Dying From Cancer - Opting for No Treatment

This blog will not be an easy one for me. I have taken care of my mother in law for the last 14 years, ever since her husband died from non-small cell lung cancer. Now, she has been diagnosed with small cell lung cancer and has opted to fore-go the traditional treatments of chemotherapy and radiation.

Firstly, I accept her decision, as she is sound of mind at this point, and having watched her husband die after months of traditional treatments, she is fully aware of the effects of these treatments. She watched her husband go through the nausea, the steady deterioration of his mind and body, and she wishes not to prolong her life with these inevitable ends.

I have decided to chronicle her end of life journey with both the good and the bad, in the hopes that those faced with a similar decision might be better informed when making their choice to seek treatment, or not to seek treatment. There is plenty of information out there considering the options of doing the treatments, but I found very little information concerning those persons who refused these traditional treatments.

I will date each entry and do my best to document this process for you, and for myself. Perhaps someone may benefit from this first-hand journal. I will refer to Garnet as "Mom" going forward.

Thank you.
John Booth July 26, 2014

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June 20, 2014 - The Diagnosis and current state of health
Mom, female age 75, began losing her ability to walk roughly one month ago, complaining of weakness and pain in both her legs and feet. For two weeks she was able to move around painfully in her walker with minimal assistance. However, she suffered a number of falls and my wife and I began assisting with every effort. After the initial two weeks she was completely unable to use the walker and I procured a wheelchair. Every couple hours over the next two weeks, day and night, she required careful transfer from her bed and/or chair to get into the wheelchair. My wife and I would roll her to the bathroom door and assist her onto the toilet. It had become impossible for her to sleep in her bed because of leg and foot pain, so she started sleeping in a recliner in the front room.

July 20th, 2014 Testing
Mom underwent several MRIs, CAT Scans, Xrays, and a spinal tap to determine the cause of her pain and weakness. Her doctor suspected cancer, although he did not know the type, because it appeared that there were lesions on her spine (at T12) suggesting metastasized cancer. She was immediately admitted into the hospital for further testing.

July 24th, 2014
We were informed by a team of oncologists that indeed, Mom had a cancerous mass on one of her lungs. She was told that without treatment she could expect to live 1-3 months only. She was informed that with treatments she might live for up to 12 months.

July 25th, 2014
Mom consulted with us (the family) about her desire to not seek treatment. Those present accepted her decision as well as could be expected. She had pulled me aside a day earlier to confide in me and to ask my opinion. I didn't want to steer her either way, so I mainly just listened as she gave her reasons. In the end she had firmly decided not to seek treatment. My wife, more-so than anyone else, met with doctors and counselors from several departments of the hospital to gather as much information as we could get. However, the very best prognosis of her future was simply that she would get sicker and weaker as the days passed until she died. Not much of an explanation, but then, this is why I am chronicling this for you.

July 26th, 2014
We brought Mom home in gown and catheter. We are doing what we can to provide comfort and personal interaction in the hopes of making her final weeks better for her. My wife is jumbling a dozen or so prescriptions for medicines she must take while I am mostly just muscle and companionship. This is where we are at this very moment.Her pain is being controlled pretty well at this time and it is inspiring to see her try to be upbeat about the time she has left.

July 27th, 2014 - 6:30 am
Today was a rough start for us all. Mom had slept most of the night with the aid of pain meds, but awoke with a severe bout of diarrhea. My wife and I scurried around, pretty much in a panic, to help her into the wheelchair and get her to her bathroom. Mom insisted that Sherry (my wife) assist her in the bathroom, likely a last ditch effort for modesty which I do not expect will last a great deal longer. Sherry cleaned her up with soap and water, but it was quite unpleasant for her. She did, however, remain as upbeat as possible, as not to cause unnecessary embarrassment to Mom.  Afterwards we got her back to the front room recliner. Getting used to moving mom around with the catheter/urine bag is a challenge, but we'll learn.

Side Note
Garnet, (Mom) is a gentle woman that raised seven children pretty much on her own. Her husband and she lived through the era of the total gender separational roles of the 1950's and although Dad provided well for his brood of children, Mom did the bulk of raising them on the dad-to-day, year-to-year, basis. Mom is the very definition of a 50's American female. Always honoring her husband and caring for her family, even at the exclusion of her own needs. It is difficult for her to find herself in this reversal of roles. Sherry, (my wife) has had to take on the role of mother and supreme authority over all things concerning care-giving, financial, and everything else. The strain is already beginning to show for Sherry and I have done what I can to educate myself in such a way as to ease her burden. To that end, Sherry has agreed to allow me to visit our family funeral home and make preliminary arrangements for Mom's final services. I hope to find many more areas that I may assist her in, as the strain on Sherry is great, although just beginning. It will be a lot worse in the days and weeks to come.

TRUST

Trust can be a complicated subject wherein trusting others requires a leap of faith, being on the receiving end often requires sometimes arduous effort on your part. It is easy to trust the guy behind the bulletproof glass at a local all-night gas station, as he has much to lose materially should he fail to keep his end of the deal and give you the correct change from your twenty dollar bill. However, as we pass a less fortunate soul on a freeway on ramp bearing a cardboard sign asking for spare change because he implies that he is a homeless vet, well, that is a different story. Many is the time I have caught myself making the automatic assumption that in truth, he was merely a drug addict or too lazy to support himself. Why is this, I wonder? No man is born above another. No man is more or less capable when given the same tools in which to build his life. Eg: a sound mind and body, a supportive family, perhaps a stroke of good luck once in a while.

And what of trust in our more guarded personal lives? Trust plays out its part based on simple fact and calculation. My husband once cheated on me and therefore can never have 100% of my trust again. I loaned my friend some money to get out of a jam but he didn’t pay me back as he promised. I loaned my tools to someone and now some of them are missing. Perhaps we can never truly trust anyone completely because we are all human and we all fail from time to time. The only thing we can do, that we truly have control over, is to make OURSELVES trustworthy in others eyes. Perhaps this is the most important act we can do, to accomplish the gaining of someone else’s trust in whole? If others fail us it is they who have lost a great deal, not we who trusted them not to fail, for we took the leap of faith and proved to ourselves that we are the better person, that we are moral men, and that we have earned, and deserve the trust of others.

Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.

TIME

What exactly IS time? Time is often referred to as an imaginary boundary, a man-made division of an ongoing immeasurable piece of fabric in our lives, but in reality, and in our daily lives; time is the most essential element we know. Without it there are no days, nights, months, years, etc… Without time there is no way in which to order our actions, leaving us in a swirl of meaningless void. Therefore I submit to you that time is real, that it exists, and that it is the primary element for which to base our every move, thought, and action upon. This makes time the most important aspect of our lives.

If we are to have meaning in our lives, we must both use this time properly, and above all, respect it. How a man uses his time is his personal choice, an act of free will per se, but the focus of this lesson is respecting time. If we choose to spend this all-precious commodity playing marbles, watching Andy Griffith, playing solitaire, and so forth, we disrespect time. We assign a lesser value to it. If we allocate a goodly portion of our time in effort to better our world, to enhance our lives and the lives of others, or any other worthy pursuit, we are then showing our love and respect to this special gift of time.

Let not others take this gift from you in meaningless unworthy chase. Nor allow yourself to squander it in petty amusement or for purposes of no true bearance of fruit. Remember that at the end of your days you shall be measured by that which you did with your time, how your gift of time was spent. Do not be that fellow on his death bed that looks at his hands and says “What have I done? Useless!”

And know that no man in recorded history ever said upon his deathbed “I wish I could have spent just one more day playing solitaire.”

Peace

Just A Test

This is a test, only a test.

 

If this had been a real emergency you would have been completely on your own because I would have slid out the door like a weasel in an act of desperation.

 

That is all.

SURVIVING YOUR BETTER HALF

Perhaps this should be called; "How to Survive, or Not Survive, Having A Better Half That Is Hell-Bent On Keeping You Alive Long After You Know You Have Outlived Your Usefulness", but that would not fit on the title line provided.

I am prompted to write this because I have just such a spouse. It appears that her key goal in life is to make me live longer than I necessarily want to.

Things were going along just fine for the first 20 years of our marriage. I slammed down McBurgers and mayonnaise to my heart's content. I ate 15-20 hard boiled eggs on every Easter Sunday, grease gravy was a beverage, I slurped down millions of gallons of ice cream, entire herds of bacon sandwiches, all the beer my kidneys could handle, and everything else that guys naturally gravitate to when unsupervised. I sat like a swollen slug for hours every day watching ball games, munched on chips and sour cream dip till my eyes were glassy with glutinous delight. If I so desired, I could literally eat an entire can of lard with my bare hands without suffering any repercussions as long as I didn't get any on her furniture. My workouts consisted of 12 ounce curls of beer cans and scratching the twins between remote control finger exercises.

All was perfect in man-world.

Then came the day I turned a certain age and she had the big idea that it was time that I get a complete physical. I don't know why I let her talk me into it, and I sometimes wish I hadn't. I went along with it because I really didn't see a problem. I mean, isn't a mature mans belly supposed to resemble a Volkswagen tire? My father's did and nobody ever told him what to do. He was absolutely ecstatic about his life, all the way up to his third heart attack, and no one ever gave him any crap about his diet. His gestational habits were very simple. Red meat, potatoes, red meat, red meat, beer and red meat. Seems logical to me.

So, I found myself at the doctor's office having all the usual tests. The blood pressure, a few vials of blood for good measure, the finger in the ass, you know, all the fun stuff. We left and went out for the all you could eat deep-fried chicken at the buffet and all was well. That is, until the results of the tests came in a couple days later.

My wife spoke with the doctor on the phone and sported a concerned look on her face. I watched from a distance as her expressions changed from concerned to horrified to mortified, before slamming the phone down on the counter and looking at me as if I had just tied all her tampon strings together, (a great one for April Fool's Day), or used her silk sheets to wipe the motor oil off my hands. I attempted a slick getaway by whistling for the dog and heading for the door, but received a "Stop" command that was so intense the dog shook and squirted on the floor, and I swear, instinctively my butthole clammed shut and my testicles shot up to hide between my pancreas and my liver...

The next two hours were spent sitting at the kitchen table with her occasionally grasping my chin and turning my face toward hers to ensure my complete attention. She spoke in a foreign language that I didn't even know she knew, possibly Ukrainian, using words like "Triglycerides, hypertriglyceridemia, plasma lipids", and a string of acronyms that would have scared the FBI, the CIA, and NBC. She spouted out letters like "LDL, HDL, HBO" and others. I had no idea what she was talking about but I nodded knowingly so she would not make me sit through lengthy explanations of their meanings.

If there is one thing I know about my wife it is not to argue with her when she has my chin in her hand. Any resistance results in her tiny little hand applying instant vice-like pressure that causes my eyes to pop out like a doggie squeeze toy. I must have said "Yes Ma'am" two hundred times. By the way, I strongly suggest that all married guys learn and use that phrase often. Those two words, "Yes Ma'am", have saved me many a slapped face, countless scoldings and in-the-corner time-outs over the years.

By the time she was finished I had agreed to so many things that I didn't understand that I felt like I had just sat through a symposium of neurosurgeons in the banquet room of the Holiday Inn. However, the next few days clarified many things for me.

First came the blue-cap milk instead of the usual red cap. This was followed by stinky fish and skinless chicken dinners. Before I knew it I was taking a thousand fish oil tablets, several prescription drugs, and eating low fat yogurt and celery sticks every day. Suddenly there were baskets and bushels of apples, bananas, kiwi fruit, and granola bars strategically placed throughout the house. All the bologna, ham and liverwurst had mysteriously disappeared from the fridge along with the mayo, the beer and my beloved bacon.

All the boxes of Hamburger Helper vanished into thin air, every Oreo cookie, every box of Fruity Pebbles and every box of macaroni and cheese (the good stuff with the powdered cheese-product pouch) seemed to be transported to another planet overnight. I began sucking my thumb just for the meat protein. She started nagging me incessantly about my smoking, my posture, my lack of willingness to go on long walks and exercising. This woman that I had grown to love and cherish was turning into Hilliary Clinton. Suddenly I was not allowed to go out and carouse the sports bars and eat hot wings with the boys or sit for hours playing mindless games on my computer.

Finally I had met my limit and I went to her with notes in hand to plead my case.

I told her that life for me was about quality, and not quantity. I asked her why I couldn't do anything I liked to do anymore. Why I had to eat rabbit food and drink watered-down milk. Why I couldn't have a bucket of deep-fried chicken and a couple cigars with my pals at a bar. My list was long and well thought out. It even addressed why she had thrown away my stash of Twinkies and all the bags of candy corn left over from Halloween that I had kept under my side of the bed. I finished off my appeal with the phrase "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!". I was sure that one would set her straight.

She folded her little arms and sized me up with one of those "Oh no you Did-tent!" looks and I could feel my well rehearsed act of manly rebellion starting to melt. Her face began to transform from its feminine softness to that of an angry republican talking about health care reform. She began gnashing her teeth together so hard that her fillings were disintegrating into plumes of smoke that bellowed forcibly from her ears. I could feel the bumps raising on my arms and a flush of fear reddened my face. Was it my summary that I wasn't going to take it anymore too much? Should I have stopped after "where are my Oreos?"

Was I going to die now?

She composed herself quickly and stepped toward me. I recoiled slightly but stood my ground. She brought the dreaded hand up and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look her directly in the eyes. My eyes darted side-to-side in attempt to avoid capture but she guided my face like a gelding horse on reins until I had no choice but to pay full attention.

"Because I LOVE you, you big stupid ape !"

Wow. No one had ever said anything that nice to me before. I felt all tingly inside. My shoulders began to drop and relax. My butthole ceased its tight clinch and relaxed to a normal gas-passable state, and my testicles dropped back into the wrinkled bag.

"You are my husband and the father of my children. You are a grandfather, and most importantly, you are my best friend, and I will not let you die on me because of your childish indulgent bad habits."

Okay, this was getting serious. All this time I was operating under the assumption that I was meant to go first and that this was the way of the world. I figured that I had completed my task of providing for my wife and children, paid enough taxes, fixed enough cars and unstopped enough toilets, and was free to assume my rightful position as a deep-fried couch potato. Apparently I was wrong.

Well, here we are several years later and I have grown accustomed to the wheat snacks and late evening walks she imposes upon me. I am able to wrestle with my grandson on the floor without gagging up a lung and clutching my chest. I feel fortunate that I am able to see my children, and their children grow. It is great to not wake up every Saturday morning to nurse a beer, cigar and Tequila hangover. I feel healthier and am more mentally aware than I can ever remember being, and all because of her love for me.

She turns a blind eye as my grand-kids occasionally smuggle in a few Hershey's Kisses or a Kit-Kat bar for Papaw, but she keeps an eye on me at all times.

I guess I literally owe her my life. In fact, so does a friend of mine. She made me so healthy I was able to donate a kidney to a suffering friend. Imagine someone even wanting one of my abused kidneys, but nevertheless, verily it has come to pass, and all because of her.

I suppose the old saying that behind every great man is a great woman. To be more politically correct I suppose the saying should be changed to read; "Beside every healthy person is a loving concerned person". I hate omitting the word "man" because I know how very dumb us guys are. We have a lessened fear of death, which frequently clouds our priorities. We sometimes fail to consider how much we impact the people around us. Who is going to teach the grandson how to fish? Who is home while the parents work and have the time to teach the granddaughter how to ride a bike without training wheels? And probably most crucial of all, who is going to pass on the revered and renowned practice of "Pull my finger", if not ole' Papaw?

Thank you Honey. I couldn't have done it without you.

Peace
JB

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

hesitate to write this story for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I'm not particularly proud of everything I have done in my life, and this story certainly falls in that category, and secondly, it's not an especially tasteful story. You see, I try very hard to present a persona in my writing that fools the reader into thinking what I want them to think. For example; I want you to think that I have a brain, but as this story will example, that is not always the case. However, in my defense, I will add that this event occurred many years ago and hopefully my IQ has since improved.

I was in my late 20's, and like every young man of that age, I was, how should I put this ... Okay, I'll just quote my father. I was "Young, dumb and full of come". The twenties for a man is an exciting time. We awake every morning with our soldier at stiff attention, lovemaking is at its best, and we are entirely invincible. My young wife was in constant awe of my greatness and my general "I shall rule the world" attitude, so she had every reason to think that I would be a good husband, an decent father and a strong provider for her. She trusted me and my decisions without question. I'm telling you this because I do not wish for this saga to reflect poorly upon her.

Somehow, and please don't ask me how because to this day I am not sure what I was thinking, I came up with the brilliant idea that I should make a plaster representation of my manhood at its best. Okay, let's cut the crap. I wanted to make a life-sized statue of my "rooster". My wife, being young and impressionable, reluctantly agreed to assist me in this endeavor. In my mind I was about to create something of great historic value, not unlike the statue of David or the Venus De Milo, and that it would forever stand as a bold historical representation of "John the Great" of the 20th Century.

I hurriedly went to an arts and crafts store and bought five pounds of Plaster of Paris, (yes, I thought a lot of myself), and rushed home to create the next great monolith of modern of art. I envisioned the finished product being displayed in the Musee du Louvre in Paris France, or at least in the Museum of Fine Arts in San Francisco (although that option made me feel a bit uneasy).

My wife and I ripped open the container and hurriedly made the plaster mixture in one of her best stewing pots and went to work. To keep this as clean as possible I will just say that my wife helped me prepare for the sculpture, and when I was at my best I sat on the edge of the bathtub and she applied the plaster abundantly on my purple headed yogurt slinger, being thorough and applying it from just below my navel to the crack of my derriere.

We then read the instructions and shared a glass of California Red as we waited the 20 minutes for the plaster to cure to its maximum density. Roughly that of a marble headstone. Now, The object was to simply slide my Moisture and Heat Seeking Venomous Python of Love out of the plaster contraption, then pour vegetable oil in the cast, refill it with plaster, wait, lather, rinse and repeat, and then extract the wondrous work of art. Sounds simple. Eh? The problem was when I attempted to extract Big Ed the Scream Machine, he would not budge.

I really must warn you that the descriptions from this point on are somewhat graphic in nature, and much like the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland, it is not safe for persons that are, or may become pregnant, persons with heart problems or those who suffer unusually high gag reflex. I will supply you with this picture to look at as you ponder whether or not you wish to continue.



Shall we continue? Think "YES" or "NO" and respond accordingly.

Okay. In our zeal to create this modern art masterpiece it seems that we had not thought the process through thoroughly. While attempting to extract my love truncheon I discovered the first of many problems. The plaster, which as I said, traveled up my hind quarters, and in effect had made an irremovable plaster chastity device unrivaled by Medieval design. I yelled the only thing I could at that moment of realization. "Mommy!!!!!!"



It was decided that I would need some tools from the trunk of the car so I sent my wife out to the parking lot to retrieve a pair of Robo-Grip pliers. When she returned I bent gently forward and she began trying to pry the rock-hard plaster down and away from my bum. It was very painful but after several minutes I heard a loud "crrraaaaackkk" and a piece roughly the size of a dime fell to the floor with a gentle "tink"

I have to hand it to my wife, she stayed with it, piece by painful piece, until I was once again at least able to cop a squat and fire a dog-rocket, should the need arise. So, that ordeal over, I attempted again to extract my Man Pickle from its plaster sarcophagus.

Problem number two became painfully obvious immediately. That's right, The family orbs were also trapped securely in the plaster. Now, for those of you who do not fully understand the level of pain the twins can effect on a man, just think of it this way. Rather than take a kick in the McNuggets I would gladly prefer to let a Boeing 747 run over my kosher dill during landing. These guys must be protected at all times and at any cost!


We pondered our options for a few minutes as I chugged about a half gallon of California Red and hung my head in shameful defeat. My wife suggested using a nutcracker. Not an option, if for no other reason because of its name. A crowbar? Get real. Go to the hospital? Oh Hell No! I wasn't going to end up in some medical journal as an example of the second dumbest medical emergency in the history of man. (Second only to this guy with a light bulb up his butt)

(Note: I try to be open minded about this Xray. Perhaps his butt just had a great idea!)

ANYWAYS... So, after long contemplation we decided that maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that all my manly hair was simply entangled in the plaster, and that through careful scissor snipping I just might be able to free myself from the horrible pickle and pecan hijacker. Carefully I slipped the scissors down from the naval area and started making gentle snips at my fur. So far so good. But the time came to snip from behind and I was unable to reach into the tomb and snip around my walnuts myself. I vaguely remembered that my wife once told me she had flunked the Home Economics class on sewing, seems a tube top was too challenging for her, but I forced that thought aside and handed her the scissors.

I assumed the moon-river position over the edge of the tub, giving her an unprecedented front row view of my anus-orifice and gritted my teeth. I jumped nervously as she slid the sharp points of the scissors down into the cast and she made the first snip.

OH MOTHER OF HOLY GOD SHES NEUTERED ME! I thought as she gave a healthy snip to my duffel bag. I leapt forward, banging my face against the heavy porcelain tub, promptly bloodying my nose and chipping one of my front teeth. After a few moments of crying like little Polly Pink Panties I took a tentative look back at my wife. The scissors she was holding had a rich-red drip of blood, my blood, running down the blades and over her fingers. "YOU'VE KILLED ME!" I screamed.

It took several minutes for either of us to calm down. My wife got a Hefty bag from the kitchen and laid it across the seat cushion of my easy chair and gently helped me to sit down on it. We both sat in silence for several minutes as thoughts of singing soprano in a barbershop quartet raced through my mind. I also took a moment to consider if I had any interest in sex reassignment. I could easily hop a plane and be at John Hopkins University Hospital in Baltimore in under 8 hours. I could start a whole new life. Guys would ogle over my chest all the time and I would never have to pay for another drink in a bar the rest of my life.

The mind plays tricks. You must play tricks back.

ANYWAY... Two hours had passed and we were no closer to a solution. By now the excitement had entirely diminished and Big Ed had shriveled up to the size of a single-celled amoeba. I tried to use my brain, I really did, but times of extreme stress can cause a man certain madness. Finally, I said as calmly, and in as masculine a voice as I could muster; "Go get my hammer". My wife complied without uttering a sound. This was not the time to argue with a man.

A few minutes later found me on my knees, the plaster captive device laying on the edge of the bathtub, and me doing a gentle "tap-tap" at various strategic points. After what seemed like about thirty-seven days, my gentle tap-taps had accelerated to "knock-knocks", and then to "wham-whams", and finally to "BANG-BANGs". At one point I thought I might be making some headway as a piece of something white fell into the tub. I picked it up only to realize that I was now chipping away the porcelain on the tub edge.

"Goddamnit! There goes our security deposit!"

At this point I was more desperate than I could ever recall. There were times in Vietnam that couldn't rival this desperation. I hobbled, pants down around my ankles, to the window and peered out onto the front patio. It was a typical Californian ground-floor apartment patio with a wooden fence on three sides, and a cheap Coleman charcoal grill, but it did have something that I needed. A heavy concrete cinder-block that I could use as an anvil. Even though a quick vision of Wile E. Coyote did flash through my mind, in my desperation I decided what had to be done.


I sent my wife outside to do a quick recon of the neighbors and she reported back that only old Mrs. Wilcox from across the court was out there snipping at her flowers and everyone knew the old gal couldn't see for shit, bless her heart. Besides, I had my three-sided privacy fence so I decided to go for it. With 3 lb. hammer in hand I shuffled hurriedly out the door and lowered myself onto my knees and placed the plaster phallus atop the cinder-block. My wife offered to do the deed but I simply gave a growl not unlike a rabid ferret and she took her post as sentry at the opening of the fence. A "lookout post" if you will.

I said a silent prayer and did that Catholic cross-thingy on my chest even though I'm neither Catholic nor a baseball player, and I raised the hammer high above my head. I squinted my eyes and swung as hard as I could. My right toe was now bleeding like Jebus on the cross and the blood trailed away under the fence and onto the common sidewalk. I yelled some things that I'm not even sure how to spell here, so I will fore-go any descriptive of that verbal bellowing. It suffices to say that even a Merchant Marine with severe Tourette's Syndrome could not have outdone my string of profanity. I looked back at my wife and she nodded anxiously for me to get it over with, and I summoned up the courage to try again, sans closed eyes. I'm not joking, a full fifty swings later I was just beginning to crack the white wiener wrangler open. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a bloody hand and prepared for another assault when just then I heard a little girl's voice say "Mommy, what is that man doing?"

I looked up to see my upstairs neighbor's wife and their five year old daughter looking over the balcony at what must still haunt the little girl even to this day. Let's face it. If you live a thousand years, one of the things you'll probably never see is a guy on his knees swinging a three-pound hammer at his albino cave dweller as it lay sacrificially upon a concrete altar.

It just never happens !

I decided to hurry up and get it done, unfortunately what old Mrs. Wilcox lacked in sight, she more than made up in hearing. She had called the police only moments after I whacked my toe. My wife said "John .... JOHN!", and just as I turned to answer her, two of California's finest entered the patio. The older one crossed his arms and looked me in the eye with a puzzled "WTF?" look, while the younger one covered his mouth and laughed so hard that snot shot out of his nostrils. Once the younger cop composed himself he asked the older cop if he should "call it in". The more experienced cop just shook his head "no" and turned his attention back to me. By now my wife had high-tailed it back into the apartment and was gurgling down the last liter or so of the Red Napa-Juice. I guess she figured if she was going to jail, she might as well go good and sedated.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to go indoors to finish that... whatever the hell it is you think you're doing..."

I felt a slight moment of relief and pulled myself up onto my feet and turned around, only to notice that nearly every balcony in the apartment complex was filled with rubbernecking, and in many cases, gasping women and children and several men shaking their heads as if to say "what a dumbass!" I guess if you're a cop in the San Francisco Bay Area, and given enough time, you will have pretty much seen it all.

I raised my chin proudly, dropped the hammer onto the top of the cinder-block, and with pants around ankles, shuffled the eight hundred and seventy-five baby steps back into the apartment. I gave a nod and a polite "thank you" to the elder officer and shut the door and turned the knob lock, and the deadbolt, and put the chain on, and pushed the refrigerator against it.

After all the rubberneckers had all finished discussing what they had seen and finally returned to their apartments, my wife brought the cinder-block and hammer back into the apartment. After two or three hours the evil plaster captor lay in shards on the floor of the bathroom.

She ran me a warm bath, administered both of us a Valium and took the phone off the hook. I soaked for a while, all the while trying to pick the last plaster hangers-ons from my now swollen and abused man-quarters. The bits of plaster clung to every hair like a malnourished suckling Biafran child so finally I gave up and requested a razor. Not to be too descript, but by the time I finished shaving myself I looked more like a five year old boy than I did a man. Such is the price of stupidity.

What is the moral of this story? Hell, I dunno, except to say that if any of you young guys out there are as friggin dumb as I once was, please see a professional, whether it be a professional in sculptured art, or in psychology.

Booth Out

THE MALE, HIS URINE, AND WORLD CONQUEST

At my house I routinely have to sneak out to enjoy an old vice of mine, smoking. This morning I called my dog, "Milo", a short legged fat little guy, not unlike myself in that regard, and we went out to the porch. My neighbors have a giant female Labrador that leapt excitedly as "Milo" the small Cocker Spaniel puffed his chest out and surveyed the territory, taking special note of the over-sized female. He gave a look up at me as I fumbled with shaking hands in the cold November wind to jump-start a stubborn butane lighter that had seen its better days. I looked at him, and then at the horse-like Labrador and nodded in the affirmative.

Milo proudly strutted into the neighbors yard to a bush just 6 inches from the maximum length of the chain on the female's neck and defiantly took a long, in your face, whiz on their bushes. The female seemed to know instinctively that she was now powerless and she hunkered down on her belly, placing her giant head on her paws in a submissive position. Milo finished up and casually walked back to the porch and sat down beside me, facing the rising sun, ignoring the giant female entirely as she whined a lonely wale.


My wife cracked open the screen door just long enough to see that I was taking a draw on a cigarette and give her usual disapproving scowl. I gave her the same non-acknowledgment that Milo had given the Labrador and she let the door slam shut with a huff and disappeared into the house. Her domain.



It occurred to me that Milo and I are quite alike in our territorial quests. We both have marked out a spot and claimed it defiantly as our own to the chagrin of the females in our lives. I don't recall setting out to prove a point, nor is it in my nature to be disrespectful to the female of the species, but some things are simply what they are by nature. Which brings me to the subject of my penis. (How did that happen? Smooth segway Booth !)

When it come to being a man, his urine and the mechanics of his manhood, there are certain undeniable facts, albeit quirky, but nonetheless, fact. It was not by our own design to awake each day with King Arthur's sword tall and ready for battle. It just happens. Further, it was not by our own design to have testosterone filled veins and a conquerors ambition. That too just happens to be. Not unlike our hairy legs, hairy backs, natural-born upper body strength and the like. It just is, and therefore is a force to be reckoned with by all who choose to interact with us. It is what makes us who and what we are.

This territorial defiance doesn't stop at smoking on the porch or peeing defiantly on the neighbor's bushes, not by a long shot. For example; In a public restroom, whether it be a bar or a church, if I stand at a urinal, which always have one or both of the following; A urinal cake, (No drunk guys, it's NOT a breath mint) or a plastic splash barrier, or one of these combos.

(Ladies, if you are unfamiliar with these things please see the following illustration)

Notice the blue splash guard underneath the combo. It has several holes in it, including one dead center. I always shoot precisely into the center-most hole. It is like target practice at the gun range. In fact, if I am drinking in a bar and find that I am unable to achieve at least 90% accuracy, I consider it the definitive indication that I have reached my alcohol limit. For me this is as good as a sobriety test and I immediately go home.

If the pink breath mint exists I shoot in a circular fashion around the outer circumference, doing my part to erode the mint down to the size of a lifesaver. At this point I, or my fellow brethren, will begin a direct assault upon the pink intruder until it is roughly the size of a Tic-Tac and falls through one of the holes into sewer oblivion. This is however, an unspoken procedure among myself and other men. We don't need to talk about it except when one of us has finally achieved the complete and utter destruction of the invading pink oracle that invaded our blue world.

Now, I cannot speak for all men, but I have a special quirk of my own. I do not, and will not clean a toilet. I would rather pay someone a weeks pay to get down there and stick their hands in that ungodly bowl of putridity than to do it myself. This has been a point of contention between my wife and I for over 30 years. She, on the other hand, will kneel before it, take cleanser, and (ugh... I just threw up in my mouth...) stick her hand in there and clean it. I am appreciative, but always from a distance. However, I do have my own way of helping her. If there is a "ring-o-funk" or most especially if there's a brown chip of "fecal-nast" on the side of the bowl, I will employ the long-term erosion technique of peeing directly on the spot, even if it takes weeks or months, until much like the Sphinx of Egypt, I have weathered it away with my torrential downpours and alleviated the fecal-invader once and for all. I consider this not only an admirable all-male talent, but an accomplishment worthy of annual annuity payments.

I suspect it has always been this way. Although I can find no proof, I strongly suspect that just prior to Napoleon Bonaparte's attack and subsequent conquer of Eastern Poland, he walked to the "Welcome To Poland" sign and took a territorial squirt over the border before yelling "Charge!"


I further expect that Neanderthal men did the same with caves, and that even to this day, late at night when all is still, the Pope hangs his holy pickle over the balcony and affirms his rule of Vatican City.



SO, In conclusion I offer these words of both wisdom and solace. Men cannot help the way they are. It was all in the big plan whether you believe in creationism or in the great primordial soup recipe. The instinct to seize and conquer all lands great and small, those annoying dribblings on the toilet seat, or the marking of the four corners of the yard or the writing of one's name in the snow are not only not our fault, but are also a vital part of the natural order of things. It defines us. It shouts out to the world "I was here!", and that is the very strength that our female counterparts need and expect from us. We protect the world, we clearly define the very boundaries of what is ours and what is theirs. We make the world an orderly place with our penises.

Someday one of us will urinate on Mars and all the other planets we as mankind shall reach, and I highly doubt it will be done by anyone squatting to "tinkle", and we will build upon those planets and provide for our wives and children new worlds in which to explore and enjoy. Again, all because of our penises.

Ladies, I am glad I could be of intellectual assistance.

Guys, put one in the win column for us, and don't use the urinal next to me.



Peace,
JB

A POUND OF FLESH - NO MORE NO LESS

I suppose I should call this "How to lose a pound and get a lot of attention doing it", but since I'm calling attention to myself concerning the pound I lost, it seems self serving to talk about it, yet, here I am talking about it, calling attention to myself, and all because I lost a pound and seek the attention I crave for losing it!

(WOW - I said that all in one breath ! How desperate I must be !)

As I sit here, some two weeks after losing a pound, I finally feel like talking about it. It's been less than an easy journey and it certainly pushed my resolve to its maximum test.

Okay, I will let you in on the secret of losing a pound, as I am sure you are wondering how I achieved such a miraculous feat. It was so simple I'm not sure why it took me 56 years to think of it. In fact, it is so simple a child could do it, although I would not recommend that children undertake this extreme measure. For one; who cares if a kid is chubby, and secondly; it is somewhat dangerous. Even hazardous to one's health if not properly executed.

(Offer not valid in MA, KY or AZ. Some restrictions apply. Batteries not included. Action figure sold separately. If you have an erection lasting longer than four hours see your physician at once)

First, you go to special centers where they collect gallons and gallons and gallons of your pee. Yes, your pee. Enough pee in fact to fill approximately twenty-seven of those cheap children's swimming pools you buy at Kmart for about $10. The ones that blow away when the autumn winds come, but that's OK, you wont be using the swimming pools when it's cold anyway, especially if you used it to collect your pee.

These special centers also extract a hell of a lot of blood from you over a period of months. I have given as many as 12 vials in a single sitting. I must advise you that giving this much blood can cause dizziness, goofiness, and erectile dysfunction (although that never happens to me).

Time and time again they draw your blood, label it, and send it off to specialists to be analyzed. By the time you have completed this process everyone in the world knows about your midnight Oreo binges, how much tequila you slam down on the weekends, and approximately how many sexual partners you have had in the last 30 years. One good byproduct of all this blood testing is that you pretty much know exactly where you stand physically. Another benefit is that all this expensive testing can be yours absolutely free !

If all your pee pee and your blood passes the mustard, you then move onto step two. You get Xrays, MRIs, CT Scans, CIA, FBI, NBC and DUI's, physical examinations, heart and lung tests, brain scans, you name it, you get it all.

Then, as a bonus feature, you get to speak with psychologists and case workers to determine if you are mentally stable enough to lose this pound safely. They will drill you with lots of tricky questions and you must remain on your guard if you hope to fool them into thinking you are not a complete babbling fool for wanting to lose this pound.

"Did you ever fantasize about having sex with a llama?", "Do you ever consider suicide?", "Do you ever wet the bed?". "Poop the bed?", stuff like that.

If all goes well a panel of judges with various titles sit in closed session and pick your file to pieces. No one really knows what they do in there. My guess is they tell dirty jokes and at the end they flip a coin to see if you get to lose the pound or not.

Depending on the coin toss you may be sent home with excuses like; "We think you are a depressed schizophrenic with narcissistic tendencies and delusions of grandeur" or "your ass is too big". Whatever. In my case they said; "Okay, if you're crazy enough to agree to it we approve you to lose a pound" and they give you a date for the commencement.

My date was October 12th, 2010.

One day prior to this date I was ordered to report to the "Lose a Pound - Gain a Pound Facility" sharply at 12 noon. As it turns out, a friend of mine wished to gain a pound. He had gone through similar testing and was consequently approved to gain a pound, and he was asked to report to the facility at the same time.

Here we are.

Note the look of sheer terror on my face. (Left)




After some legal formalities, (sign here, and here, initial there and there, check this box, initial it, open your mouth so I can take a swab of your DNA, close your mouth, sign here...) we were both finally escorted to our rooms and asked to make ourselves comfortable, perhaps even wear pajamas if we liked. The dress code at the facility is very relaxed. Here is a picture immediately after arriving at the facility.



As you can see, I, (for some unexplained reason) was smiling now. As an added bonus the people at the "Lose a Pound - Gain a Pound Facility" gave us some very cool multi-colored wristbands, and not your everyday "WWJD" or "Peace" wristbands, but ones with bar codes, our actual printed names, the words "Fall Risk", "Allergic to Penicillin" and other cool sayings.

Lots of people came to visit the two of us and they hugged us a lot and for some reason they kept calling me stuff like "hero" and "heaven sent". I don't know what got into everybody, but I was really enjoying the attention.



The fella on the right even prayed for us. That was pretty cool.

That night they let us watch television and gave us some pills that helped us get to sleep real fast. I was quite comfortable ! I do however, have one complaint. They neglected to give us any food to eat except for some water. I thought that was a bit extreme, but hey, overall it was cool being fussed over by lots of women in white hosiery and comfortable shoes.

The next morning they woke me up at 5:am.

No shit. 5.AM !

I'm not much of a morning person but I managed to read the paper and watch some T.V., but all along I had a strange feeling that something weird was going to happen soon. I just couldn't shake it.

At precisely 6:am some fella in pajamas and a ladies hairnet came into my room and asked me to put on a dress with no back in it. I felt a little odd standing there with my ass hanging out for all the world to see, but after a couple minutes I began to sorta like the attention the ladies in the white hosiery and comfortable shoes were giving me. My wife always told me I had a pretty nice man-butt, and I assumed this was her way of showing me off to all the ladies. Soon the guy in the pajamas and the hairnet told me to lay back down in the bed. I did as he asked and he immediately wheeled me away, bed and all, to the elevator. I thought "Cool. I'm going to get a free tour of the facility!"



In a few minutes i was rolled into another room that had a bunch of cool lights, blinking screens that went beep-beep-beep, and everyone was wearing pajamas and hairnets and cool rubber gloves. At first I wondered if the rubber gloves meant I was going to get the dreaded "bend over and sing Moon River" test, and I was wearing an assless dress, but I asked one of the people about it and they assured me that there would be no such exam today, so I felt a little better.

Then some fella came over to me and asked me if I was ready to go sleepy-time. I explained to him I had already slept all night and I was actually looking forward to some breakfast. Possibly some bacon and egg......... whoops, I was getting drowsy ......

Mmm - Maybe if they had given me some coffee this.........Why is slobber dripping outa my..... Fade to Grey. Just like in the movies. Cool. Maybe I was going to finally realize my life's ambition and have a starring roll in a racy Angelina Jolie movie! Hey... What it that? What are you all looking at? Did I just fart? Oh GOD! They're putting some kind of tube in my tallywacker !!!

Why you SONOFABI....

Zzzzzzzzzz (Fade to BLACK)

For all I know they put me into suspended animation and shot me to Mars and back. I awoke later hoping that the dress I was wearing with my ass hanging out wasn't so they could roll me over and engage in some sick game where the straight guy finally gets his comeuppance for all the gay jokes he's told in the past. I looked around the room and a 300 lb black lady in pajamas and a pink hairnet approached me and began taking my pulse. I asked if I was dead. She smiled nicely and said "not yet".

(Not the actual doctor)

Then some guy with a strap-on light on his forehead came to me and told me I did great. Great at what? Did I make the movie with Angelina? Was my mission to Mars a big success? Why does my butthole hurt? A few moments later they started pushing buttons on the beep-beep machines and adjusting the wheels on my bed.

"Would you like to see your friend Mr Booth?" One guy asked.

"Friend? What Friend?..."

That was the best I could do because I was still terribly sleepy.

The guy rolled me down a long cold hall and into another room where I recognized the face of my friend laying in a bed identical to mine. My friend gave me a weak 'Thumbs-up' and pointed to a clear plastic bag hanging on the side of his bed. The bag was full of bright shiny pee pee. For a brief moment I wondered why they were giving my friend a whiz transfusion, but then it was pointed out to me that it was his pee in the bag. I thought 'Big deal, I can do that five or six times a day if I wanted too', but then I remembered vaguely why we were both here in this place, and what we were doing.

You see, my friend couldn't pee right for a long time. In fact his condition was so bad, before this "Lose a Pound - Gain a Pound Procedure" they had to hook him up to machines several times a week and change his oil, all because he couldn't pee right.

I returned a thumbs-up the best I could considering my brain was still in la-la-land and I was preoccupied with what may or may not have happened to my butthole while I was in suspended animation. The Pajamaman then rolled me back to my room.

Once securely locked in place with bed rails up, somebody explained that if I pushed this little red button I would get doses of happy-juice, and that I could push it all I wanted to. I like to be happy so I pushed it a lot. It made me feel very happy, but it kinda made me look like I was dead. Thank God I had my blue sunglasses so even if I was dead I still looked cool.



So I slept for a while. Then I went to sleep. After that I decided to take a nap. After my nap I fell asleep. Then, courtesy of the little red button, I went to sleep again. After that I took another nap, followed by going to sleep just before I took another nap.



Then, finally someone had the common sense to take the little red happy-juice button away from me and I ultimately woke up.



You might be asking yourself; "Why is this Goober smiling?" Well, remember that tube they put in my Dragon Slayer? I realized another one of my life's ambitions. To be able to lay in bed and whiz to my heart's content without even having to get up! This was way cool and I wish I could have kept the tube in there forever. I don't want to show you the picture my wife took when they pulled the tube out because looking at it makes me want to cry like a 6 year old girl whose brother just posed her Malibu Barbie naked with a G.I.Joe at her slumber party, and not just any G.I.Joe, but the one with the imitation real 5:O'clock shadow and the Kung-Fu Grip.

It's humiliating how a full grown man can be reduced to snotting-sobbery over such a "little" thing.

Later the next day I took this picture of my friend. I'm posting it mostly just to embarrass him, but to also remind myself that if I ever find myself in one of these backless dresses again, I DO have the option of wearing underwear.



SO, There you have it. How to lose a pound in just one day. Simply give a kidney away. You get lots of drugs, you are doted over by lots of women in white hosiery and comfortable shoes, everyone is so relaxed that most just wear their pajamas to work, someone you care about gets to stay alive and not be hooked up to a Jiffy-Lube machine several times a week, and best of all, people hug you a lot and call you nice names.

"One pound of flesh, no more, no less. No cartilage, no bone, but only flesh."

I believe Dante said that, but to me it seems so much more. I get to feel good, no, strike that. I get to feel Great every day about myself. I may not ever rule the world or discover cures for what ails us. I may or may not have gone to Mars on an amazing adventure, and I may or may not have been anally assaulted, but what I do have is the knowledge that at least once in my tiny little insignificant life, I did something for someone that impacted their life forever in a positive way.



Life for my friend and I is slowly returning to normal. We're going to be out there doing what we love to do and in reasonable health. We consider ourselves very lucky that the two of us could take this fascinating and courageous journey together, weather the storms, slay the dragons, and return in one piece to revel in our victory.


Knowing that has made this journey one I will cherish forever.

Ya'll take care of one another out there.

Peace.
John