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When The Treatment Is Worse Than What’s Being Treated

I swear every day brings something new and unwelcome—and it’s not just the latest offense to decency perpetuated by the orange felon.

I’ve been on multiple titrated rounds of prednisone since the end of June and the pemphigoid blisters that covered my torso and thighs have finally stopped forming and are on average about 98% healed. Yeah, I now have big red splotches were they were, but those are better than open bisters. And I know those will eventually fade. Even though my oncologist has recommended a continual low dose of the drug for the duration until my immune system settles down, my dermatologist has been reluctant to continue because of all the side effects associated with extended use (crazy high blood sugar, lower leg swelling, random bruising to name just a few).

To be on the safe side, she ordered a slew of blood tests last week. She called me yesterday on her day off because the liver tests came back abnormally high. Like exceptionally abnormally high. Like, you-need-to-go-to-the-hospital-for-immediate-treatment-right-now high.

The reason she was so concerned is because—in addition to all my other medical issues—I have been Hep B positive since I was first diagnosed in 1985. In other words, antigens but no antibodies. For the last forty years the virus has been sitting there, minding its own business and they say, “not causing anyone no trouble.”

Well apparently since the prednisone has been used to suppress my hyper-active immune system caused by the fucking Keytruda infusions earlier this year, this has rousted the long dormant Hepatitis.

Fuck me.

At our last visit—before we knew anything about my elevated levels—she wanted me to reach out to my endocrinologist, as well as my infectious disease specialist, just to bring them into the loop so they know what’s going on and can monitor on their own if necessary.. Since that time I’ve made appointments to see both of them in a few weeks.

She asked when I was meeting with infectious disease. I told her it was the week of Thanksgiving. “See if you can get in sooner,” she said. “And I’ll reach out to him and your oncologist as well.”

About an hour later, I received a call from the ID office and asked if I could come in two weeks earlier. I said yes, so now I’m seeing him in about ten days.

Jenna (my dermatologist) called me about ten minutes later. She said she’d been able to speak with ID and he agreed the numbers were high, but not so high to warrant a visit to the ER. He told her that he and his team would work on a treatment plan to be implemented in advance of our appointment. The panic disappeared from her voice—and I was finally able to exhale.

Have I mentioned how sick I am of all this bullshit?

Not so long ago I said that if I knew back in August what I know now, I would have never gone through any of it, preferring instead to just take my chances with that tiny tumor. I’d like to amend that now, saying instead, “If I knew then what I know now, I would never have agreed to additional treatment post surgery. As traumatic as the surgery was, I’d probably be willing to endure it again if I absolutely had to. I had swallowing issues prior to having my jaw split like the carcass of a roast chicken, and there’s no guarantee that further swallowing issues wouldn’t have developed on their own even without the surgery. But the followup, the immunotherapy or chemo? Absolutely not. All my issues over the past six months have—in one way or another—been directly related to Keytruda.

Sadly I can’t turn back time, so I will continue to put one foot in front of the other and move forward, remembering that I do still enjoy life (even if I can’t savor so much as a piece of Boston Cream Pie), my retirement, the fact that I still have things that keep me engaged and learning, and that I have a wonderful man and two big, black doggos who love me unconditionally. As much as I might want to trade in this hobbled old body for a new model, I’m not ready to do that just yet. I mean, new body means new family, having to go through high school again (can you imagine). having to relearn all the skills I now take for granted, and having to search for—or possibly wait half a lifetime for again—Ben—in whatever guise he may assume.

Nah, we’ll make this one last as long as possible.

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I Am Still Cautiously Optimistic

I’ve made peace with the fact that we are never going to get a screen adaptation of DUNE that is 00F Denis Villeneuve has altered DUNE to reflect his own ideas about how the story should be presented. The final trailer that was just released has fans clutching their pearls because it would appear that Villeneuve’s DUNE is going to deviate significantly from Frank Herbert’s novels.

And surprisingly, I’m okay with that. Some characters are missing from Messiah aka DUNE 3. Others—who fans were hoping to finally see realized on screen (cough, Edric, cough) in a way only Villeneuve can do—may remain enigmas And still others are seeimgly doing things or behaving in ways that directly contradict the books. But will it be great cinema? Of course it will. Of that I am certain.

In any case, we have only about six weeks to wait until we find out for sure

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Saturday Jokes

Did you know on the Canary Islands there is not one canary? 

And on the Virgin Isles?

Same thing – not one canary there either!

The next time you shop, ask your cashier what kind of candy bar they like and buy them one.

I did this today, it was self checkout, but still, it’s a nice thing to do!

Your body has always told you when it’s tired. 

At 80, you’ve finally stopped arguing with it.

One day Steve’s mom was cleaning his room. In the closet, she found a bondage S&M magazine.

This was highly upsetting to her.

She hid the magazine until his father got home.

When Steve’s father walked in the door, she irately handed the magazine to him, and said, “THIS is what I found in your son’s closet.”

He looked at it and handed it back to her without a word.

After an uncomfortable minute of silence she finally asked him, “Well, what should we do about this?”

Dad looked at her and said, “Well I DON’T think you should spank him.” (Kathy)

If you want to look tall, hang out with short people.

If you want to look young, hang out with old people.

If you want to look smart, hang out with Trump supporters.

One day, you’ll hear cell phones going off.

Then shouting and cheering.

In the distance, car horns will begin to honk.

A stranger might buy everyone a round at the bar where you’re sitting.

And without anyone saying a word, you’ll know…

As the stranger enters a country store, he spots a sign: “Danger! Beware of Dog!” Inside, he sees a harmless old hound asleep in the middle of the floor.

Is that the dog we’re supposed to beware of?” he asks the owner.

“That’s him,” comes the reply.

“He doesn’t look dangerous to me. Why would you post that sign?”

“‘Cause before I posted that sign, people kept tripping over him.” (Kathy)

I’m not getting older. I’m becoming a limited edition. (Bilbo)

[source]

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UPDATE: 10:01am Oct 30] Goddammit, Donny just announced he’s going ahead and doing the two canceled rallies. Fuuuuck me. As you read the post below, that I just spent three hours writing, pretend you’re the guy from Mememto, and you can’t form lasting memories.]

esterday evening, out of the clear blue and without warning, the White House abruptly announced that all of Dear Leader’s upcoming weekend rallies had been canceled — fuckity-bye, hit the bricks, sayonara — thereby depriving his remaining cultists the opportunity to sit uncomfortably on a folding chair in a thimble-sized gymnasium, and listen to Donny ramble incoherently for two entire hours about how he successfully pointed at the drawing of the camel, all while being drowned out by an endless series of hecklers.

Oh, and Donny hasn’t shitcanned those rallies because he’s debilitated. No, you’re the one who’s debilitated.

Reporter Jacob Bogage: “So you not going to Kansas has nothing to do with you being sick of traveling?”

Donny: “Oh, you’re sick to ask that question. You are sick. Who are you with?”

Bogage: “I’m with Reuters, sir.”

Donny: “You are a sick guy. Reuters is terrible. Can you imagine? Look at this guy. He’s way out of shape. Look at how bent— he comes [makes accordion hands] he comes to me. ‘Sir, you’re not gonna go to Kansas.’ I’m not going to Kansan because he’s doing very well. We’re gonna do a tele-rally’ … but he says, ‘you’re not going to Kansas, sir, are you feeling well?’ You’ve been following me for two weeks. I feel perfect. You are disgusting. Put yourself in shape. You look like hell.”

Shut the fuck up, Piggy.

Wow, Dear Leader sure gets cranky when he’s got a full load in his diaper — and he didn’t even hear the question correctly. Did you catch that? The reporter asks Donny if he’s ‘sick of traveling,’ and Donny goes ballistic because all he hears is ‘are you sick?’ And he automatically explodes into some infantile rant about ‘I’m not sick, you’re sick’ — because he’s got the emotional maturity of a four-year-old.

Maybe Donny needs to get his ears checked.

Is this a piece of your brain, Donny?

Dear Leader can’t hack it any more. He’s too old and tired and demented to be flying across the country every single goddamned day. Plus, he’s fed up. He loves the crowds — only this time around, there aren’t any crowds. All that remains are the die-hard, brain-deadest cultists — and there aren’t even enough of them left to fill the pint-sized high school gyms his flunkies are booking him into. How long before Donny has to open for a puppet show?

Donny didn’t sign up for this. He doesn’t want to stand there and listen to some communist heckler scream at him about shoving his beloved Epstein Dance Hall up his fat ass, or call him ‘Butterscotch Shitler.’ Fuck that shit, and fuck it hard. He’d rather be at his golf motel, canoodling with his diaper nurse. 

‘Oh Natty, you’re the only one who understands me.’

Eww. I think I just threw up in my own mouth a little.

So now, if you’re a cultist and you need your Donny fix this weekend, you’re going to have to zoom in to some ‘tele-rally,’ and watch Dear Leader sitting behind the Resolute Desk, drooling all over himself as he gradually loses consciousness. It’ll be just like a real rally, except you won’t be able to smell the farts.

Meanwhile, let’s go live to Republican National Headquarters for the GOP’s reaction to Donny having canceled his remaining rallies.

Seriously, the GOP is fucking celebrating right now — only they won’t say so out loud. Let’s let CNN’s Kaitlan Collins explain (beginning at 3:25 in the clip below).

“Sources say, though, that some Republican officials are relieved by the president’s decision to cancel those final two rallies. One top Republican official told my colleague Jeff Zeleny, quote, ‘thank God. He hasn’t moved the needle anywhere.’ And a second official, saying, quote, ‘everyone has seen the president who wants to see him.’”

Boo fucking hoo, Republicans. Maybe it was a mistake to hitch your wagons to an increasingly-befuddled fascist who, thanks to an increasing fog of dementia and untreated tertiary syphilis, no longer has any idea which end is up.

Oh, and here’s some more stupid-shittery that Preznit Fuckwit got up to on that tarmac yesterday.

Reporter: “Have you heard that Lt. General Sylvia leaked classified information at the Pentagon?”

Donny: “One what?”

Reporter: “I said, Lt. General Sylvia leaked classified information at the Pentagon.”

Donny: “She’s got problems. She’s gonna have big problems. She did. We’re very much looking for leakers, and uh— she’s gonna have big problems.”

Oy my god, Dear Leader isn’t just deaf, he’s ignorant. Check out, from his Wikipedia page, this photo of Lt. General Brett Sylvia — who just happens to be a dude.

Surely, Donny can’t be this seriously misinformed, can he?

Spoiler alert: yes he can be this misinformed. Remember, Donny’s daily intel briefing has been boiled to down to a single page of bullet points and burlesque photos from the 1940s.

That’s the only thing that will hold Donny’s attention. So of course he hasn’t a fucking clue who Lt. General Brett Sylvia is. All he hears is the name ‘Sylvia’ and away he goes, blithering about the retribution he’s going to inflict on some imaginary woman who doesn’t exist. 

I’m so old, I remember when Job Biden would occasionally stumble over someone’s name, and would have to correct himself. The press would have a field day, and start filling editorial pages with piece after piece about how Sleepy Joe was too old and icky and smelly do to his job, and how he needs to step down, right now, for the good of the country.

Now we have an actual cognitively-collapsed president concocting fairy tales about strange generals, lying in ponds, distributing leaks — and not one worthless scribbler of the corporate-controlled press can be bothered to say one word about it.

It’s so embarrassing to have a President of the United States who is an uninformed fool who has no fucking clue what’s going on inside his own government, and just makes shit up on the spot, based on what’s he’s misheard.

But tell me once again how it was Joe Biden who was the real problem. That’s such an awesome story.

I swear, I yam disgustipated. 

Let’s just cut to our Hero of the Day, because this guy’s a fucking hoot and a half. 

Fox News bobblehead: “Tom, why are you here this morning?”

Tom: “Well, in the late 70s, I was a little too young to get involved and go to South America for the Jonestown Massacre. But this is as close as I’ll ever get, so that’s why I’m here.”

Bobblehead: “Wait, the Jonestown Massacre?”

Tom: “That’s right. There’s nothing like seeing a cult right up front, man.”

Bobblehead: “Maybe this is not a Trump supporter [walks away dejectedly].”

And right there, that’s your problem for Fox news — and for all the wingnut media right now. When there are too few cultists in the crowd, it’s way too easy for any mischief-maker to walk up to the dude holding the microphone, and go ‘interview me next.’

Masterful job, bro. Norway will be in touch to let you know when you can pick up your Nobel Trolling Prize.

[Oh, and that scream you just heard, that was me — because this is where I was in writing this post when I got the notification on my phone about Donny going ahead with the canceled rallies. I was this fucking close, man.]

this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:

practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.

to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.

we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.

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Something A Little Different

Orff – Carmina Burana / Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelpha Orhestra (1960)

My first love as a teenager was classical music. While my parents encouraged this, their library of recordings was limited. Fortunately, at the time Phoenix was blessed with a fantastic ratio station that expanded my horizons considerably.

This is one of those pieces, and this particular performance is so seared into my brain that—some forty years later—I can still recall every note and intonation.

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Now I’m Just Being Silly

Although not really that silly. It’s more akin to visualizing a memory, however imperfect the finished result may be.

Circa 1991 or 1992, waiting at the Van Ness station for an outgoing train to take me to Church Street. I remember grooving to Sade (most likely Promise or Stronger Than Pride) and the music was really moving me, prompting me dancing my ass up and down the platform while waiting.

I didn’t care what people thought.

It was quite liberating.

The image is almost period-accurate. The iconic Apple silhouette this was modeled on didn’t come into being until 2001, and those headphones…well, Sennheiser didn’t start making the HD600s until ’98 and I didn’t get my first pair until this year, but the period-accurate predecessor looks similar enough that no one would probably notice from this photo.

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