Ever Had One of Those Situations Where You Thought You Were Doing Something for Somebody Else but Really You Were Helping Yourself?

Note: There's no way for me to write this post without sounding like an egotistical, self-aggrandizing nob. Sometimes, when the shoe fits, all you can do is wear it...

Before I stopped working, my boss asked me if I'd thought about how best to give the people I'd worked with over the years the chance to say goodbye. I had to admit I hadn't, but, happily, some others had thought that there might be benefit to having an event where I could hang out, we could have some snacks and drinks, and a folks could stop by for a chat. 

Last Thursday we had that event. Before it started my boss warned me that I'd be surprised by the number of people that would show up. Indeed. I was surprised by the number of people that showed up. Aside from my friend Anne who flew back from Boston, it felt like I talked with a couple of hundred people. 

And here's the funny thing. Before I arrived, I had thought I was attending for the benefit of the folks who'd be carrying on after I left. I didn't particularly want to be haunting the halls like Jacob Marley, and it seemed the least I could do was give the folks who would find it helpful the chance to say goodbye. But it didn't take long before I realized that all of the benefits from the event were mine.

Like, I suspect, most of the working population, I work in a job that one would generally describe as thankless. My colleagues and I perform our tasks, and we assume (though who really knows?) it has value somewhere down the chain, but for the most part we're guessing more than knowing. And if you don't find the work itself motivation enough, you generally move on to something else. 

But imagine if you could spend three hours at the end of your job listening to people tell you that the work you did had positively impacted them, making the work they did easier to do or better. How gratifying and overwhelming would that be?

That was the gift my my colleagues gave me: three hours of being told that the work I'd spent nine years doing had mattered. 

I've said it before, but there are some gifts that just can't ever be repaid. 

The key to attracting a crowd: have good snacks...

A few of my minions*

* To explain: As part of my job I managed three separate teams. Since I occasionally needed to reach out to them as a group or schedule group meetings and whatnot, I created an Outlook group with the alias, "Minions." Eventually they figured it out, so one of them had T-shirts made that read, "John's Minions" (including the world's worst picture of me), and they all wore them to the event. Have I mentioned how easy it is to look like you know what you're doing when the people you work with are awesome? 

Some Potentially Helpful Reminders

I learned this past week that the blog's recent inability to comprehend and present the fact that Ireland is a separate, and uniquely valuable nation, independent of, and emphatically not part of, the United Kingdom caused a few hard feelings.

I certainly apologize for my geopolitical ignorance (which certainly doesn't stop there), and in an effort to make amends have come up with this list of Five Things that Might Help One to Remember that Ireland Is Its Own Independent Nation and Not a Part of the UK...

		#5, The Irish Wolfhound It's not many dogs that can stand up and look at me eye to eye, so props to the country that produced one that can. And the fact that they also a) look like a little black rain clouds (relative to other clouds, not other dogs), and b) are very sweet and mellow, is further credit to the people that groomed the breed.
		#4, American Football For purposes here, avoid European football. Way too many "international" competitions with teams coming from places that aren't actually nations, so that sport's actually more confusing than helpful. Look, instead, to American football, which loves the "fighting Irish" (of whatever variations or flavors). Not too many "battling English" or "marauding Swedes" out there, but lots of Irish. So thinking of football may serve as a useful reminder of Ireland's independence.
		#3, St. Patrick's Day We don't have a St. George's day, a St. Albion's day, a St. Sebastian's Day or, to the best of my recollection, a St. Anyone's day other than St. Patrick. And since St. Patrick -- patron saint of green beer or something -- is so distinctly Irish, remembering that there's a St. Patrick's Day should help serve as a reminder of Ireland's independent status.
		#2, The All-Important Musical Questions Can you think of any contemporary (to me) rock bands that self-identify primarily as, say, Welsh or Scottish? Go ahead. You can Google it. I'll wait.  Next question: Can you think of any bands that self-identify as Irish? Need I say more?
		#1, My Friend Anne Last Thursday, my employer had a wake party going away event, to give the folks that had worked with me the chance to officially say goodbye, rather than have me ghost out the back door and disappear.  More on that event in a bit. Imagine how gobsmacked I was when my friend, and former co-worker, Anne walked through the door. Anne and I worked together on various committees and projects from the time I started until 2013(? 2012?), when and left to take a job on the East Coast.  But she elected to spend her hard-earned cash, and well-earned vacation time, to fly back for my event. As someone who has been the target of occasional criticism and lamentation over my weirdo introvert's inability to make friends, all I can say is, how many social butterfly extroverts can claim friends that flew across the country to attend their goodbye events?

Score one for the introverted weirdos. 

But that's hardly fair. Anne's flight out probably says a lot more about how kind and considerate she is, than it does belie the fact that I'm an introverted weirdo. Which leads to my actual point of mentioning all this in that Anne is from Ireland, and takes great pride in her homeland, and so now I feel a little bad that my blog slighted Ireland's political status as an independent, and uniquely valuable nation, only to have one of its best representatives show up at my event. 

So I, for one, will now think of Anne, and absolutely remember that Ireland is not part of the UK. It seems the least -- almost literally -- that I can do. 

I'm Ok, Just Tired

Haven't had enough energy to post updates for the last few, generally eventful, days.

Soon I hope.

But I'm still breathing.

One of Those Brief Flashes of Enlightenment (by Way of Sib4 and Instagram or Something)

My Balloon Popped

Or maybe it was the fact that it's now raining. Either way, today's balloon ride across the skies above Woodinville has been cancelled. 

So we have rescheduled for next Friday. 

I am very much hoping we do not have to reschedule again. 

Calendaring becomes more and more interesting with each passing day. 

House Rules

(Fair warning: Some of those reading this are going to find it less than cheery, but if you have plans to stop by my condo at any point you may want to slog through it. It'll save some unnecessary surprises.)


Over the course of the past week I've come to realize that I've reached the point where it's time for some house rules. As a result, I'm posting the notice below on my front door. I'm posting a copy here, not because it's relevant to anyone not planning to stop by, but because most of the people who do stop by are also reading the blog and this will give them something of a heads up, thus helping to prevent any unexpected emotional breakdowns on my front porch.

Please read beforeringing the doorbell

Hi!

The occupant of this upstairs unit (that’s me) has terminal cancer. It’s no biggie -- that’s life (& death) -- and I’m not looking for sympathy. I am, however, looking to minimize the number of times I have to walk up and down the stairs behind this door. So please…

If you’re delivering a pizza –- Ring the bell. No doubt I’ve got visitors and someone will be right down.

If you’re here to make a pitch for a candidate, advocate for an upcoming ballot position or otherwise talk politics –- Can we just not? I know how I’m voting, will be doing so just as soon as I get my ballot, and a three minute conversation with a stranger isn’t going to change anything. But it’ll send me to bed for a two hour recovery nap. The only thing ringing my doorbell will result in is a letter to your organization with a few strong words and a copy of this notice.

If you’re here to sell me something, ask for a charitable donation or otherwise separate me from my money –- Again, let’s just not. Given my situation, I’m not going to subscribe to anything, upgrade my broadband, upgrade my cellphone, make a donation, or anything similar. You’ll just be wasting my time and yours.

If I know you and you’re expected -– Just come in (the door is sticky; it helps to push at the bottom corner with your foot), give a shout and come on up.

If I know you and you’re unexpected –- Same as above, but you might wait for me to shout back before you head up.

In all other cases -– Ring the bell, but be patient. It may take a minute or so for me to make my way down.

One last thing:

Please, please, please don’t let the cat out. I really don’t have the energy to track her down and fetch her back.

Thanks for your understanding,

john

How 'Bout a Round of Mostly Real (if Occasionally Snarky) Answers to Some Mostly Real (but also Fake and/or Rhetorical) Questions?

With the possible exception of a presidential candidate, everyone likes a good Q&A...

Can I have Kevin? 

Unfortunately (for you), no. My colleague and cat sitter will be providing Kevin with her next home. Vickie actually volunteered to take in my generic, to-be-named cat, if the need arose, before I got Kevin. And given how hard it is to pry Kevin out of the house when she stays there, I suspect she'll be thinking she got an upgrade. So it's all good. Kevin's covered.

How long do you think before you'll have to give her up? 

Well, if I was an ancient Egyptian, I'd have her mummified so that she could keep me company in the underworld. And while that seems a little extreme, I figure it might be nice to have some feline company during the, uh, erm, well <insert personal preference of weird uncomfortable words here>.  

At the same time, Kevin's new favorite game may lead to her early eviction. The way the game works is that I sit down and then Kevin tries to drape her body across my lap such that she hits as many of the "oh god, don't touch me there" spots as possible. It seems the cat "wins" -- hey, I don't make up the game, I just get suckered into playing -- when i shriek, stand up and throw her on the floor. 

In other words, the long-term duration of my cat ownership will depend almost entirely on whether or not my providers can get a grip on the abdominal pain.

Speaking of the pain, how's the Fentanyl working out?

There's only one answer that actually counts as an answer, and that's "it works perfectly and all my pain is gone." That, however, would also be completely untrue. Despite the patches, the pain is still very much present. This, then, prompts the follow-up, But is it working at all? To which I can only reply, I have no idea. My pain is, say, a seven (on the Big Hero 6 populated pain scale of 1 to 10) with the Fentanyl stuck to my chest. Would it be nine without the patch? Or even possibly a three? Again, no idea -- but there's no way I'm running the experiments necessary to find out on my own.

Any cool side effects?

Well, at this point it could be the Fentanyl, the Oxycontin , the lack of food and/or myriad other potential causal factors, but I am getting some very weird -- and very vibrant -- hallucinations in transition between wakefulness and sleep. I could've sworn some Asian woman was handing me food as I was lying in bed this afternoon, and was honestly surprised not to find a spring roll in my hand when I woke up.

I was wondering, is there a reason why your abdomen sounds like a broken aquarium, or possibly a pod of cavorting humpback whales? 

Oh, you noticed that did you? I'm sure there's probably a reason, but I can't say I'm optimistic I'll ever find out what it is. Unfortunately, I've definitely noticed that a decline in the quantity, content and clarity of communication between the provider team and I has definitely been part and parcel to this new phase of the cancer experience. 

Since we're talking about embarrassing body stuff, any chance you've found the limit to the number of ways in which your ass can make your life a misery? 

I can say this with complete and absolute certainty: There isn't one.

So should we talk about the hemorrhoids?

Oh, hell no.
Since we're talking about pain again, if there was going to be a gunfight with the weird cancery abdominal pain at one end of the street and a massage therapist at the other end, who do you think would win? 

You could arm the massage therapist a machine gun and a rocket launcher, and the weird cancery pain would still win.

Whatever happened with that clinical trial you were trying to qualify for?

I qualified. I don't -- and won't -- know whether I was randomized to receive drug or placebo, but whatever it is they'll start giving it to me on Friday. 

Any concerns?

Definitely. It's an infusion. Infusions suck. And who the hell knows what the (real) side effects might be? But in the grand scheme of things, I'm actually a lot more worried about the abdominal pain these days than the potential side effects of the trial.

Weird, context-free question: Would it be possible for the host of the American Top Forty radio show to be any more ignorant of how basic statistics, much less cancer diagnoses, actually work? 

After what I heard on Sunday, clearly not.

If it were up to you, are there any words or phrases that you would say should never, ever, be spoken to a cancer patient as if they had meaning? 

Personally, I'd have to go with, "there's always hope."

Last question: clown show or dynastic nepotism?

Oops, gotta run...

Riding the Wayback Machine

If you set your wayback machine to go back forty years and went looking for my family, you'd find us living in Southern California. And if you drove, say, forty-five minutes from our house (note: these are 1976 minutes, not 2016 minutes) you'd also find my grandparents' house and, somewhere in that general vicinity, where my Mum's sister and her family lived.

In short, a fairly closely co-located extended family.

So as you might image, holidays we're pretty much a set routine: we'd all troop to the grandparent's house, and the kids would roam around the hill behind their house or raid the game drawer, while the adults did whatever it is the adults did. And then eventually there would be food. 

And if you were really lucky, the holiday you were visiting would not be one of those during which I barfed all over the dinner table. But let's not waste time thinking about those particular events.

Speaking of time, it is, of course, the nature of time to pass. And it is the nature of things, things like death and divorce, to happen. And it is the nature of kids to get older and to go out into the world to find their own colleges and partners and jobs and careers, and pretty soon an event that filled a house and spilled out into the yard doesn't even require putting the leaves in the dining room table anymore. And then, finally, you're the one leaving and the holiday rituals that defined your childhood become a part of your past.

All normal. All healthy. 

But eventually enough time passes that you realize you sort of miss those rituals. And the more you think about it, the more you wish there was an opportunity to cycle back around and relive one of those (hopefully, barf-free holidays) again. And then cancer enters the picture, and the clock starts ticking, and you decide you'll take what you get, 'cause there's not a lot of time left to be choosy.

Sometimes, though, you just have to be lucky. 

Because with luck, and a little bit of effort from a variety of people, you can turn some some sketchy plans for a weekend BBQ, combined with a few email messages, some work schedule alterations, and a couple of last minute plane tickets into a full-blown family reunion...

Or at least a mostly-blown family reunion. There were a few folks who didn't have enough time to make the scramble, and some members of the next generation are already off pursuing partners and college and life, but still... Given the limited planning time available, the fact that as many people turned up as did was kind of amazing.

I couldn't even begin to identify the last time it would've been possible to take a picture like this. 

And, of course, the afternoon was perfect. Aside, perhaps, from the lack of bacon grease in the food and the contemporary preference for brewed beverages over the distilled, it was about as close as you could get to a family holiday circa 1977. 

So here's to all the cousins and second-cousins, and nieces and nephews, and siblings, and friends who scrambled their schedules so they could make it. In particular, here's to my aunt and my cousin who flew out from Tennessee.

The sense I got is that most everyone found value in the afternoon, but I can't really speak for everyone. I can only speak for myself.

For myself, the afternoon meant the world to me.

Another Item Off the List -- Plus a Super-bonus, Universal Bucket List Item Check-Off

So I mentioned previously that I was given tickets to Friday night's Mariner game. Which was actually pretty good timing in that a) it's been a couple of decades since I've been to a game, and b) it takes me about ten or twenty years to get over the plutocracy that, despite multiple public votes to the contrary, wound up with the field being built with public funds -- an effective transfer of a few hundred million dollars from the public coffers to the team's owners -- and the fact that despite the public funding, a significant portion of the Seattle public can't afford tickets to the games.

But once you get past all that, I have to admit that it's actually a pretty nice field.

See...

And this was on a night when uncooperative weather kept the roof closed, which is not the best way to see a game. Safeco's definitely better with the roof open.

Unlike the weather, however, the team was very cooperative, scoring nine runs in the second inning. If you're going to put seeing a game on your pointless accomplishments list, you may as well choose a night when the home team wins.

Through truth be told, I actually don't know that they won. When it took sixty-five minutes to get through the first inning, I warned the rest of my part that we likely wouldn't be making it through all nine. 

And we didn't. We left after five -- which was still two-and-a-half hours after the game started.

But none of that is the best part. The best part is that it wasn't even on my list, and I wasn't even trying, but I... 

...got to be on TV. 

And who doesn't want to be on TV before they die?

You can tell from my picture that we had pretty good seats, but what you can't see is that on my left was the eight-year-old (EYO), on his left was his dad, and next to that were two empty seats and then the aisle. At some point, the EYO's dad bought him a gigantic package of cotton candy, and at roughly the same time the jumbotron started playing some song that involved cotton candy. 

At about this point, a cameraman appeared and took the two seats next to the aisle. He explained to the brother-in-law that if the EYO could just naturally watch the game and eat his cotton candy, the cameraman would get him on TV. 

And so began the most humorous seven minutes of the evening, as the cameraman starts trying to compose and manipulate the situation so that everything seems "natural," while, in order, the brother-in-law, the EYO, myself and Sib2 (sitting on my right) do everything we can to make it all seem weird and unnatural as possible. And then, of course, there was a commercial break, so the period requiring normalcy got extended while the cameraman waited for the broadcast to resume. Props to the cameraman for hanging in to get his shot. He definitely worked for it.

And then he was gone, and we didn't really know if we'd made the grade or not. However, the brother-in-law cared enough to stay up and watch the rebroadcast and confirmed that the EYO, myself and Sib2 all made on TV, I think just after the commercial break between the third and fourth innings. 

Which matters not at all except, well, hey, I've been on TV. And so by the modern laws of celebrity, and it's primacy over all other human concerns, it's now okay if I die. 

Even if there's only one person in the world who both knows me and saw the broadcast. 

I Always Wanted to Be a Regular, but I'm Not Sure Walgreen's Is What I Was Thinking

I've never been a huge fan of the show Cheers, but I always really liked the concept of Cheers. Not for a show, but as a way of being in the world. The idea that you could go to a place frequently enough that people would know your name, and know what you wanted to eat or drink before you actually ordered it, always struck me as really kinda cool.

Of course, living in the suburbs until very late in life, and not really developing much of a taste for alcohol until very late in life, didn't leave me with a lot of opportunities to become a regular anywhere.

But I did sort of do it twice.

My first quasi-regular status was at this "cafe" near my office a few years back. Cafe makes it sound nicer than it was, but it was the sort of place where you go in and grab a tray and then they had a grill where they make burgers and hot sandwiches, a sandwich bar where you could get cold sandwiches, and a pretty great salad bar. Eventually, I got to the point where I'd eat lunch there two or three times a week, and I'd always order the same thing. They guy who managed this place would sort of rotate from job to job -- taking orders, prepping food, cashing people out -- and he eventually got to the point where he'd have my order written before I got to the counter. I don't think he knew my name, but he knew what I wanted to eat.

I remember one time I got a salad and took it up to pay and he was cashiering. When I explained I was trying to loose weight, he got really animated and spent a few moments explaining that the trick was swapping soda for water. Didn't matter if it was diet soda or sugared, but drinking soda he was convinced made you fat. He'd lost twenty pounds just drinking water.

When I went back to ordering burgers, he just laughed and said something like, "It's hard to resist a good burger."

And then I got cancer, which made it hard to eat their food, and then my office moved which made it further than I wanted to walk to get there, and so I lost my regular status.

But I think I've picked it up again at Walgreen's of all places. I first noticed this about a year ago when the chemo treatments were sending me to Walgreen's for supplemental drugs on almost a weekly basis. I was standing in line and watching, and I realized this one clerk would ask the people in front of me their name and/or birth date, but I my case she'd just reach back in to the S basket and grab my bag of stuff. After this happened a couple of times, I actually asked her if she remembered by name or had some other trick. As she put it, she had a good memory for names and faces. Which she must've, 'cause that place is always busy.

But what really struck me was what happened this past Thursday. I, of course, looked like the walking dead, dragging my body to the pharmacy, and between the scripts I had filled and the basket full of OTC drugs I had with me, you didn't have to be genius to see that I wasn't having the best day ever. And, of course, my drug record in the computer has to read like a horror novel.

Anyway, the pharmacist was packing up my stuff and she stopped, and looked up at me, and asked, "How are you doing?" After two years of cancer, I can easily tell the difference between someone who really wants to know, and someone making small talk, This woman really wanted to know. So I explained that things were a little rough, but generally I was doing ok. So then she asked if I liked chocolate. And I said, "sure, usually." And she explained that they had some kind of chocolate cake behind the counter and she'd happily give me a piece if I wanted it. 

I laughed, and said thanks, but because I was diabetic that might not be the best choice. At which point she laughed as well, and said if I ever wanted to come in closer to when I was taking my insulin, they'd be happy to give me some of their cake.

I'm still a little confused about what this cake could've been, but I have to admit that I went home feeling better than I did when I came in. She didn't have to me kind to me, but she was. And it made a big difference.