carbonated joy

The Magic Lunchbox.

Posted: August 17, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized

When I was a kid, this time of year, I always desperately wanted a new lunch box. I’m not talking about the glittery vinyl lunchboxes that all the cool kids carry now, I’m talking about the old school metal lunchboxes WITH the matching thermos!

I wanted the Six Million Dollar Man lunchbox.

I needed the Starsky and Hutch lunchbox.

I had confusing feelings about the Charlie’s Angels lunchbox.

When I went back to school I REALLY wanted to be carrying my PB&J sandwich in a chunky new lunchbox with a shiny thermos full of tropical punch Kool-Aid.

I still get an urge this time of year to buy a new lunchbox but Wal-Mart only has the vinyl Paw Patrol ones and they DON’T have a matching thermos!!

It’s sad!

Well this has been treatment week for me so that means I have been spending time with a special sort of lunchbox.

It’s not metal. It is cloth, and it looks like a ‘80s European man purse.

It’s my infusion pump.

It has been my constant companion this week.

I’ve worn it nonstop the last five days, I’ve taken it off only long enough to get it refilled.

It’s a lunchbox that is literally attached to me. I couldn’t leave it on the school bus if I wanted to!

I’ve really wanted to put Star Wars stickers all over it, but I’m thinking that might be some kind of healthcare violation.

It does have a thermos…kinda.

There’s no Kool-Aid though, It’s full of cancer killing fluids that are being pumped into me.

It has loudly beeped at us a few times this week, that’s been scary. We have panicked a little when the alarm goes off, wondering if it’s about to self destruct or spew chemicals all over. It turns out that the beeping usually means “Hey man! you’re sitting on your cord again!”

It can seriously seem like a time bomb when we know that it’s almost out of juice. The warning whistle sounds off and we know that any second the loud alarm could go off. It becomes a race against time to get to the office for the refill.

Racing for anything has been tricky. It’s been a wobbly week. I’ve stumbled around like I’m heavily drugged, probably because I AM heavily drugged. So, you should be relieved to know that I’ve avoided operating tractors and other heavy machinery.

It’s been a wonky week, my brain has been fuzzy. At times it has felt like a Great Dane was sitting on my head, or like someone hit me in the face with an old metal lunchbox.

It’s been a wonderful week, I’m reminded how amazing my wife is as I’m dependent on her for some really basic things. She is truly my hero.

I feel the prayers of family and friends wrap me up like a blanket on a cold school night.

It’s tough navigating life with a lunchbox attached to my chest. Sleep is tricky. It keeps me from some of my routine daily activities such as racquetball and fencing.

I still get an urge this time of year to buy a new lunchbox…

But next year I’m holding out for the Six Million Dollar Man one (with the matching thermos).

It’s a Family Tradition.

Posted: August 16, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland.

Here’s a picture of some of my current reading material.

I’m reading the Collected Short Stories of Louis L’Amour.

It’s a family tradition.

I grew up watching my Dad reading a lot of Louis L’Amour books. He sat in his well worn recliner and read every night.

He read mostly western novels. I think they took him to wide open places, that’s what a good story can do.

My Dad unintentionally taught me a huge lesson…

Real men read.

It’s drastically important for a boy to see his Dad read. It demonstrates that knowledge and imagination are some of the manliest of pursuits.

As I watched him devour stories about cowboys, I was given permission to love books.

I developed a thirst for story.

I discovered the places that a book can take you, it can transport you to Dodge City, or the cockpit of an X-Wing, or to Hogwarts, or Narnia, or to where the wild things are.

I’m very thankful for this family tradition, especially right now.

because I find myself a bit restricted.

Disease, treatment, and some immunity issues keep me from getting out much.

But, I live unlimited because a good book can take me places!

And…

OH, the places I will go.

Joy Jiu Jitsu.

Posted: August 16, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized

I’m realizing that many of the small struggles in my life have prepared me for the big fight that I currently find myself in the midst of.

Even the small silly squabbles that seem kind of insignificant…

I remember an old story that I would like to forget…

When I was thirteen, my mom’s boss, who not only was a pharmacist but also a black belt in karate, was sure martial arts would be my ticket to popularity and success. He convinced my mom that it would be good for my waning self-esteem and that I would learn some much needed self-defense skills—which would come in handy on the mean streets of Owasso, Oklahoma.

He convinced me that I could be the next Chuck Norris and talked me into taking jiu jitsu. My folks shelled out 45 bucks for the uniform, and I actually got a little excited. Maybe this would be my “thing.” Maybe, just maybe I could be the next Chuck Norris. Stranger things have happened, right?

I went the first week and met the instructor. He was a slightly overweight, off-duty cop who took himself entirely too seriously. He had an incredibly thick red neck and a flattop hair cut. During the first lesson he took me aside and spent 15 minutes explaining to me how he was probably one of the toughest men I’d ever meet and then proudly demonstrated this by actually showing me eight pressure points on my body. Because of his vast knowledge and skill, he could, by applying the right kind of pressure to these spots, kill me, temporarily paralyze me, or make me lose control of my bodily functions.

This was terrifying stuff for a 14-year-old, especially the bodily function part. I went home scared but also a little hopeful that maybe I could learn this pressure point stuff so I could use it on the next person who made fun of me because I was short. I would simply press a secret spot on his ear and make him wet all over himself. It would be awesome.

The second week we learned some fundamentals guaranteed to turn us into well-tuned, lethal fighting machines. We learned valuable fundamentals like how to tie our karate belts and how to pronounce cool karate words like sensei, gi, and dojo.

The third week the instructor (or sensei) informed us that using the fundamentals we’d learned the previous week, we would be free-sparring with each other. This meant we’d actually be fighting someone else in the class. At first I thought this might actually be fun, but then he teamed me with the only girl in the class. I was supposed to fight her. Not only was she a girl, but she was also younger and smaller than me. I felt a little sorry for this poor, defenseless female. So I thought I’d just take it easy on her—I’d dance around make it look good, but I wouldn’t hurt her.

As I was thinking this, the little girl grabbed me by the collar and flipped me over her shoulder. I quickly hopped up and thought I’d better be a little more careful, but I still didn’t want to hurt her because I was brought up learning that you never hit a girl.

Suddenly, she grabbed me and flipped me again. Some of the guys in the class started to snicker a little bit. At this point, I also realized that I hadn’t tied my karate belt correctly, it came loose and my uniform (or gi) flew open exposing my chunky girth and unleashing a tidal wave of adolescent self-consciousness.

This was all very embarrassing.

I decided I didn’t care if she was a girl, she was going down. I assumed an offensive posture and started to make my move. She countered by grabbing me and flipping me again.

I lay there on my back listening to everybody, including the instructor, laughing at me—it was horrible. I got up, dusted myself off, and walked out of there. I never went back.

So when I quit, I was only about 4 years away from getting my black belt so that pretty much makes me an expert…RIGHT? Not so much.

But, in the following years, I DID learn a highly specialized form of spiritual combat…joy jiu jitsu.

It’s what I am practicing in my current fight.

Here are a few things I have learned…

* Make sure that your karate belt is tied, otherwise you can really embarrass yourself. OR better yet, live BEYOND embarrassment. Lose your self-consciousness and laugh at yourself.

* the concept behind jiu jitsu is that a small, weaker person can defend themselves against a bigger, stronger person by using the right leverage. It’s not about what you have, it’s about how you use what you have.

* In martial arts there are exercises that you go through called “katas”. A kata is a series of steps that you go through to practice and position yourself. It’s best to follow each move with a loud grunting noise. Katas are all about remembering what you need to know and rehearsing in your mind where you need to be.

In joy jiu jitsu we have a kata too, it’s something to know, remember and continually meditate on as you fight.

Here is our joy jiu jitsu kata: “the joy of the Lord is your strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10)

Our joy jiu jitsu kata reminds us that we have an unseen strength. Even when we face impossibly big problems we can let joy be our leverage.

JOY is not a feeling or happy little buzz, it’s a deep knowing that life may not always be fun or easy, but it’s always a gift so I will treat it as such. It’s a inner peace that everything is gonna be alright that causes you to rejoice regardless of outward circumstances.

Happiness and Joy are usually two completely different things. Happiness often is based on circumstances. If everything is going your way…if you are healthy and getting what you want…you are happy.

Joy is not about what is happening TO you, it’s about what happened IN you.

Joy is never out of reach, even in the darkest times, you can get ambushed by joy.

Joy is based on the unsinkable fact that God loves you and you can trust Him.

It’s all about remembering what you need to know and rehearsing in your mind where you need to be.

We have the hope of a God, whose love is stronger than whatever opponent is staring us down.

Leverage…

I can beat this because I have hope…

I can beat this because I am loved…

I have joy because I can beat this.

Joy is born of hope.

It is a superpower.

I fight with joy.

(Photograph is a Samurai in 1866 by Felice Beato)

A Walk with Dad in the Woods.

Posted: August 14, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized

Spring forest in fog. Beautiful natural landscape. Vintage style

I tend to wander…

And sometimes I find myself in the woods,

Surrounded by the beautiful unknown.

I walk on the unbeaten path, brown leaves crunching under my feet.

There are thistles and trees all around me, I scrape up my arms and legs trying to get through.

I’m just trying to find my way through the forest.

But, I am lost, I don’t know the way out.

I’m cold and confused.

Then it gets worse…

I hear noises…was that a wolf?

I’m pretty sure that it was a wolf!

It is probably out looking for lunch.

I probably look pretty tasty.

My heart begins to race.

I try to make my way through the twisted terrain.

I can’t…

Then…

I hear a voice.

I hear a warm, welcoming voice: “C’mon boy, let’s explore a bit”.

It’s my Dad. He’s been close all along.

Suddenly, I am overcome by feelings of safe.

He embraces me there in the woods and wipes away my tears.

And so…

I take my Dad’s hand.

It is strong.

We are walking and wandering through the woods together.

As long as I follow Him, I’m not lost.

I’m safe.

He knows where to go, his perspective is better than mine.

It is bigger.

He sees the other side of the woods.

He speaks to me as we wander…

“There will be thorns and rocky roads, you will fall down, there will be wolves, but don’t be afraid, I will be there to pick you up. There are things to see in the woods that you can’t see anywhere else. There are discoveries in the dark that are essential to your journey”

I tighten my grip on His hand and I walk with my Dad through the woods.

The Second Round.

Posted: August 13, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized

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The chunky bald fighter pulls up his trunks and spits in the metal can, he mentally prepares to enter the ring again. He takes a deep breath and climbs through the ropes. He is careful because he has gotten tangled up in the ropes before. The fighter has discovered new things about himself. For starters, he has realized that he is a fighter. He has spent much of his life avoiding confrontation. He likes happy, peaceful situations. But, he has realized that sometimes you have to put the gloves on and beat the hell out of the opponent. He listens to his trainer, he takes a deep swig of water and he moves to the center of the ring…

I take my seat in the infusion room.

It’s crazy that this has become familiar.

I recognize the sounds and smells.

I know what to do, where to sit, when to lift my shirt. I have my favorite chairs.

The IV machine clicks and occasionally beeps in a most familiar fashion. It pumps a fluid that looks like milk into my veins.

The room is full of people of all ages.

We all fight. Many of them have become familiar faces. We swap greetings and stories.

I kill time by reading a Star Wars novel.

It is a fun, familiar distraction.

Sometimes that is completely necessary.

The awesome staff is familiar to us now. We are on a first name basis. A few weeks ago, we didn’t know them, now they are friends who join in the fight.

The building has become familiar to me. There are three bathrooms. I’ve used them all about two hundred times. Even as I start this round, I have to go every eleven minutes. This requires getting out of the vinyl recliner, unplugging the rolling IV machine and awkwardly dragging it with me.

My movements remind me of my granddaughter. She has been learning to walk the last month. It started out herky jerky, it’s becoming more familiar to her.

She is getting good at it.

We can’t keep up.

I’m learning to walk again.

It’s different, but it’s becoming more familiar.

I’m more familiar with my opponent too.

He is a bully that has hurt far too many families.

He is very uncreative.

He throws the same old familiar punches again and again.

All he knows is hate and hurt.

He is predictable.

He’s going down.

My trainer is more about freedom than familiar.

The only thing predictable thing about Him is His nature…He will always be good, He will always be trustworthy.

Other than that, He is wildly creative.

He infuses me with fresh life.

My trainer makes me strong.

He gives me fresh comfort every day.

He gives me courage.

He gives me creativity.

I refuse to let familiarity numb the fight, I won’t let it lull me into a strange comfortability.

I can’t let my guard down just because I know my way around the ring a little more.

That could result in a sucker punch.

I’m back on the bag.

I’m sent home with the juice box.

The European man bag holding the pumps is once again my constant companion. It will send three separate chemo drugs into my body for the next twenty one hours. It’s like a really messed up sleepover.

I’m sitting here listening to it’s now familiar “kush…kush” noise.

And, just as my brain was getting a little less chemically crazed, I’m on the steroids again.

I’m not sure if that will ever really become familiar.

The second round is here.

I know it’s not here to stay.

So, I loudly shout my battlecry in a very undignified manner…

“HIS joy is my strength!!”

And I rear back my fist…

Unsolicited Observations as we head into Round Two…

Posted: August 12, 2018 in Uncategorized

Cancer is like NASCAR. There’s one person in the seat, but there’s a whole team working to make that person better.

I’m not defined by what I do.

I’m not defined by my facial hair.

I am defined by my Maker.

I am defined by joy.

I’ve lost over twenty pounds the last couple of months, although, I do NOT recommend this diet plan!!

Hemoglobin is not a Batman villain.

There have been times in the last few weeks that a 7 year old could beat me in arm wrestling in about 13 seconds, normally it would have taken at least a minute.

70s rock is truly medicinal.

I’m amazed by science!! I’ve seen every one of my internal organs, I have a magic port in my chest that allows things to go in and come out….amazing!

I’m blown away by the generosity and kindness of friends, family, and complete strangers.

I love beans.

They, along with peanut butter, have become a trusted dietary go to.

One phone call can change your life.

My skin has been weird, tingly, clammy, AND super dry ALL AT THE SAME TIME! At one point my hands looked like stained glass without any color.

Steroids make me emotional, I cry when I watch fabric softener commercials!

Chemo farts are pretty horrible. I’ve even managed to offend my beagle who is no slouch in the flatulence department!!

There are so many good people fighting a hard fight that a couple of months ago I was clueless about.

We might not choose the plot, but we all get to decide how we will tell our story. I choose to tell a story of wonder, instead of woe.

My help comes from the Maker of the mountains, that is VERY cool.

Life is precious and sweet, and every new day is more beautiful than the one before.

A Boy and his Beard.

Posted: August 10, 2018 in Uncategorized

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Well friends, I have sad news to report.
During this crazy journey, the chullet has put up a very brave fight.
I really thought that my weird beard would go the distance.
But, alas, ‘twas not meant to be…
The chullet has dearly departed from my face.

The last several days, I’ve been left with handfuls of soggy chullet clumps in the shower. We have found lovely little chullet droppings around the house. (I tried to blame those on the dog, but that didn’t work.)
It went from luxurious to lifeless almost overnight.
Finally, I realized the inevitable…it was time to say farewell to my hairy little friend.

I will be honest, I wept as I cut off something that has become a huge part of my identity. It was tough shaving it and seeing a strange looking dude in the mirror.
As I cried, I realized that I was actually being given an incredible gift, the gift of empathy.
Now, I know how it feels. To the countless brave fighters who have gone before me and have had to shave part of their image and identity…
I get it.

It’s crazy how a crazy beard can grow on you.
My chin hasn’t been naked since 1989…Seriously!
My daughter has NEVER seen me without some form of beard. I’m hoping that she recognizes me.
One of my biggest childhood dreams was to grow a beard.
I would sit around and draw pictures of adult me with a big nasty beard.
To me, the beard was the epitome of free spirited manliness.
It was an exclamation point for your face!
I was a late bloomer, I couldn’t grow a beard until I was 20. But, since then, I’ve experimented with every possible expression of whisker. I’ve had a full beard, a full goatee, even the modified Dutch goatee.
Several years ago, I finally decided to just let it grow wild and define itself.
My facial fuzz, I believe by divine design, evolved into the “Chullet”.
The chin mullet.

It has served as both a built in scarf and a handy to go container.
It has been both a conversation starter and a polarizing Force.
It was part of me…literally!
I shampooed, conditioned, and slathered it with fragrant beard oil every day.
It was proof that just because something looks wild doesn’t mean that it’s not clean.

Over the years, the chullet has survived the beard-bashers, the haters who yanked it and said mean things.
It survived split ends and high winds.
It survived curious, grabby children and cranky old people with scissors.(seriously…it happened! Luckily, I could outrun them.)

But this week, the powerful chemo drugs that are attacking my cancer cells also attacked my chullet cells.
It’s okay.
I can live with that.
In fact, I can live BECAUSE of that.
I will gladly sacrifice my weird little beard for the chance to see my granddaughter graduate from high school.

But, here’s the deal…
the chullet was more than a scruffy explosion of facial fuzz.
It was an attitude.
It served as a simple statement that said…

“HEY! my face is a party!”

I still have that attitude.
Now I just get to express it in different ways.
Nothing says my face is a party like a big goofy smile.
The belly bully will NOT steal my ability to smile.
In fact, now I see smiling as an act of defiance.

AND SO I SMILE!

I have also been sent a lot of great beard solutions from friends…fake facial hair, face paint.
I’m going to have some fun with those, I’m thinking that right now, my big, wide open face cries out for a glittery unicorn.
that’s a party!

And as I continue to party with my face.
I wait…
because…
I know that IT is coming…

SON of CHULLET!!

Here’s a pretty cool promise…

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Image — Posted: August 8, 2018 in Uncategorized

Take a Sad Song…

Posted: August 6, 2018 in Uncategorized

Once upon a time a Knight and a Poet gave the world some sage advice.

He wrote (and sang): “Take a sad song and make it better.”

Paul McCartney wrote Hey Jude to comfort John Lennon’s son Julian during the divorce of his parents.

One of the greatest rock ballads ever was written to help a five year old boy get through a very tough time.

In the mixtape of our lives, we will listen to some sad music.

How do we take those sad songs and make them better?

Maybe we need to find a different rhythm.

Maybe we need to change keys, change a major or minor key. Change the way we play. Change our perspective.

Maybe we need to change a few of the lyrics…Change nope into hope. Change scheme into dream. Change busted into trusted.

And for heavens sake, we shouldn’t sing a solo!

Life is meant to be a sing-along!

Find someone who will sing with you. (Even if it’s your dog!!)

Then don’t hold back!

Sing LOUD!!

Do all the hand gestures.

Invite some other voices.

Take a sad song and make it better.

C’MON!! Sing it with me…

Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah

Inspiration from Perspiration?

Posted: August 5, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized

Last night I encountered the MOTHER OF ALL NIGHT-SWEATS! (I used all CAPS to make it seem really dramatic, kind of like a campy old horror movie.)

It’s a wonderful thing to wake up wet and clammy.

It’s been happening quite a bit lately.

My shirt was soaked this morning.

It’s a little embarrassing, but true.

Night-sweats sounds like an old Bob Seger song.

I lay in bed thinking about perspiration.

I couldn’t help it.

sweat…

I come from a long line of sweaters, Dad was a sweater, Mom was a windbreaker.

I’ve sweat a lot in my life.

If there was a frequent sweater card, I would be carrying it!

It doesn’t take much to make me glisten.

I’ve sweat from hard work.

I’ve also sweat from doing nothing at all.

I’ve sweat from standing outside in the sun, being in a cramped space, or eating a spicy burrito.

I’ve had butt sweat on a swampy summer day.

I’ve had the Meat-sweats after a night at a Brazilian steak house with some good friends.

I have occasionally sweat the small stuff.

I have also sweat about some big stuff.

Sweating is embarrassing.

We work hard to never let people see us sweat. We fret over sweat marks, we worry about our soggy armpits showing through our shirt. (interesting random perspiration fact: horses have armpits and sweat like we do, yet they don’t seem embarrassed in the least!)

Sweat stinks.

No really, it literally stinks!

It causes some noxious odors to invade our space.

It can make our pits smell like onions and our scalps smell like old goat cheese.

Not cool!

But, sweat happens.

Last night I encountered the MOTHER OF ALL NIGHT-SWEATS!

There’s an invisible battle going on inside me.

I’m left singing “hello night-sweats, my old friend.”

Why sweat?!

Maybe they’re just leaving my pillow moist.

(Moist is a word that annoys a lot of people)

But maybe the sweat is purging toxic things out of me…

Things that I can’t see.

I’ve been fighting fever and infection this weekend.

Maybe the sweat is doing something good that I can’t see.

If that’s true, I’m okay with the stink.

There have been times when I’ve had to purge my life of unhealthy habits, attitudes, thinking. Things that were toxic and stinky and embarrassing. But, things that were necessary to sweat out of my life.

Sweat happens.

Sometimes that’s good.