks and gloves. My diet was highly restricted to some basic overcooked stuff. Sadly, peas were not restricted. In four days I received 3 plasma transfusions and loads of antibiotics every 4 hours.
I asked for a toothbrush and was refused. A brush could cause injury to the gums and create more trouble with infection. I was given a stick with a sponge on it soaked with an antibiotic agent to brush. Much care was given to the boils that had appeared. I was surprised how quickly they reversed themselves and disappeared. Now, a few days after leaving the hospital the boils are no more than scabs.
Tuesday evening, two very good friends, Rick Fairbanks and Roger Hoskins gave me a priesthood blessing. I enjoyed their visit.
Wednesday, I noticed my breathing was changing. There was an ache in my left lung and a gurgling sound as I breathed. The beginning of pneumonia. My oncologist was on vacation and out of the country but his business partner Dr. Dighi filled in very well. He said I could go home on Thursday after an afternoon dose of antibiotic. I was hoping the next round of chemo would be postponed for a week or so but Dr. Dighi said I could come back, as scheduled for the chemo plus they could keep a better eye on me for other side effects.

So, since the first week of December 2004 thru the end of my last scheduled chemotherapy treatment totaling 55 days, 21 of those days I've been in the hospital. A number of the days I've been out of the hospital have been spent driving to Dr. appointments or to labs for blood draws. I'm afraid to try to total the days in or out of the hospital since June when I started this rollercoaster ride called chemotherapy.

It's tempting to say something about being glad I followed the Word of Wisdom all these years so I could enjoy good health during my "golden years" but I won't. I'm not sure I'll live to see the 'golden years'.

I guess if, after the bone marrow rescue and transplant I recover to a fairly normal existence, I will consider this all worth it. That is, if I can enjoy a decade or so of fair health. If, on the other hand, this treatment only grinds me down and finishes me off in a couple years even with the additional need for maintenance chemo, I'll consider the experiment / gamble a failure. I'll just chalk it up to the fact that everyone is going to die from something and this happens to be the hand I was dealt. Just the normal chances I took when I agreed to this mortal life. I guess going out early with a disease is better than hanging around 2 to ten years in a rest home, unaware of anything around me like some people. Yeah, I may not like the status quo but it could be much worse. Besides, what really seems unfair is when I see the occasional four or five year old with no hair at the cancer clinic.

At least I've been able to see my kids to adulthood. A couple of friends of mine didn't even get that.

Rene', sorry if this letter seems 'down' ... it wasn't really meant to be. I genuinely hope that whatever time you have left with your family can be enjoyable, relatively pain free and you'll be able to reflect on the good experiences in your life. Ultimately, we do have a better day ahead once this mortal probation is over. At least we have that confidence.

Take care and hope to hear from you soon,

Rex

Essay by Rex: July 2004

Brethren,
I went to my scheduled chemotherapy treatment today, Thursday the 22nd of July, 2004. A PET scan 2 weeks ago came back with less than desirable results. I called 3 days later to find out what the scan said.
I was told over the phone by a member of the office staff that the doctor was in with a patient and put me on hold. She came back a minute later and said the results were "stable".
I asked for a definition of stable and she paused. I knew I was chatting with a "20 something" office girl who is "out of her wheelhouse" regarding anything beyond the immediate workings around the reception desk. She just repeated that 'things are stable.' I thanked her and hung up ... nicely.
Three weeks ago I had been told by Dr. Mehdi there was a chance of switching me to a new form of drug treatment because more test results came back from the May 13th biopsy.
After consulting with colleagues at UC Davis he said he was certain that they were treating the wrong cancer with the current drugs I have been getting. The PET scan would determine whether those drugs had any effect.
Well, today just prior to my scheduled chemo treatment I was supposed to see Sandra, a physician's assistant (I think). She came in, asked a couple things then said the Doctor would be right in.
Dr. Mehdi came in with a somber face. I then realized Sandra wasn't smiling like she usually did. He started right in with the fact that he'd previously said the treatment could change. Now it was certain.
I got a bit of a shock when he said I would be admitted to St. Joseph's early Monday morning for a much more aggressive form of treatment. (More Aggressive?!?) It will require 5 days of hospitalization. Then 3 weeks of recuperation and 3 to 5 more days of a stay in the hospital. This routine will repeat for 3 complete cycles.
I asked about putting it off a week because I had Scouts going to Scout Camp this next week.
He said, "No."

I don't know what things will really need to change as far as getting ready for Camp. My van and camping equipment is still available. I will just load the lanterns etc. in the van and it will be ready.
Frank is handling most of the day to day details anyway. Bro. Gary Taylor is going to be the other adult leader until Thursday night or Friday AM. Bro. Wandvik is supposed to be there Friday. I am just not sure of the Two-Deep Leadership being covered towards the end of the week.
One other detail on my van... and a warning. It has been Floyderized. This is a word I made up years ago. Floyd had me buy hundreds of $$ worth of parts to fix the A/C. It worked great for a several days. Some of those very parts flew off as I was traveling on Hwy 99 about 1,200 miles after he put them on. The A/C no longer works. I'm told he will get around to it...
Oh, and another thing. The gas gauge no longer works. Again, Floyderization. Floyd borrowed my van and cut a wire while trying to hook up lights to a trailer. Somehow the gas gauge is now always at "E". A 'fill up' will get you about 280 to 300 miles. Use the trip meter of the odometer to be safe. Rick Fairbanks, Allyssa Fairbanks and I, all have stories about not setting the trip meter. The stories always include ...being beside the road ...somewhere ...with a red plastic gas jug ... or ....wishing for a red plastic gas jug. Once again, Floyd has promised numerous times that he will attend to this very small detail when he has time.
This not a 'shot' at Floyd's mechanical skills. If I ever need work done on my huge diesel school bus or my huge diesel fire truck, he's "the man".
Unfortunately, I don't own these types of vehicles. It's the ordinary, everyday vehicles that sometimes seem to need 2 or 3 'tries' before it's exactly right. That is the pure definition of "Floyderization".
Sorry if this puts anyone in a spot. It's out of my hands. Much like the last 25 years of my life.

Rex

Rex's About Me: 8 Finger Biscuits

I have always been fascinated with woodcarving, carpentry, cabinetmaking, furniture, tools/collecting them. 3 beautiful grown daughters living in other states. Twin grand daughters. Enjoy most outdoor sports. Boating, canoeing, fishing, camping, dutch oven cooking. My blog name is because in 1981 as a journeyman carpenter I lost 2 fingers to a saw. My dutch oven specialty is large buttermilk bisquits. Making them with now only a total of 8 digits, I called them "8fingerbisquits". Why? People remember them, one way or another.

Essay by Rex: January 2003

January 28, 2003. 2:55 PM Pacific Standard Time... 3:55 PM Mountain Standard

I held my cellphone as close to my head as possible without smashing the ear shut. If I was careful, held my head a certain way while plugging the unused ear with a finger, and if no construction workers happened to start a power tool within the next few minutes, I might hear the 'ceremony' take place.

I had about 16 hours notice via phone call from my baby, my 18 year old daughter Heidi, engaged for about 3 months to Nathan, an 18 year old, unemployed Catholic from Missouri. They had decided to move up their wedding day from June to January. Since it is at least a 10 hour drive in the best of conditions and with such short notice, I said I wouldn't be attending. I asked if there was "a bun in the oven." No? Good.
I would say that neither of my other 2 daughters were "overjoyed" at their younger sister's decision ... OR taste. My "ex" who I have nicknamed "Hurricane" for obvious reasons, apparently wasn't too thrilled either. Funny that her whole reason to move to Utah was to be around a better society of people with better standards. Oh, and to get away from me. Amazing that with all the Mormons in town, my daughter picks a Catholic, a backsliding one at that. I did get a bit of satisfaction when I sent Hurricane a rare email saying, "We are reaping what we have sown. Hope you are happy."

I was insulated from all the preliminary ceremonial stuff except for several phone updates from Rachel and ultimately assisting with the funding of the festivities.
There had been a frenzy of activity to pull this 'quickie' off. Getting a license, lining up a Justice of the Peace, going to a few places to get some decorations, refreshments, a cake. This event appeared to have the surprise of an elopement with all the hassles of a real, planned wedding. Just condensed down into several hours' time. Eliminate most of the guest list ... and voila ... two 18 year old kids who don't know a thing about life other than sensing the rage of hormones would soon be "one" in holy matrimony.

At the other end of the call, Rachel, my eldest daughter was pulling double duty by being Maid of Honor and holding the cellphone. If she was close enough to the Justice of the Peace the chances of me "being there" were greatly improved. Of course a mental image would have helped so Rachel served as my "color" commentator.
She said the blessed event, [scheduled for 4:00 PM Mountain Standard Time and taking place on January 28, 2003] was at the Justice's St. George, Utah home in the living room. He was wearing an official looking robe and because of his advanced age was standing in front of his 'walker'.
Those attending were the bride, Heidi, age 18, and the groom, Nathan, age 18 and currently/chronically unemployed. Debbie and Gary Elder, parents of the groom. "Hurricane" Carson, mother of the bride. Others in attendance: Rachel (Maid of Honor) and Aubrey, the bride's sisters. The groom's Best Man, Kaden, age 17 (and thus being a minor, unable to sign the papers as a witness. He HAS been able to 'witness' some hecka cool skateboard tricks done by the groom though.)
Also attending was Christy, the groom's sister and her significant other, Anna. Don't ask. Of the 4 younger adopted siblings of the groom, the two youngest, adolescent girls, were there. The two mid-teen boys are both currently in Detention, a.k.a. Juvenile Hall or they would have gladly attended.
It was like some bad TV commercial where a cellular phone service provider is trying to promote it's service as if "It's almost like being there!" In my head I could almost hear a crappy, upbeat music jingle. I could imagine the TV screen showing 'homey' surroundings, flower arrangements, lot's of smiling faces of family and friends. There would be a general excitement in passing around a phone so everyone can "participate", and a soul satisfying contentment felt by all. A Norman Rockwell moment, really...
Promptly at 4:00 PM the Justice of the Peace began. I could hear a distinguished baritone voice with that southern Utah twang in it. The man had probably performed dozens or hundreds of these ceremonies. Some probably within the walls of the House of the Lord a few blocks away. He spoke the words one normally hears at such informal occasions and offered some counsel and advice.
The "I Do's" were completed, then a kiss. The time was now 4:07 PM. I heard some sniffling sounds and figured it was allergy season in the High Desert. I could tell there was hugging and other stuff going on.
I stood by my tablesaw trying to realize that my youngest daughter was now married and that I was going to take a step back from her life and let her wobble off on her own as if she were on a two wheel bicycle for the first time. Now someone else was at her side.
A bitter disappointment came to mind because I knew I hadn't really been by her side for over 9 years. I wasn't allowed. Even when I really tried to be there in one way or another, obstacles were thrown in front of me. It will take a lifetime to sort it out in my head and heart. I will still try. That is all I can think to do. Only now, she has an additional resource (I sincerely hope) in Nathan. Maybe the two of them will be good for each other.
I was still on the phone listening to a family milestone event that normally is filled with joy, emotion and imprints itself in one's mind for all time. Rachel handed the phone to Heidi and I congratulated her and told her I loved her. She told me she was so happy and that she loved me too. I knew she meant it because for over nine years I had not heard it from her. For over nine years when I would say it to her upon a departure or at the end of a phone call, there was no response, in kind. For most of those years even getting her to come to the phone was near impossible. When they announced their engagement in late September we had a long chat and she finally said it. Since she waited so long I knew it was not a phrase she just tossed around lightly.
Later there was a small reception at the "House that Hurricane Built." In addition to those already mentioned, Heidi's Grandparents showed up and a couple other friends. Rachel told me later that she saw Nathan's sister Christy and her significant other, Anna in a quick "lip lock" on the couch at the reception at Hurricane's house. Ah, romance is in the air...
Nothing like a wedding to make everyone all mushy inside ... and especially so close to St. Valentine's Day.

Rachel suggested an ending to this essay and I thought it was perfect.

"Blank VHS tape: $3.00
Bouquet of fresh daisies: $25.00
Refreshments for 20: $76.00
Cake: $35.00
One Night Honeymoon including a Personal Chef: $185.00
Knowing your 18 year old daughter isn't pregnant and getting married anyway: PRICELESS.

Essay by Rex: February 2003

Midweek my parents came to town to have lunch and asked me to meet them there. Seems my Dad had watched so many TV commercials about "baby back ribs" he couldn't deny himself any longer. I knew I was going to be a bit late so I asked Mom to order me a large salad.

Oh, Pah-leeeze...

Don't think I've gone "gay" or anything by ordering a salad ... but since I have almost no ability to taste food resulting from the recent radiation treatments, there's no sense in me ordering something I ...WISH... I could enjoy.



There is a 10 year age difference between my parents. My dad is a bent, shriveled old geezer with a collection of canes, crutches, wheelchairs and electric scooters. He is staring at being 80 in a couple of years. His decrepit appearance matches his overall sour attitude and selfish outlook on life. I know him to have taken a rather casual approach to being a provider during the productive years. He has a very bad heart condition now which prevents him from 'tinkering' like he used to but allows him to fine tune the art of napping.

My Mom, on the other hand is an energetic, outgoing, fun woman who's nearing 70. There is no doubt who has put forth all the effort and made the marriage work all these years. She still takes good care of the ol' man but she works as a nurse just to get out of the house. Sort of a work release program during her life sentence.

At the end of our meal, my Mom excused herself to go to the Ladies Room. My Dad, who sometimes seems to be "losin' it, upstairs", leaned over to me and asked,

"Is her birthday this month or next month?" Hmm... A vague flicker of memory.

"It was LAST MONTH." I answered. I had reminded him of that fact once or twice before the actual date hoping on an outside chance, he would surprise her with some thoughtful gift or dinner out.

"Oh. Well... I guess I don't have to do anything then.", he said. He then changed the subject to his latest car trouble woes.

Forty-nine years, eleven months and about 20 days ago they had married in front of a Justice of the Peace. I came along 16 months later.

My siblings and I were planning a surprise Golden Wedding Anniversary celebration for the following Sunday. Lots of guests, lots of refreshments, lots of running errands and making calls. My sister, her husband and my brother were doing most of the set up. We, in fact, were doing it for Mom. Fifty years together and my Mom should be given some sort of Gold Medal for putting up with this incredibly thoughtless 'hump' I was sitting beside. He's my Dad and I love him but 49 and a half of those years should be credited to my Mom for reaching the milestone.



All three of my daughters came from Utah for the occasion and my youngest daughter brought her new acquisition... a husband, along. This was going to be a chance for me to get to know this kid that I am trying to learn to call a 'son-in-law'. He is 18, unemployed and still wet behind the ears, so I had yet to be sold on him as a "keeper".

If he was just a boyfriend, I would have crossed my fingers and pray my daughter would be fickle and soon lose interest in him. Maybe she would wait and find some guy with some "sand". A young guy with some substance. Maybe a guy who was in an apprenticeship program somewhere, or the military, or maybe going to college. But, all that wishing and hoping evaporated when she chose to marry him. On short notice.

Lowell Slade tried to comfort me by saying that I didn't have to live with him, SHE did. I really pondered those words ... looking everywhere for even a scrap of comfort.

Rick Fairbanks and I were considering our daughters and their futures once when he said something to the effect that it seemed singularly important that a young man who married a daughter should be considerate and treat her well, above all else. Not an earth shattering conclusion to arrive at but a significant, vital point to keep in mind.



I had a couple of conversations by phone with my new 'son-in-law' early on about him applying himself, working at any available job to discover what he really enjoyed doing which could turn into a career. I wasn't sure how much headway I made.

When I was 18, I was working 60 hours a week at an asbestos plant, saving money for a 2 year mission for my church. I didn't marry until I was 25 and a journeyman carpenter. I held off mentioning that I had walked to school everyday of my youth in waist deep snow, uphill, both ways. Figured I'd save the tough luck stories and other good stuff for later.

While the girls and Nathan were here in town I showed them around, taking in the sights of Modesto and it's surroundings. A trip to San Francisco and Fisherman's Wharf was a highlight. At one point, my cellphone rang and the call was Nathan's Mom in St. George. I handed over the phone and wandered off to look at something. A couple of minutes later I returned to see tears running down Heidi's face as she leaned toward Nathan who was still on the phone. She was really upset. He looked a bit concerned at what he was learning from the phone call. I asked what the problem was and heard Heidi's dog had been hit by a car earlier that day. The call ended and I saw Nathan filling Heidi in on the details.

What I saw next was something which elevated my opinion of this goofy 18 year old 'son-in-law'. He put his arms around Heidi and was comforting her and letting her know the dog would be all right inspite of a trip to the Vet and the loss of two toes on one paw. He helped wipe her tears with a napkin from the lunch we had eaten.

He could have acted like a Mr. Tough-Guy, say it was just a dog and brush off Heidi's concerns. Or, be like me and start griping about a Vet bill awaiting them upon their return, but he didn't. He briefly let us know what was going on and then focused on his wife and her fears.

Heck, maybe he is a 'Keeper'.

Essay by Rex: November 2002

My eyes were beginning to blur while looking at a quarterly magazine in the waiting room. It said it was sent exclusively to purchasers of new Jaguar automobiles. Obviously, my doctor was either a lover of luxury cars or managed to get a cool mag by mistake. Advertisements were for Rolex watches and many other types of finery that good incomes could bring. Don't get me wrong, I was not envious of that sort of thing. I don't begrudge the doctor being rewarded for all the years he invested in his education. He is a soft spoken, kind and compassionate man. It just seemed a bit funny to have such a magazine placed in with tattered copies of People and Newsweek.
I was going to find out the results of all those tests I had been having since late August. Even before the surgery by Dr. Gray in September of this year, I knew already in my heart and head. It had come back. Or, never really left. But I had not had much trouble for almost 7 years.
Dr. Di removed some in 1990. Another doctor removed more in an office procedure after that. Then in 1995, Dr. Goodman had me under the knife twice within weeks when lab results got "ugly". It took months to recover physically from those last two. Financially, ...well, I had been torpedoed, amidships.
So, when the post surgery lab reports came back from Stanford recently, Dr. Yee, my primary care physician personally called me 6:40 PM on a Friday to say he was referring me to an Oncologist, "A really good one.", in Stockton. 50 minutes away. He said the Oncologist's office would call me on Monday morning to set up an appointment. Dr. Yee soberly said, "You HAVE to go."
So, here I was in the waiting room for the 3rd time, tests all done, waiting to hear just where I stood. Each of my visits here had impressed on me that I was no longer in the minor leagues of ailments. There were some really sick people in this room. Many were wearing hats or wigs to hide hairless heads. Some were in wheelchairs and no one seemed very energetic. Even the family members accompanying these cancer patients seemed tired. Weighted down from the burden this disease places upon everyone close to it.
As tired as I was, I felt as if I didn't belong here. If this were a scene from a bad martial arts movie with a plot more warped than usual, I could single-handedly take on all 20 to 30 people in the room, at once. Not like the carefully choreographed scenes where only one attacker approaches the good guy at a time. Heck, I was Hercules compared to anyone here.
When she walked in the front door to the waiting room at Dr. Medhi's Oncology Clinic, my first impression was of a very sick middle aged woman. Quite attractive in her day, I thought. Whispy, thinning blonde/gray colored hair, barely covering the sides of her head. On top was a knitted cap, haphazardly placed as if she had been involved in a snowball fight at a family trip to the snow. The big coat, sweat pants and fuzzy booties added to the look of someone trying to keep warm in inclement weather. That it was a sunny, warm, autumn day where short sleeve shirts and sunglasses were more the norm seemed completely lost to her. Darkness under her eyes and her fragile almost see-thru facial skin reminded me of looking at a marble statue. She had a clear plastic tube near her nose hooked around her ears. She was pulling a green oxygen bottle behind her on wheels. There seemed to be a defiant courage in her struggle to pull the small tank over to a seat. She was going to do everything for herself as long as she could. She was followed by another woman in her late 50's and a handsome, slightly overweight but robust man in his mid 30's wearing Levi's 501s and a golf shirt.
This trio's entrance caused me to lose interest in the magazine. The interaction between them as they sat, kept my attention. The man was very kind and attentive, the 50ish woman got a paper cup of water for the ill woman who appeared to have an almost unquenchable thirst. Then it hit me. The woman on oxygen wasn't middle-aged at all. More like, early to mid 30's. The man was her husband. The 50ish woman, was most likely there to help her own daughter who was, in my opinion, not long for this world. She still was beautiful, but the cancer was taking it's toll.
I didn't know if there were any, but I began to think of the possibility of their children being watched by a close friend or family member while Mommy went to the Dr. with Daddy and Grandma.
I couldn't help it, but as I sat watching this loving couple chat, my eyes watered up. A lump grew in my throat. I was looking at a married couple on a journey where they soon would part and go separate ways. One would journey into the unknown, the other left behind pondering life and it's meaning. Perhaps soon, he would have to explain to little curly haired, big eyed children that Mommy still loves them even though she's no longer there. My observation of the scene was one of those moments when you ask "why" and consider the eternities.
My name was called and I got up and went thru the door, following the nurse who three weeks earlier had raised and dashed my hopes to avoid a painful procedure called a bone marrow biopsy. That day, she was looking for something in all the cabinets of the room I was in. She said,"This may be your lucky day. I can't find the needles." Dr. Medhi told me it would be an unpleasant experience. For 3 weeks I considered showing up all 'liquored up' but what good would that do? The nurse said "Oh, here they are." and plunked down a big plastic package on the tray. I stared at the hardware she had just exposed. I asked her,"When do they stop calling them needles and start calling them PIPE?" I had daintier looking tools in my carpenter's tool box. He was right about it being unpleasant.
Dr. Medhi came in and asked me about whether I'd had one particular test. Yes. He called on the phone about something in the CT scan. He sat and said it was confirmed that I had Lymphoma. Fortunately, a low grade or slow growing type. Most likely could be kept under control with radiation and occasional surgery. I have some type of growth on one kidney and another lymph node in the neck which need attention. Treatment will be radiation every day for 4 weeks. A three month check up will see if there is any change. Chemotherapy will be saved for more aggressive treatment later, if necessary. He said if I had to get cancer, this was the type to have. We both smiled. I knew that many prayers were answered. Frankly, I asked for one blessing prior to the September surgery. I suggested to those administering it that I knew they had great faith, but please to not go overboard on what was said in the blessing itself. I was NOT interested in living to be 120 years old.
Heavenly Father has blessed the medical profession to know and understand that treatment of this ugly disease should be carefully measured and monitored. I am thinking of all those people in years past who were subjected to surgery, radiation and chemotherapy in doses where the proper amounts were unknown. Because of their suffering, and the good men who become doctors with a desire to heal and "do no harm" had to do just a little harm to fine tune their research.
I left the Clinic that day greatly relieved that although my future health concerns may not always be pleasant, most likely my condition will not shift gears into something faster. I drove back to Modesto and pulled into a KFC for a big Pepsi and a bucket of chicken to celebrate. Didn't have someone to immediately share my good news with in person but I also didn't have to face what that young couple was staring in the face either. I just hope they were able to smile with Dr. Medhi that day too. I sense that somehow their courage made them smile.