

Copyright
Editor's Note
A story, as I promised.....
Just Being
Patric Michael Hates AIM
When Angels Fall
So If You're Sand, Not Rock
In the Light ~ A Five Dark Realms Tale
Technical Terms
With This Flower
A Silver Shard
Is a Prostate Worth Finding?
The Lost Ones
Mushrooms
The Mentor
Linchpin
Stupid Human Sex Tricks
Dragonfly
A Tale Of Three Curmudgeons
Through the Mist
Leaves
The Better Part
Holding Purpose
A Place to Belong
Dreams of a Terrible Brightness
Afterword

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
Blog entries Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael
Just Being Copyright © 2010 by Jamie Samms
Patric Hates AIM Copyright © 2010 by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
When Angels Fall Copyright © 2010 by ZA Maxfield
So If You're Sand Copyright © 2010 by C. Zampa
In the Light Copyright © 2010 by Lex Valentine
Technical Terms Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael
With This Flower Copyright © 2010 by Karenna Colcroft
The Silver Shard Copyright © 2010 by Tame Adams
Is a Prostate Worth Finding? Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael
The Lost Ones Copyright © 2010 by Victor J. Banis
Mushrooms Copyright © 2010 by Brian Holliday
The Mentor Copyright © 2010 by Jambrea Jo Jones
Linchpin Copyright © 2010 by Mary Calmes
Stupid Human Sex Tricks Copyright © 2010 by Patric Michael
Dragonfly Copyright © 2010 by Jan Irving
A Tale of Three Curmudgeons Copyright © 2010 by Jean Lorrah
Through the Mist Copyright © 2010 by Chrissy Munder
Leaves Copyright © 2010 by Moira McCain
The Better Part Copyright © 2010 by Clare London
Holding Purpose Copyright © 2010 by D.W. Marchwell
A Place to Belong Copyright © 2010 by Taylor Lochland
Dreams of Terrible Brightness Copyright © 2010 by Amy Lane
Edited by Kris Jacen
Cover Art by Catt Ford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61581-881-5
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
January, 2011
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-882-2
Table of Contents
Blogs from Patric Michael are interwoven throughout the book to tell in his words (Patric's editor's note: typos and all), the journey over the year. Some of the blog entries included pictures or links---for those interested, you can see the original entries at Patric's blog (http://blogs.patric.com).
Table of Contents
Just Being by Jamie Samms
Patric Hates AIM by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
When Angels Fall by ZA Maxfield
So If You're Sand, Not Rock by C. Zampa
In the Light by Lex Valentine
Technical Terms by Patric Michael
With this Flower by Karenna Colcroft
The Silver Shard by Tame Adams
Is a Prostate Worth Finding? by Patric Michael
The Lost Ones by Victor J. Banis
Mushrooms by Brian Holliday
The Mentor by Jambrea Jo Jones
Linchpin by Mary Calmes
Stupid Human Sex Tricks by Patric Michael
Dragonfly by Jan Irving
A Tale of Three Curmudgeons by Jean Lorrah
Through the Mist by Chrissy Munder
Leaves by Moira McCain
The Better Part by Clare London
Holding Purpose by D.W. Marchwell
A Place to Belong by Taylor Lochland
Dreams of Terrible Brightness by Amy Lane
Kris Jacen
"I've got a secret no more."
These words on a blog just over a year ago brought a pang of sadness to many. It seemed our friend, author Patric Michael, definitely had cancer. A rare form with a low survivability rate.
As the months passed we've shared Patric's journey, through its ups-and-downs, good periods and bad, and at the end it brought us to this collection. With all of the twists and turns that we've taken since that simple announcement, this bend in the road is perhaps the most deeply felt. We who have connected so many times, and so often through the Internet (yahoo groups, author loops, blogs and shared publishers) came to the realization that he might not be with us forever and wanted to honor him in a way he wanted. Not just flowers or donations to a favored charity, but in a way that would, as he put it, "Hopefully touch others as deeply as they have touched me." You see, if we have learned only one thing from Patric throughout our time together, it is this: what the person dealing with the situation wants is more important than all else, and not necessarily what we might think he wants.
So we asked him what we could do: How did he want us to remember him after he passed?
Patric shared with us an idea to collect inspiration. Stories, blogs and even poetry that had some connection with him. As Patric has participated on those groups or blogs, other authors have been inspired by their interactions with him to create stories or characters of their own, so he requested that we gather those stories (or others like them) along with his blogs and a few of his "educational" postings, all in one place. His hope was that someone could somehow benefit from it. Maybe even gather strength or inspiration of their own, whether they were going through the same thing he did, or knew someone who was.
As a result you now have this collection with stories that sparked from things like talks with Patric about photographing mushrooms or his delight from fireflies or just Patric's heart. All of the stories are written from our hearts and thoughts, to remember Patric using something he valued highly; words and creativity.
Whether you're with us or watching over us Patric, know you have touched all our lives. May you find your Yellow Star as we wish on our Blue Star.
December 2010
The origins of an email and a title
I recently told my children that when I was sixteen I was better suited to raising a child than I am now. Bless their fuzzy little hearts, they looked at me like I was crazy. But give them credit for humoring me, they did ask for clarification.
"At sixteen, I was already a father." I said. "Or rather damn near, given that I was basically a live-in baby sitter."
"Oh, right. You mean Jed and Jeremy," said my niece, who might just as well be my daughter for all the care and raising I have had of her.
"Yup. But it was more than that," I replied. "I was 'geared' toward being a father. I didn't exactly have a life of my own yet, like now, where it's all wrapped up in personal projects, and work and stuff. I was already accustomed to giving over my needs in favor of the little ones so I didn't have any transitions to make like new parents traditionally have."
"But you were sixteen!" Eric protested. "You were just a kid."
Was I? Does age dictate personality, if one leaves aside the hormones and the necessary physiological changes? I suppose so, to a degree, but it is a central fact of my life that at sixteen I found, felt, and followed virtually all the tenets of my personal philosophies that have held me in good stead all these many years since.
Some were abandoned, most changed according to the times, and a few I held so deeply that only a scant handful knew what oddities I thought about. One such, which I can safely share now that I am at the end of my path, is the story of my email address. Like so many other times, I was sixteen when I "remembered."
I'll call it a dream in favor of those whose beliefs run counter to mine, but it was, for all intents and purposes, a memory.
Let us suppose, for example, that like in a dream, one can be both participant and observer. Such was the case with me, though when I looked at myself all I could see was a vaguely star shaped ball of light, blindingly white.
Just about the time I recognized my shape as nonexistent, I realized there was another shapeless ball of light just above me. Just as white, and just as untethered by wind, gravity, or space. We existed in a featureless red place, with a dark red horizon, and "ground" as red as the sky. The other took off, upward, and I followed as easily as one might chase after a floating "wishie." "He" laughed, as I did, and the sound was a cascade of blue and gold color shimmering around us both and trailing after as we chased each other across timelessness. We found that we could dive beneath the ground more easily than a fish through water and come back up, pulling mountains after us in impossibly tall crags and spires.
Flying over these mountains I saw that each was a face. Sometimes old, sometimes new, and all as fluid as the sensation of sound sliding across our "skin." They would fall back into the ground, sometimes leaving afterimages as clouds, and sometimes as new things altogether.
Color had texture and weight, in that world. Sound was tactile. Sight was a taste, as eager on an imaginary tongue as candy to a child and we reveled in each other, separated for so long and finally, finally together again.
All these things I knew in instants, with more clarity than if they had been etched behind human eyes, and I understood everything.
Except the sudden jolt when I looked up and saw "him" launch skyward. Fear gave me it's shape, hateful and unpleasant, when I tried to follow and could not. Instead I was pinned to the earth, or so I thought. In fact, I was falling, through the featureless ground that shattered like red glass and tumbled around me into darkness. I fell with the shards, screaming a name that had no form, his name, and begging to get back to him so high overhead. The color of his loss was gold, as mine was blue, and I was the only thing not red and shrieking as the shards fell with me and around me until the world went black. All of his light and mine extinguished.
Pain came next. And incredible crushing pain that forced me into a new shape, one I could not name. Pressure built and the the darkness lifted as the I was crushed smaller and smaller and the world went a frigid blue white. More pain and another jerking sensation, as though I were being relocated inside myself until the moment the brightness became excruciating and I entered the world screaming and naked, born bereft of my twin.
Medicine was cruder in those days. My mother later told me the doctors had two heartbeats for a while early on and told her to expect twins, but one set failed for whatever reason and after a while they decided maybe they were wrong. I have since been told that its not all that uncommon for one of a set of twins to fail and be reabsorbed. (And imagine my horror when I read Stephen King's Dark Half, which was based on that exact premise!)
I have ever known I should have been twins, and for me, the question of when a baby gets a "soul" is forever answered for me. :)
The memory is still so vivid, possibly from the telling, possibly from wishful thinking, but it is the basis for the tattoo on my back, and some day, some day, I will once again be reunited with my brother, whom I have loved always and never known. How keen is a loss like that, one that cannot even be expressed or substantiated, or perhaps only how foolish.
Regardless, I believe what I believe, and have done so for more than thirty years. That's a long time to miss someone, and I miss him still.
Patric
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wow, gosh. A lot has happened since my last post, and since then I've received email asking when I would be releasing something new (Thanks folks!)
I've also been pretty sparse in the group lists, twitter, and facebook. Not my usual style, I know, but there is a reason I'm going to share only once, then move on. I told myself I wouldn't tell folks unless they were directly affected by my lack, and that worked for quite a quite a while, until even strangers asking for new works noticed. Figured it was time to explain myself before I got a reputation I didn't want! Well, I don't really want this reputation, but it's unavoidable at this point!
Have I beat around the bush enough? Too much, I think. I need an editor for my own blog post! One last thing though... Most folks will find this news rather sad. We'll talk more about that later, but if that bothers you, now's the time to stop reading.
About a year ago, I found a lump. Honestly, I thought it was another hernia. Meh. Only I noticed it didnt act like the last hernia I had. Well... No medical insurance means no way of dealing with it, so ignore it. :)
Trouble is, about four months ago, it got bigger, and I noticed one leg get bigger, same side as the lump. To make a long, messy story short, it took several specialists, two surgical biopsies and two punch biopsies off my foot to get a diagnosis. (By the way you can see a bit of the punch biopsies here.)
According to the oncologist, I have angioimmunblastic T-cell lymphoma. It took me a week to remember how to even spell it! :) This is a cancer which most often originates in the lymph nodes near the lungs, but mine started in the groin and pretty much stayed there for a year before it started spreading. That's part of what took so long to figure it out. (One doctor even said I was wierd. Laugh)
Some of the websites I read say that this particular flavor represents less that one percent of all known Non Hodgkins Lymphomas, which makes me pretty dang special, yeah? Despite the rarity, there is a fairly common chemotherapy treatment they call CHOP. This is an old acronym that used to represent the names of the chemicals, but there have been many improvements since then and the letters hardly apply. In my case, the protocol calls for 6 to 8 treatments, spread out three weeks apart. That means 18 to 24 weeks of chemo. Ugh!
We all know that chemo means getting sick, losing your hair, feeling horrible, blah, blah, blah, and yes, that is true, for many people. Each person is different, so each person is affected differently. In my case, for the first treatment at least, I didnt get any of the normal symptoms. I got the unusual ones. Didnt get sick (yay, cuz I hate barfing) but I did get the mouth sores and the erosion of the esophagus (think of swallowing through a twelve inch long sore throat. Ouch!) and I got the blurry vision. All those are transitory though. The one overriding problem is fatigue. Chemotherapy is after all a poison, designed to kill fast growing cells. Cancer cells are fast growing, as are several systems in the human body, so the trick is to kill the cancer without killing me, too. It is a carefully orchestrated race, administered by a man I trust explicitly.
Those who know me personally know I am very slow to trust, and this guy is phenomenal as a doctor, and as a person. He is the very best of both worlds, and I knew that on my first visit with him. I develop more and more respect for him wth each subsequent visit. Thanks John!
Sorry, I digressed... I just had my second treatment yesterday, and we got some pretty good news, though I swear I will jinx it if I say it out loud. Given that the response rate of T-cell lymphoma is traditionally poor, forgive me for not saying anything just yet, but he and I are both happy. :) I will say that by the sixth treatment, we may find the last two aren't necessary.
So, with all that in mind, we come to what I find the most difficult to deal with.
Other people.
I've known since the second visit to a doctor when he orded the first CT scan that I had cancer. Call it a gut feeling, or the result of hours of Googling. Doesn't matter. the point is I have had ample time to come to grips with my situation and my "most likely" prognosis, as well as alternate scenarios. In short, I am simply not afraid of the outcome. To put it even shorter, and at the risk of being crude, I am not afraid of dying, a year from now or forty years from now.
People who even allow themselves to think of the word cancer automatically think of slow, painful, rapid decline leading to death, as though it were a given. I've learned much about other people by how they react or respond when I tell them the news. I understand their actions, but I cant condone them when they are directed at me, because to put it selfishly, I need all my energy to get me well, not make them feel better. A very dear friend of mine described it thus: "It's like choking on a glass of water. Everyone is demanding you TELL them you are fine, when what you really need to do is cough it out." True enough! And I finally got my family to understand the concept. Friends, most of whom I am actually closer to, took a bit longer. :)
What I'm going to ask for at this point will sound a bit harsh, and I'll apologize in advance, but I am somewhat limited in my ability to respond.
I'd like to thank everyone in advance for the well wishes, and the inquiries, and the sympathies, and say they've already been sent an answered. Rather than field a bunch of queries for how I am doing, I'll usurp my old work blog and post updates there. Probably wont be all that many posts, because frankly, all the drama is done. All that's left is whatever side effect the chemo is dropping on my head on any given day, and seriously, that's GOT to be boring reading!
The only thing that matters to me right now is the fatigue, originally caused by the cancer and and now caused by the chemo. Makes it bloody hard to work up enough steam to keep up with the group messages, and even long emails. (The only way I could write this lengthy post is because the first day after chemo, I feel like myself again. Alas, it doesn't last long.) :)
There is one other thing that really bothers me, and it's the hardest to explain. According to John, cancer doctors largely ignored complaints for a long time because patients couldn't really articulate what they were feeling, and few reported it. Now they understand the situation and given it a name: Chemo brain. Goofy name, but man is it a pain in the butt. Different people are affected differently, of course, and for me, I lose focus, big time. Can't think of the word I want, and the biggest hassle of all is that it's bloody hard to write! It's like being distracted by every random thing in the room. That's why I haven't written much in the last three months. In fact, the Santa Mug was written before the chemo while I was still undiagnosed. Whew! What a task that little story was! It'll be out in December as part of the Dreamspinner Mistletoe Madness and can be purchased separately (royalties!) or as part of the month long package.
So to recap and wrap up, you'll see me occasionally in Twitter or on the groups when I have the energy or when I am not trying to write. If I'm not there, it doesn't mean I don't want to be, trust me. :)
Think good thoughts I can find a way around the chemo brain thing, because all the stories are still there, but they don't have a convenient outlet right now, and I'd love nothing more to get them on paper and into your hot little hands. :)
Cheers all!
Love,
Patric
Friday, October 23, 2009
I really wish Google allowed it so you could open two different blogs at once. Grr...
I have to post something here so folks coming in from the "big announcement" will find a destination...
So, second treatment. Mildly sick, not tired (Wasnt tired the day after the first treatment either!) Got the damn hiccups though. Partly a result from the last treatment and the erosion, and partly as a side effect of this treatment. As I said, I get unusual side effects. Meh.
Still forgetful, of course. Short term memory seems the most affected. Gah. PITA!
Oh, and here's a new thing. My taste buds are shot. I have no idea what thats all about. Time for more research!
I havent put chemo brain to the test yet. Havent tried to write. Wanted to get the blog posts up first, because it took like four hours to answer all the messages. Hopefully the post, and these updates will answer enough questions that when I do feel like writing, I'll actually have time!
The kids came over to shave my head. Let me be the first to say that shedding worse than the cats sucks, hard, and doesnt buy breakfast afterward! Gods. I know that coughing spate the other night was me sucking stray hair off my damned pillow!
Ok. Head shaved. Looks odd, but no where near as strange as I thought. I'd been ramping up for it anyway, cutting my hair shorter and shorter. This was the last logical step. What I didnt expect was how velvety my scalp feels. So strange. No wonder everyone always wants to rub the dang thing. Heh
Cute guys get it for free. Everyone else pays a quarter. lol.
Ok, thats enough for now.
Thanks for the good thoughts and well wishes!
And remember please... I am good with whats going on, and you should be too. To make a really BAD pun, "Don't cry for me, Argentina."
Lol
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I'm touched, though not in the head. :)
Thank you everybody, for your thoughts, wishes, prayers, and comments. To say I am touched by them is a massive understatement. Flabbergasted might be closer. :)
I havent written (yet) today, but I did manage to get some chores done which have been nagging at me. We live on a couple of acres, and tradition holds that it is my job to "button us up" for the coming winter. Last winter we lost chunks of several trees due to ice and storm, and the resulting wood laying around got split with the help of a neighbor and a nifty machine. I want one!
The drawback of course was doing something with it, so some friends came over and stacked it for us. I remember a time when I could move that fast, for that long! :)
What was left was a bunch of twigs and limbs that would cost more energy to cut up than they would produce, so it got put into the burn pile. Or rather, added to an existing burn pile. (I was working last year and missed burning season.) Today, finally, I got caught up. Remember, after twenty five years of doing this, the habit is strong, and it was nagging at me. I blew a wad of energy, and it took all bloody day, but it's done!
Just a few more minor chores, like making sure the generators run properly and draining the irrigation lines for the garden, and I'll have nothing but drugs to distract me from writing. Whoo hoo!
Oh, I found out that it's the Vincristine that's probably responsible for the loss of taste. This is a new side effect for me. I was fine the last time around. I guess that means Papa has to do the cooking still. I can just imagine HIS face if I were the one to season the chili. :)
Lets see, last bit of news. I got a bit more than 500 words written last night. Pure crap when you consider I used to get 5,000 or so in a day, but words is words! I probably would have gotten far more if I hadnt written the blog stuff, but that was sort of important. I've lost a huge sense of guilt from not being able to answer emails as fast as usual, and thank you all for accepting the admittedly odd request I made. It truly does help a great deal. :)
Now see? Didnt I warn you that these updates would be boring? Laugh. So just for fun, and for taking the time to slog through this nonsense, here is a random bit from the story I am currently working on. It's the opening to an adventure-ish thing that I started as a lark. Often times, since I am pure crap at outlining (Shh... Trade secret there!) I woll start with a single sentence. In this case, it was a single word. At the time, I was having rather severe chills, so the word made perfect sense to me. :D
1
Snow. Miles of the stuff stretched out before him like a vast white ocean, broken only by a small dark hump already half buried by the constantly moving drifts. That dark shape was Merrick's destination, and it would be home until this latest storm blew over. The sheer immensity of the sky overhead, a leaden gray-white in the afternoon light, seemed to bear down on him as he pulled the zipper on the small tent's forward flap.
"Jeez. How far do did you have to go? Katmandu?" Dale Andressen chided Merrick as he hunched himself inside and zipped the flap shut.
"Just a few yards out," Merrick replied. "I dug out a small nook to get out of the wind."
"You should have just peed in the bag. That's what it's for, you know." Dale scowled at his partner, but the expression on his face was as loving as it was severe.
"I know, I know. I just hate dragging the damn thing around. Besides, you can't write your name in a bag." Merrick grinned as he pulled off his gloves and outer jacket. The snow already packed up against their small tent was a perfect insulator to catch and retain the heat from their small stove.
Dale frowned. "You freeze that thing off and you won't have anything to write with." He pushed one of the laden packs aside to make room. "Come over here and warm me up."
Merrick quirked an eyebrow and knocked the snow from his boots as he took them off. "Is that all you had in mind?" He left his boots and jacket, and as much of the snow that had been clinging to his pants as he could brush off, in the outer vestibule and crawled further inside. The wind rattled the outer flaps as he zipped the inner flaps closed and scooted across the small space to lean against Dale, careful not to upset the stove. "Sounds like it's getting worse."
"It probably is," Dale said. "And when the sun goes down it's going to get a helluva lot colder. We may have to share body heat to survive."
Merrick laughed. "Ha! I knew you had an ulterior motive." He cupped his hand behind Dale's head and leaned in for a kiss. As always, the flare of passion that enveloped him, despite the rough stubble on both their faces, warmed and thrilled him in equal measure. Dale hummed as he opened for his partner and as always, the sound went straight to the base of Merrick's spine, pooling there like molten silver. Merrick tilted his head slightly and dipped his tongue beneath Dale's, finding and capturing that faint flavor that was the very hallmark of his partner's identity. Dale obliged by lifting his tongue to caress the roof of Merrick's mouth, still humming faintly. They separated when their mutual need for air overcame their desire and they laughed breathlessly.
Thanks again for all the comments!
Patric
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Honestly, how can I possibly grump about not getting anything written when the kids come over because they decided they wanted to carve pumpkins?
And of course, their daughter, Princess Leaks-a-Lot is forever a charmer, and I can never turn down an opportunity to snuggle the baby.
I can always write tomorrow, right? :)
Jaime Samms
On the television screen, the six-legged, pink-freckled creature with three eye stalks reared up on its back legs, tromped onto the enemy critter and promptly collapsed. The game Spore was nothing if not an exercise in the absolutely ridiculous. I couldn't explain why I loved it so much unless it was maybe because I could create anything at all, and no matter how foolish or impractical, it would excel at some part of the quest I needed it to fulfill. If only life could be like that.
But life is not a Wii game and being afraid of it is a little like not being able to breathe properly. Worrying about who you are and if people will like you tightens the screws and closes bands of fear around you until you forget what it ever felt like to breathe clean air or expand your lungs. I spent a long time squeezing myself into a box and shutting out the fresh air. Years and years, a little bit at a time, putting up the walls and locking the doors and being very careful not to take any chances.
Staring at that foolish pink critter on the screen, watching it hop and dance on command, the sounds of the game disappearing under the wail of my roommate Kennedy's horrendous violin playing, maybe I just got tired. Maybe I was more afraid of suffocating than I was of poisoning myself with risk.
So I decided. I stopped holding my breath.
I just let it all out in one big sigh, and the best part about it was that, for once, Kennedy, stopped his incessant violin playing.
He played all the time. Badly. Really, really badly. And by all the time, I mean all the time. You have no idea. I thought I was used to it, but when he suddenly stopped for a minute the silence was so loud I didn't even notice he was staring at me.
"Skippy?" his eyes, big, brown and doe-like behind his glasses bugged a bit more.
"Dude, you seriously have to stop calling me that," I snarled at him as I came back to myself.
"Sorry." Though the way he said it told me he wasn't sorry at all. Probably the grin gave him away. "Are you okay? You look a little...flushed."
"I-I'm fine. I just..."
He stood there, violin dangling, bow poised out from his body like he intended to use it as a rapier any moment. The sight, coupled with his skinny frame and shock of red hair, registered as hilarious and the final stick in the dam snapped. I rolled onto my back laughing.
He came over as my hilarity slowed and died and poked me with his bow. "That's fine? I'd hate to see hysterical."
I lay on my back looking up at his concerned face, wondering when he'd grown out of the geeky floppiness he'd had since college. "Why do you play the violin?"
"Um." He tilted his head at me. "Hello, random." He sat on the edge of the couch beside me and alternated fiddling with the hairs on his bow and glancing at me. "Because. I like it."
"You suck. You know that."
I braced for him to get mad, but he just nodded. "I do. In more ways than one." He never failed to grab an opportunity to remind me how very much he liked cock. This time, I found myself fascinated by his lips as he spoke. "I can play when you're not here, if you want."
"No!" I sat up, alarmed by the speed with which my mind fell into his gutter trap. I did imagine him playing, all alone in the house, but his violin never entered my mental picture. Heat flashed up to my hairline and he gave me a lascivious grin.
I pushed myself back to get a better look at him. He was always so calm, so still, and aside from that huge, knowing smile, he still watched me from a pool of steady patience. Of all the people I'd ever known, he was definitely the most geeky, the most ill fit to blend into society. And the most unaware of his awkwardness. I know I'd always felt on the inside the way he looked on the outside, but he never showed the first sign of caring what anyone thought.
I swallowed, unsure where all this deep analysis was coming from. "No. Don't stop playing on my account. Lord. Six years. I barely hear it anymore."
"So. What was the sudden gasp and abusing the game equipment all about?" He bent, picked up the Wii remote and handed it to me.
As my fingers brushed over his, all that sudden, illuminating freedom rushed like a retreating wave back inside and I clamped my lips shut.
For a long moment, he watched me, his gaze searching while I held my breath and my tongue. He sighed.
"You know, Skippy, after six years, you might not hear my playing, but I can hear what you're not saying."
"Yeah?" The room spun around me a bit, my vision narrowed, and there was Kennedy's face at the center of it, a bad b-movie special effect.
A light, secretive smile crossed his face and he stood as he spoke. "I didn't agree to share this house with you just for the cheap rent." He swished a bit, letting the violin bow swing from thumb and forefinger as he walked away. That shouldn't have made me do a double take, but I was so busy watching his ass swish lightly down the hall I almost missed the kiss he blew over his shoulder.
And that was why I held my breath so much of the time. After six years, how did I say 'I'm not really as straight as I've been letting on---exactly', to the guy I wanted to nail? The guy who'd patiently watched me burn through one girlfriend after another and likely even made tea and cookies for them when I was too busy being a jerk to notice they needed the attention.
"Kennedy?" I'd followed him after a few minutes, and stood outside his bedroom door. He'd left it open a crack and I could hear him putting away his instrument.
"Come on in."
I pushed the door open with two fingers, watched him setting the case on the shelf above his desk. His room was immaculate. He had a ton of stuff. Every bit of it was neatly stowed on the bookshelves around the room. One thing I always associated with him was this endless array of shelved stuff. Books and hobbies and clothes and things that mattered to him; so much of it and he never lost track of anything.
Turning toward me with a smile and a speculative look, he reminded me why I'd waited so long. Here was the one person in my life I could not risk. Better to hold my breath, keep my dubious peace, than to risk.
"You're still not ready?"
"Ready for what?"
There went the room again, spinning, and him at the center. I reached out a hand to steady myself, and, oddly, it landed on his chest. Flat, a little bit boney, it didn't feel like...
He smiled, and I realized I was fondling him, flexing my fingers against the soft flannel of the over shirt he always wore.
"Then again, maybe you are." He layered his hand over mine, held it there. He was so warm. So close.
"Breathe, Skippy."
"Can't." I managed to lift my gaze from my fingers curled around soft plaid to his lips. Almost to his eyes. It took his fingers under my chin to get that far.
"Let go."
"I--"
His thumb touched my lips, quieting me. "Breathe."
"How?"
"Just let it come naturally."
"I don't know what's natural anymore." It felt good to have his hand on the side of my face, though, and to feel his heart beating under my palm.
"This isn't hard."
"Uh--speak for yourself."
He gave that brilliant comment the eye-roll it deserved.
"You're not behaving like this is a surprise to you," I said, wondering if I'd been hiding only from myself after all.
He stepped back a bit. "I've known you for six years."
"Yeah, but I didn't--"
"Know?" he tilted his head. "Really?"
"Well." I tried to get annoyed, to be angry at him for being so matter-of-fact. "I don't...know." I could feel the clamps tightening again. The old habit of backing away, of telling myself no, surfaced and shuffled me backwards toward the door. Being afraid was what I knew.
"What do you think will happen if you let go?" he asked, like he was simply curious and not at all like he was trying to force the issue.
I opened my mouth.
He touched my lips with his fingers to stop me answering. "If you say 'I don' know,' I'll have to kiss you to shut you up."
I closed my mouth again and for the first time, his eyes narrowed, his pale cheeks went a little paler. His bottom lip quivered up between his teeth and he let it go again.
"I'm scared," I whispered, wondering if I was echoing his own feelings right then.
"Of a kiss?" his fingers on my face were gentle. "Don't think I didn't notice how you did that, making it look like you're opening up, but still avoiding the inevitable."
"Which is?"
He lowered his lashes and stepped out of reach.
"Wait. Wha-what are you doing?"
"I'm being responsible, Skippy."
"Why?"
He sighed through a smile and sat on his bed. "Because this is important, and you might want to talk it through before you jump into sex." He looked up at me and I saw exactly what he wasn't saying. He didn't want to get hurt.
"Well. No. I mean. Wait, sex?"
"Not that I'm easy or anything, Skippy, but six years."
"Stop calling me Skippy." I plopped onto the bed next to him. The air this close was thinner, easier to process.
"Kiss me."
I did. A quick peck on the lips. He caught me by the back of the head and kept me there, his lips moving smoothly under mine, his tongue probing, and just like that, the light came on.
"It can't be this easy," I managed after a few minutes.
"Can't it?"
I shifted a bit and before I knew it, he was straddling me, sitting there looking down into my eyes and tracing my face with the pads of his thumbs. "I've known who I've loved for six years. I stopped trying to pretend there was something else going on a long time ago."
Love. I was not there yet. I was barely past the getting hard part and the sex. But there he was, looking into my eyes and just being. How was it so easy for him to just be? To just accept that any moment I might stand up and dump his ass on the floor. There was no going back to roommates now I knew what his tongue in my mouth felt like, but love...
"I've never been in love," I told him.
"And I've never fallen for a straight guy, but things happen. You can't predict life."
"It sure as shit would be easier."
He shrugged a shoulder and made a non-committal noise. "Would it? All this time, you've been predicting what I would say when you told me you wanted to nail me. So was convincing yourself it wasn't worth the risk better than just saying what you want and letting the rest take care of itself?"
"I could be walking around with a violin bow up my ass right now. It doesn't count to say it's easier this way because this time it worked out."
"It counts." He moved so suddenly I was completely off guard and pinned against the mattress, the breath knocked out of me. "It all counts. Life is too short not to count every second." As he talked, he kissed, first my lips, then down along my jaw and he kept going, undoing buttons along the way. "Most of the time, you don't get to chose. You get swept along, not even realizing you don't have your feet on the ground until they snag you and you're tumbling, ass over teakettle." His lips trailed across my chest, his tongue slithering over my nipple. "When life hands you a choice, make it."
I couldn't stifle the moan when his tongue laved lower, along the bottom edge of my ribs and down my side. I was so engrossed in the sensations of warm tongue and cool air on the slick trail it left behind, I didn't notice he'd opened my jeans until his lips nibbled at my hip bone and the chill of exposure sent a ripple of uncertainty through me.
"K-Ken--" I blinked and touched his hair, not sure if I wanted to guide him or pull him away. "Kennedy."
"Breathe," he whispered against delicate skin, "or don't breathe."
His fingers curled under the waistband of my jeans, ready on either side of me to pull them down.
I lifted my hips.
He didn't give head like he played the violin. Or if he did, I didn't notice. I was too busy immersing myself in the feeling of rightness, of relief, to pay a lot of attention to the details. It wasn't that the physical sensation of Kennedy's mouth on my cock felt all that different from a girl's. It was the knowledge it was him, that he wanted it, wanted me, as much as I wanted him that pushed me up, higher and higher every time I let myself think about it. His deep, satisfied moan when I said his name dropped me into freefall I never wanted to end.
He was still licking tenderly at my softening cock when I did, in fact, manage to finally breathe. His silky hair flowed under my fingers and his eyes glowed warmly from where he watched me.
"You still don't feel like talking, do you?" he asked.
I shook my head. Then after a minute, when he had moved to lie beside me, I turned my head to watch him. "Love?" I asked. "Really?"
He just nodded. He didn't seem nervous or worried. He didn't give me any indication that he expected anything from me, wanted me to say it back, or to reciprocate the fantastic blow job.
"I don't understand," I confessed after a while, just assuming he'd know what I was talking about.
He stroked my face, and the calluses on his fingers caught on the stubble on my cheek. His arm was tucked snugly under his head and his glasses magnified his gorgeous eyes. "Me either. I just know how I feel. I know what I want."
"Me?"
He rolled his eyes. "Crazy. I know. I can't explain it, either."
"Thanks." But I couldn't just accept it. "What if I never realized?"
"Wouldn't change how I feel. This is just who I am. I can love you. You don't have to love me back. You've never asked me to be someone I'm not, and that's all that matters, really." He pushed up onto his elbow so his head rested on his hand.
"I don't think I've ever known anyone like you. Aren't you ever afraid of anything?"
He nodded. He didn't tell me what he was afraid of, but somehow I didn't think it mattered. One thing he wasn't scared of was being, and that was an amazing thing.
"How do you do it? How do you wake up every day with the possibility the thing you want most might be the thing you can never have and not just want to hold it all in? Stop? Not even try? How the hell did you get me to stop holding my breath?"
"I didn't make you do anything."
His next kiss took my breath away, but for the first time, I knew I was alive. I knew I was me, and I could do it because he played the violin badly, and loved without worrying what it cost him. It took him six years to teach me how to live, and if he could do that, anything, anything was possible.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Third day after the second session. Started out pretty good, and that should have been a warning. lol
When I went to bed last night, I was disappointed to see how much water I retained from my bouncing around yesterday (Water retention is sort of an immediate indicator of how well or poorly the occluded lymph nodes are functioning.) But much of that can be blamed on simple gravity. and indeed about half was gone by morning. Still good news, at least.
Crashed and burned late morning, didnt surface until 2pm or so, but that got me enough steam to play in Ethan's Gay Day chat (Last sunday of the month) and that was fun. Ethan Day has some of the most energetic, involved fans and authors participating in his Yahoo group, I swear! Playing with those folks would wear anyone out!
Steroids are doing the "eat everything in sight" thing again, but as before, the stomach may say "No more!" even though the brain says I am still very hungry. Learning to listen to the right signals this time, at least.
That will pretty much be squashed in a day or so. I can already feel my throat, mouth and esophagus being "chewed on" by the chemo. Once that pain starts, I wont be eating much of anything, thank you very much.
I'm guessing the reaction is so early because things werent exactly healed from the last onslaught. This time, however, I know how to deal with the shit so with luck (and a lot of eggs, blech) I can get a faster response and maybe get caught up.
Something new tonight. Pain in places I dont expect. I'm really getting to dislike all this new shit, and though Google is my friend (except for its insistence at serving up the most pablum covered "easy to understand language" pages for what I want to find) I'm rather tired of researching, already.
That means more digging because I'm stubborn and I want to know for myself before I go haring off to call the doctor, or worse yet, going to the emergency ward. (And before I get comments like "See the doc!" I am compelled to point out that I've been fairly accurate at diagnosing my own problems, and presenting him with my findings for corroboration or correction. I even staged myself based on the findings of the latest CAT scan, though I wasnt as precise as John was because frankly, I got tired of looking up all the weird words. Grin)
Stage three, by the way, which means I ain't completely hopeless, except for being stubborn, maybe. :)
Notice how rambly this post is? That's exactly why the writing goes so slowly. If I let rip, (assuming I even could) my poor guys would be humping even before they met each other.)
Consequently I got a whopping 73 words worth keeping, though I did have a bit of time to clean up some of the mess I left behind yesterday, so count a few more, I guess.
And we wont go into how cranky that few words made me. Laugh.
Tomorrow is gonna be fascinating. What new worlds of wonder shall we explore, hmm?
Thanks to the new followers. Sort of cool to know you're keeping tabs. :)
Cheers!
Patric
Monday, October 26, 2009
Okay, I have to admit, we have a pretty comprehensive cancer treatment center around here.
When I first showed up for a consultation, (and by that time we already knew the problem, just not the variety) I was virtually inundated with all sorts of helpful people, each armed with mountains of literature.
Very little of it applied to me. I'm just not the sort to need support groups, constant hand holding, and folks telling me they understand because they've been there. (Okay, correction: a LITTLE hand holding, once in a while, maybe.) :)
Reading through all that paperwork, I was struck by what I considered a kind of cruelty, fostered not by the support people who look after the sickie, but by the sickie himself.
Big freaking deal. He's got a disease. Where does that give him the right to snarl and lash out at the people who are trying to help him? All the literature aimed at the supporters counsels patience and understanding and all that tripe, and I dont agree with any of it.
What's so hard about warning my friends and others that I'm crabby, cranky, whatever, and telling them I'll be offline for a while? I did that today because I could feel the frustration and anger at having to constantly navigate my way through strange waters building up faster than I could blow it off. Was anyone's feelings hurt? I hope not. Would they have been if I answered the messages? More than likely. Why on earth should I subject anyone to that mess? Especially folks who are simply looking to lend a hand?
That's probably not a politically correct way to think, but too bad. As far as I am concerned, the only time you are exempt about caring for other people is when you stop breathing, and the last time I checked, I still was.
So for you whiny, "feel sorry for me" weebles wobbling around behind your illness, grow a pair, mind your manners, and have the decency to let your helpers know you arent communicative that day. Jeesh.
And why was I uncommunicative today? Rage. Flat assed tired of all this nonsense. It's like being a hurdles jumper, and occasionally tagging the gates. You can go pretty good for a while, maybe grazing the dang things, but sooner or later as the race progresses, you're gonna get tired and crash into one. And when you do, ouch. Then you get up, (rest up in my case) and go again until you hit the next one. I'm pretty lucky in that my crashes are fairly rare. :)
I took advantage of the situation though to get on the phone with the Apple folks and grump about all the dropped calls my phone gets. Papa will chauffeur my sorry butt out to the Apple store to get it swapped out tomorrow. The Apple techs didnt even argue with me. Wise beyond their years. (Though I have to say, the one named Phillip in Kentucky was bloody awesome!)
Which means, because of all the backups I had to do to get ready for the swap, I didnt even bother trying to write. Maybe tomorrow. :)
I've come to the conclusion that the "new" pain (and oh how I hate to even use that word!) is nothing more than the Neulasta ache that I didnt get last time. It's well documented, though not everyone gets it. Weird that it's more in the ribs and back than the hips as I expected so I cold be wrong, but it fits the descriptions.
Now, with that understanding, (and understanding anything is always more of a comfort to me than some nice lady (or guy!) holding my hand) I can move on, get up off the track, and run a few more hurdles.
Yep! I'll crash into one again sooner or later, guaranteed. We're in for the long haul, baby!
But when I do, I'll warn folks that I'm going off line so as not to hurt THEM, do whatever I need to pick back up, and be profoundly grateful that the folks around me understand the situation.
Yeah, that's you guys!
Thanks!!
Patric
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Wow. I'm a bit behind.
Probably because there is nothing new to report, really. In preparation for my third chemo session, the doc confirmed my suspicion of doing all eight treatments, instead of the original six. Not getting as good a response as we were hoping for, I suppose. Which isnt all that surprising either. That's why I adore my doctor, my hired cancer killer. He doesnt mind that I insist on keeping my eyes wide open and he never talks to me like I am four years old.
In keeping with the roller coaster theme, I had some ups too. Writing a little bit after a long absence might be just a fluke, but I'm hanging on to it!
But I have to tell you about the best up that was couched in the worst down.
I've been pretty good at keeping a good outlook, but if I was the machine some think I am, I wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. Instead, I'm pretty much human and shit gets to me sometimes. A few weeks ago, I flat got tired of having nothing to say that wasnt negative in some way.
One of my overriding concerns has been that I'd turn into someone who only existed for or because of their health issues. You know, the ones who can go on for days about all the things wrong with them? I get that, really, but I dont want to BE that, so in an effort to get a grip, I decided I was not going to use the words "I, me, or my" in any of my correspondence for the next twelve hours.
Fuzzy though the logic might have been, that was a pretty effective stop to saying things like "Neulasta is making my bones ache." or "I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams." or anything else that sounded like whining when folks asked after my progress.
Of course it never occurred to me to warn anyone, so for twelve hours, I had a number of people wondering why I was being such a dick. (I think)
However, one exceptionally clever soul tumbled to the trick, and not only did she take it in stride, she joined in! Taylor Lochland touched me so deeply by simply hanging out and going for the ride on my bizarre roller coaster that I am still astonished even now.
For the rest of the day we conversed as we often do, each of us avoiding those words, and for twelve hours or so, I wasnt sick anymore. Might only have been because the concentration needed to maintain a meaningful conversation without using those words is that much of a distraction, but I think it was more the simple fact that she wasnt trying to comfort or commiserate or anything. Just hang out and go with the flow, and that was enough to forget for a while.
Believe me when I tell you that unless you've been here/there, you cannot fully grasp how invaluable that surcease truly is. Fingers crossed you never know. :)
So in what was a total downer, I found a jewel of an upper, and the roller coaster kept right on rolling.
As we wind our way through life and living, it's pretty much a given that to really appreciate the highs you have to at least be aware of the lows. Sounds corny, but danged if it isnt true. Heres hoping your highs are just a bit higher each time you crest that hill. And here's hoping you got a friend like Taylor sitting beside you.
Taylor, thank you so much for hanging out, and hanging on, and for riding the roller coaster with me. Muaah!
Patric
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
Yes, Patric hates using the chat-program AOL distributed free that started a social-networking revolution. But he has a good reason.
You see Patric is a visual person. His whole personality is organized around organizing. He is all about the artistic element called "Composition"---and the essence of that element is elegance.
An artistic "composition" must have nothing extra, nothing non-functional. Everything in a composition has to do something important to communicate its message.
AIM software just does not pass the test of elegance. It takes too much memory, it's full of stuff you don't need or want, and it gets in the way of image-handlers.
But its user interface is handy and available, so we designated AIM the official method of communicating with simegen.com staff.
Patric is a professional in the Image World---from film to web to book covers. He sometimes uses several computers to process images while doing other tasks. There's no room for clunky AIM in his life. He knows how things work inside, and loves elegant design even when you can't see it.
I first met Patric when he submitted a writing sample to me for a writing course I was running online on WorldCrafter's Guild on simegen.com. The sample was words. Text. But it was nothing but images, vivid images that just sizzled with the need to be made into a film.
Okay, that sample was lacking in a bit here and a tich there, but it just screamed WRITER IN THE MAKING!
This man was full to the brim with stories, and the only medium he had not yet mastered was text. We exchanged a few notes, and first thing you know he was explaining how to organize our brand new writing school, WorldCrafter's Guild.
So even though he was a student for this first course we offered, he ended up webmastering the course's technical underpinnings. Then we got to talking on AIM and he pointed out the short-comings of our web-design. Next thing you know, he's the simegen.com Art Director.
The image and design layout for major pages of a domain really is an integral part of the mechanism visitors don't see---the server and the web-server. We lacked in elegance.
Before you could shake an electron, Patric was our sysadmin and has been ever since, building and rebuilding the simegen.com domain and minding a long list of domains we host on our server. To this very day, he's still hatching plans to redesign and update the "look" of simegen.com, to migrate the domain to a newer hardware setup, to upgrade our "elegance" from the inside out.
He watched our somewhat successful efforts to bring writing students through to professional level, and participated in our courses, in private tutoring, in the stringent training we give in book reviewing as part of sinking the writing lessons into the subconscious. He followed my posts on aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com where I present long, elaborate lessons in Science Fiction Romance cross-genre writing.
Then one day he casually mentioned (Patric is usually casual) he'd sold a story. And I'm "Well, so what else is new?" ---I tell you I knew it from that first sample.
Patric came with "composition" pre-installed, and that is the one, single, most critical thing that we drill into our writing students. Watching us teach it, (while no doubt chortling that we couldn't do it in the visual media of web-pages) he learned how to apply composition to text-story telling.
And all this time (years and years!), Patric and I communicated mostly via AIM. Occasionally, he'd tech-support my computer problems via telephone, but even that was mostly by AIM. Via AIM he taught me how the internet works, how internet servers work, how the web is structured, and how it works. He conveyed abstract principles via text and pounded that "composition = elegance" model of computer science into my head. He even taught me something about recognizing faces while teaching me why Microsoft products are not to be admired or emulated.
Patric Michael hates AIM, but he put up with it to talk to me. Every time I get impatient with a techphobe, I remember what Patric put up with and make a special effort to put up with other people.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Knuckle dragger. Neanderthal. I got the market cornered. :)
Woke up feeling distinctly sub-human. Since my generosity abounds, I shouted catchy movie tag lines loudly into the void. Things like "Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid." and "In Space, No One Can Hear You Scream."
The members of the void listened and heard, and ran for cover. Patric was in a bad mood.
(I swear, I have the wisest friends in the world.) :)
I dont really know why I should have felt that way. Maybe it was the dream of having a vampire cat (not a typo) get hold of my real life cat. Maybe it was being bitten by the vampire cat. Dreams are funny things.
Or maybe it was knowing that I was scheduled to go to Costco with Papa today. Gods, that would piss anyone off.
So okay, I'm crabby, I've warned the friends network, and the cats have scattered for cover. I'm loaded on steroids, taking them and the Percocet all at once without a food buffer, hoping for that jittery, buzzed up amperage to kick my butt into gear.
Gee, that worked. I was crawling the ceiling, but alas, still just as cranky.
Lets pause for a brief moment to revisit the interlude spent calling various state agencies to ask why I should be told coverage exists, only to be told that coverage is of a different flavor, and I actually dont have it after all.... Gotta love the State. Happy to give you anything when you are terminal (knock on wood, or a government official's head) as long as it doesnt actually do you any good.
Okay. Fruitless mission, that. Back to Costco.... With an entirely new take on "cranky." What fun we'll have.
Papa, bless his heart, has become the chauffeur, care taker, buffer zone, and all around "stuck n the middle" guy for me. Love him to pieces for that, but he had no where to run like the rest of my caretakers. I DID warn him that today was not a Happy Day, though. Give me that much credit. :)
He speculated on the dump point of that really thick, ominous black cloud ahead of us as we drove down the hill, and damn me if he wasnt spot on. End result? Getting out of the car and streaking across the Costco parking lot amidst a downpour that would have made Noah blanch. At least we waited for the hail to stop.
The crank-o-meter dialed up a few more degrees, only to red-line when we had to battle our way through a milling horde of people waiting on hapless spouses to "Get the car, honey!" What, did they figure the fire lane is a rainy day loading zone?
Gods, we get rain nine months out of the year. You'd think these folks had never seen the stuff, much less felt it pelt down upon their heads for a few minutes. Did I mention they all have HAIR?
So of course I have to be totally butch and snarl my way through the sheep, my bald head held high and dripping (idiot forgot his hat!) to show them all up. Would have been great if anyone bothered to notice. Up goes the cranky meter still further.
Costco is one of those bizarre American "traditions" that sounds so good on paper, and ends up being an exercise in excess. Everything is sold in cases, or giant bags, or in quantities suitable for your average small restaurant. You cant get just one candy bar. You gotta buy a box. You cant get one pound of hamburger. You gotta buy twelve.
Unless you have a family the size of a small third world country, everyone knows you have to be encouraged to buy that much of anything at a time. (Seriously, 48 rolls of toilet paper?)
So the head honchos, each with an IQ comparable to the aforementioned government officials, decided an inducement was in order.
Enter the freebie counters.
Bits of whatever is currently on sale is cut up, dished up, fried up, and served up to anyone who passes by. Back in the day, when such foolishness was brand new, it was a great way to sample that 96 count bag of fruit roll-ups, or find out for yourself if your stomach would tolerate chili and cheese stuffed, orange marmalade glazed sausages long enough to polish off the 12 pounds that comes in a box.
Now however, "Freebie counter" has become synonymous with "Free lunch."
I watched a lovely girl named Lana serving up samples of ravioli dipped in what she proclaimed was "Classico Authentic Marinara Sauce." No sooner would her delicate, vinyl gloved fingers release the little paper cup containing her treasure than some vulture would snatch it away, wolf it down, and make a half assed attempt to score two points at the trash can, only to walk away in search of the next free sample.
Watch long enough and certain patterns begin to emerge. Not the least of which is a frightening similarity to the movie Jaws when Roy Scheider is ladling chum out into the water. Customers began to swirl as Lana set up her station, deftly nipping raviolis out of the hot water, swooping them through bubbly red sauce, and plopping the result into little paper cups on her tray. In moments, customers began drawing closer, their eyes gleaming with hungry anticipation. A few jostled each other, apparently hoping for a faster grab.
Lana's huge brown eyes got wider and I saw her hand move surreptitiously to the little poker thingy she used to skewer ravioli out of the boiling water. Poor girl probably thought she had a chance. In no time at all she, and I, the dope wanting to ask where to find the chili stuffed sausages, were surrounded by a feeding frenzy. Lana backed away, clutching her skewer, but I was trapped against the display by a press of bodies and snatching hands. The cranky meter overloaded, the instrumentation shattered, and all thoughts of shouting "This ain't a free lunch counter!" dissolved.
I freely admit it. Fear thrummed though my overloaded nerves, and Percocet danced upon the opoid receptors in my brain, and I actually wondered if I were to simply grab the rapidly emptying tray and throw it into the aisle if the mob would fall upon it like squawking gulls so I could make my escape. But Lana surprised me. No shrinking violet after all, she popped open another bag of ravioli and dumped it into the pot. The crowd subsided, though I cant be sure if that was the result of Lana'a quick thinking or the fact that the sample tray was empty. Ether way, it was just the break I needed.
"So Lana, where are those chili cheese stuffed, orange marmalade glazed sausages at?" I asked.
"We're all out."
Sigh. Gotta love Costco.
As I walked away, I couldnt help but wonder what ravioli in red sauce tastes like.
Patric
Friday, November 20, 2009
Once again, I am lax at updating this thing. Sorry!
The excuse is the same as always, with a twist. For the last four days I've been feeling worse and worse, and a couple nights ago I finally ran a fever.
For those who dont know, "fever" is a scary word for these doctor and nurse types because it implies infection, and since the chemo is busy destroying the immune system in its bid to get at the cancer, well.... They all warned me repeatedly to let them know right away if I ran a temperature.
So I did.
The first person I talked to took my information and said she'd give it to a nurse who would call me back. Okaaay....
The second person I talked to was a nurse named Mark, who asked me what was going on, so I told him, too.
"I had a fever last night, Mark. 100.7. I'm guessing its from an infection of one of the lymph nodes. Probably migrated from the infection I had at the incision when they took the biopsy. Whatever it is, that node is swollen and the skin around it is bright red and angry looking."
"Okay," Mark says. Can you come down and get some blood drawn? Sooner rather than later, in case we have to do anything else."
"Like what?" I ask. Maybe there's more to this fever business than I think.
"Antibiotics, stuff like that. I'll let them know you're coming."
"I'll be right there," says I, and finagle Papa to haul me down to the hospital, yet again. He really should be earning chauffeur's wages. :)
I haul my sorry carcass into the shower and clean clothes. Blame me for having some sort of pride, but I'm gonna have to be freaking unconscious before I go looking like a scruff ball, or worse yet, in pajamas!
I'd decided not to load up on the painkillers per usual because I didnt want to skew the blood counts. Doubtful it would happen, but there is a lot I don't know about all this stuff. So... Papa, not the fastest man on the planet, has to wait for me to catch up as we head for the elevators. I think the whole concept is a novelty for him, because I used to be really fast. :)
When I arrive, the receptionist sends me off to the vampires and they grab their quota. Then I'm told to have a seat and Trina, the doctor's assistant, will bring me the results.
Fair enough. I know perfectly well I am unscheduled, and it would be ludicrous to think they can fit me in for a face to face. She shows up a few minutes later with paper in hand, and tells me that John is with a patient, and that she knocked on the door but he didnt answer. "As soon as he is free, I'll give these to him and we'll see what he has to say."
"No worries," I say and reach for the results. She snatches it out of reach, then tells me I can't see them until the doctor does. "It's policy," she adds. (Although I am forever asking for copies of my records, she doesnt always deliver and I have to nag. Obviously I dont understand everything, but I get enough to suit me.)
Okay, whatever. I'm already feeling the lack of pain killers enough that I dont have the energy to quibble. A while later she returns, hands me the results, and tells me the doctor was concerned about "Neutropenia" but that my counts were good, "so continue taking Tylenol and I should be fine." (Oh joy, another word to look up.)
Then she turns and walks away.
Papa and I look at each other and the question is plain. "What the f\*ck just happened?"
By that point I had one overriding thought on my mind, which was to get back to the car and dig into my emergency stash of pain killers. It takes thirty-six minutes for that stuff to take effect and when it finally did, we were almost home. Bothersome that it can only take the edge off the problem, but I've got a pretty high tolerance to begin with so it's manageable. Certainly enough to allow me to think about what had happened, and how I felt about it.
The truth is, I felt... overlooked.
Ok. Lets think this thing through. Doc's advice, based on everything I said, must mean that what I was experiencing wasn't all that big a deal, right? After all, I've said over and over how much I trust the guy implicitly. E.G, if the white blood count is high, my body will take care of the situation on it's own.
Yeah, that lasted for all of an hour while I googled "neutropenia." In a nutshell, it's a fever of at least a given duration while the neutrophil (a type of white blood cell) count is abnormally low.
Okay, so if everything is fine (and it obviously is not given the steadily increasing swelling) who do I still feel like I got tossed under the bus?
I'm not too proud to admit that I went a bit childish and decided, "Fine. I'll deal. I'll take pictures and rattle his cage at my next visit in a couple of weeks." Add to that the distinct feeling that my personal hero just let me down, big time.
Folks who know me know I can be stubborn about the strangest things, and I decided there had to be an alternative. Maybe Mark didnt relay everything I said? Maybe Trina didnt relay everything Mark said? Surely my guy would have done something different had he known, right? RIGHT? I mean, we're talking about an existing lump the size of my thumb that has swelled to something the size of a baby's fist virtually overnight.
I just cant believe that doesnt matter, and if that's true, that means my doctor guy, whom I freely admit I adore, hasnt forsaken me.
Enter Liz, one of the counselors who keeps tabs on patients and check on their progress, etc. She called the next day to apologize for not meeting me during the last treatment which is her usual habit. No biggie, since it was never a formally scheduled thing, but it was sweet of her.
Naturally, I repaid her in kind by whining.
"Liz, help me figure something out, will you?"
I told her what had happened, and told her how much it bothered me to think the Doc blew me off.
"Did you talk to him about it?" she asks.
"No. Trying to get past Trina is like trying to get a message to God. I didnt even bother. Besides, I dont want to raise a stink if it will backlash on him."
"Okay, if you could talk to him face to face, what would you want to say?" Clever Liz, extracting my own words like that.
"I'd ask him if he had been given all the information I gave Mark. Surely he's got to be thinking it's just a transient fever, in which case his advice would be spot on."
"I'll go upstairs and have a talk with him and see what he has to say. Then I'll call you back." With the casual way she said that, I have to believe that angels in Heaven can also walk freely in the presence of God.
Liz called back a few hours later and told me that Doc had indeed not been given all the details. She also said I was to start antibiotics, and that they would call the prescription in.
Whew! That's more like what I expected of my hero guy! And best of all, he didnt blow me off!
It is utterly foolish to put such stock in another human being, but you know what? I can cheerfully live with any mistake he might make, if that ever happens. What I couldnt deal with as easily is finding out he didnt really care after all.
So... These last four days have been hell on earth. Think of the worst flu you've had and multiply it by five or six. Then add all the fun and frolic the usual chemo brings to the party. I'm reluctant to up the dose of drugs because of the risks involved to my liver, and the only real way I can get away from the discomfort for a while is to sleep.
Thus, I'll be offline until I get back on track, dodging the pain and nausea, and thinking about how even in the darkest days, there is always something good to be found. And especially thinking about how we all need a hero we can count on sometimes.
Thanks Doc! You are aces, man.
Patric
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Abscess makes the heart grow fonder
6:00 am:
Alarm goes off. Time for another round of antibiotics. Check the swelling. What the hell is that black line??
Oh... I get it. Sharp stabbing bolts of pain = living flesh separating. Now I understand. Sigh.
8:00 am:
Wake up again. Black line is now revealed as a deep pocket, capped with a layer of skin that is so thin it's transparent. A hint of yellow mars the ebony sheen.
"Stand back, Ethyl! She's gonna blow!" (Video available upon request.)
The back pressure is sufficient to create a fountain about 6 inches high which slows to a seemingly never ending rivulet of fascinating colors and smells.
Fine by me, because the pressure is gone.
It's true. What makes pain feel so good is when it stops.
11:00 am:
Tell Papa to eat fast cuz I have to go to the emergency room.
12:30 pm:
Standing in the emergency room bare-assed in a johnny showing the morning video to a nurse who squealed "Oh I love abscesses!" Seemed only fair to indulge her.
1:30 pm:
Pumped full of high-test antibiotics and even higher-test painkillers while the doctor on call does an ultrasound to see what he's gonna be cutting into. "That's a lymph node!" (Duh) "I need to talk to your surgeon before I go cutting into that!"
Nurse takes a pint of blood for five different cultures. She's messy. (Pictures available upon request.)
1:45 pm:
The trauma surgeon who did the second biopsy peers around the corner, smiling but business-like. She flips back the johnny. "Oh my goodness! That's an angry red! What happened?"
I tell her.
Surgeon proceeds to dig into the gaping hole with a swab, none too gently.
"Ease down, butch! That's live skin you're tearing. Have you considered using a knife?"
"No, this'll be fine."
Apparently the higher-test painkillers are no match for her thoroughness. Youch!
2:00 pm:
Trauma surgeon packs a two inch long, 3/8 inch deep gash with gauze. "Change this twice a day. Can you do that?" (Duh. Standing on my head.)
3:45 pm:
Papa peers around the curtain. Still ten minutes to go on the IV pushing antibiotics.
"I asked them to tell me what your prognosis was, and they said you were just getting started. I've been waiting and waiting!" (Duh. Now you know how I feel waiting six hours on your sorry butt the last time you were admitted to emergency.)
4:05 pm:
Stand up to get dressed and water runs down my leg like a mini cataract. Mop that up, put on my pants, and in seconds I have a big fat wet spot.
4:25 pm:
Filling a prescription at Shopko. No shoppers, I did not pee my pants.
All the lovely drugs are wearing off. Damn.
5:15 pm:
Arrive home, just as angry and unsettled as when I left.
I hate my life.
Patric
Monday, November 23, 2009
Warning: What will follow is likely to be maudlin tripe, so feel free to stop reading here and move on to something even more interesting. I understand the annual paint drying contest is currently underway. That would be a good alternative. :)
Today, beyond all expectation, was a happy day; for about twenty minutes. After all, I'd not been stoned (on pain meds) since 4pm the previous day, and I woke up feeling rather normal for a change. I'll say here and now it was awesome. :)
Apparently, the rest of me woke up some twenty minutes late. I can relate to that, since I've always been a night owl. Stands to reason whatever's currently chewing on my carcass (and half the time I cant tell if its cancer or cure) would be equally prone to sleeping in.
Eeh, what the hell. Slog another pain pill and everything will be fine. So I did. :)
I can accept a chemically induced happy day.
Sometimes the distinctions between artificial and natural can only be measured by perception.
I got a gift today. A phone call that just ticked me seven shades of pink. Cant divulge details of course, but the sheer novelty ws enough to keep me bouncing all day, which was good because I got to participate in Z.A. Maxwell's count down chat.
I even managed to hang in until Family Unit was released for sale, at which point everybody suddenly disappeared. One presumes they flooded the Loose Id website to buy it. :)
As I crashed, I listened to what I can only assume are drug induced aural hallucinations.
People's voices, random bits of conversation all jumbled together like I was far away from the source, and the occasional errant breeze would carry the sound just enough to hear. The sounds carried me into dreams both bizarre and surreal. How often does one get to dream of being awake, dreaming on one eye while the other eye looks upon the waking world, and the images are superimposed?
Rather creepy, that. :)
Sadly, all vestiges of happy were eaten away by the time I woke, hours ago, and I was back you plain ol' cranky me. Prickly, contentious, and sullen, at least it's familiar territory. That happy guy makes me want to claw my own face off. :)
Thus, it was the prickly guy who answered yet another "How are you doing?" message.
Man, how I have come to hate that question, as much for it's innocence as for it's insistence. It's one of those rare questions that means nothing but good, is a benchmark of good will, and solicits only caring.
And yet, hearing it makes me cringe, every time. I hate not being able to say "I'm fine! The sun is shining and birdies are chirping outside my window. It's a glorious day!" which is of course what the questioner wants to hear. The window of opportunity to actually say that is so bloody rare and short, I almost always disappoint them, and by extension, myself.
So when I got the question again, the prickly guy answered, "I'm still alive."
Not terribly poetic, and certainly not upbeat, at least it was not the usual litany of problems.
What I got back was the usual, "I'm glad." and that got me thinking.
So many people say that and I usually grin and wave it off. Conditioned to accept it, you might say.
But there are thankfully rare times I am not glad, and without fail, every time I say that I get hit with the always popular "Dont say that!" spoken as though disobedience of the command were unimaginable.
Wait, whoa. You arent allowed to tell me how to think. What's the deal? Why cant I be allowed to feel crappy enough that a dirt nap would be preferable?
Why ask the question if you are unwilling to accept all possible answers?
Sorry folks, I'm a package deal, and yes, sometimes my thoughts are morbid like that. Fine and dandy that you dont agree with them, but you simply dont get to tell me I'm not allowed to think them. It comes a little too close to "It's okay to be gay, as long as you keep it hidden."
Is that stretching things too much? I dont know. I'm an observer that's too close to what he's observing to see the whole scope. Someone else will have to adjudicate that one.
In the meantime, dont ask if you dont really want to know. You may not like the answer. :)
Patric
ZA Maxfield
Once, you asked me what manner of being I am. I told you then, because you could never understand, I simply am.
I am lighter than air. I am denser than gold. I am taller than your largest building, and I can fit inside the crystalline structure of the finest flake of snow. I am immense, yet I could dance with my peers on the head of a pin.
But I won't. Dancing on the heads of pins seems like an extraordinary waste of time, unless you ask it of me.
I suppose it never occurred to you that I do everything you ask of me and more because in all the worlds you are the only one to whom I will ever say, "I am yours."
Why?
When you were very young you found a yellow pup and coaxed it to you, luring it with soft sounds and gentle hands. You knew everything it would ever be, just as I know the whole truth of you. You didn't wait for it to grow or prove itself; you simply knew that you would be there for him in all his moments, from the first time he pushed his damp black nose into your palm to the very last time he lifted his gray muzzle from his paws and you saw farewell in his sad brown eyes.
This is what you are to me. You are mine. I have foreseen it.
My peers are everywhere around me, just as yours surround you. Waking, sleeping, working, playing. Yet in the entire universe there is only we.
And today... Since you've chosen today ---this very moment--- to step through a rotting board and slip into an abandoned mine, this is the day we begin...
When Kip hit the damp ground beneath what appeared to be a hole of rotting wood planks and thin earth, he got the breath knocked out of him so hard that he guessed he'd blacked out. The next thing he knew he was leaning against something warm and soft, and emitting what sounded like frightened huffs of breath.
Kip wanted to find out what he was up against, but he could barely see a clumpy ceiling of mud held together by roots that dangled from it like strings in the dim light that filtered through the place where he had fallen. It didn't make sense. He sat upright and looked behind him. There, he found a boy about his age, who sat at his back, supporting him while he'd been lying there unconscious. They stared at one another while their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.
The boy gazed down at Kip without much expression at all.
"You fell," he said evenly. A frown creased his forehead and his eyes narrowed. "Does anything hurt?"
"I..." Kip got slowly to his feet. He took a brief inventory of sensation. The air smelled funny and the mud baffled any sound from above ground, but nothing seemed to hurt. "I don't know." He tested his legs and looked around in the gloom. On the ground his backpack and insulated vinyl cooler lay where he'd obviously landed. "I must have fallen on those."
"Yes, I'm sure that's exactly what happened," the boy said dryly, giving him a look that he couldn't read as he climbed stiffly to his feet. He moved carefully, testing his legs and stretching out his arms. At one point he uttered a sharp exclamation in some language that Kip had never heard before.
"I'm Chemuel."
Kip faced him and held out his hand. "My name's Kipling Rush. You can call me Kip."
"Hello Kip." Chemuel took the hand he'd been offered with a warm, firm grip.
Kip pumped his new friend's hand a few times then dropped it. "What do they call you?"
The boy frowned again. "They call me Chemuel."
Kip shook his head. "You must spend a lot of time with your head shoved in a toilet. Can I call you something else? How about... Crash. Can I call you Crash since we both sort of crashed here?"
"You may call me whatever you choose." Crash gave him a smile so warm Kip felt like he'd put on a sweatshirt. "I'd like to be called Crash."
"I haven't seen you around school before." Kip studied Crash, who wore a pair of new, dark blue jeans and a polo shirt. He looked like a lot of the kids from school, but his polo shirt wasn't the uniform burgundy with the crest on the pocket required of all Oak Crest Academy students. Kip knelt down to take stock of the things in his backpack and lunch bag. "What grade are you in? I'm in Mrs. Clepper's fifth grade class at Oak Crest. She's young and pretty so everyone likes her."
"I don't go to your school," Crash told him, kneeling awkwardly beside him. "What are you looking for, tools?"
"Tools?" Kip blinked up at Crash and his hands stilled.
"Yes. In your rucksack. Do you carry rope? Matches?"
"Oh, yeah." Kip grinned. "No. But I have Oreos."
"Oreos?" Crash frowned at him again.
Kip wondered if Crash was simply a frowny kind of guy; some kids were like that. All gloom and doom and what's-the-point. "Yeah. Here." He gave Crash a handful of cookies. He found a juice box and some water, so he decided he would ask. "Do you want juice or water?"
Crash looked at the cookies in his hand. "Water, please."
"Here." Crash gave him the bottle. "That one hasn't been opened -- no germs." He tried to stab the straw into his juice box but it crumpled the first few times. When he looked back up, Crash still stared at his Oreos as if he'd never seen one before, and Kip thought maybe Crash hit his head when he fell.
"It's okay to eat those, I have plenty."
"That's not..." Crash looked at him. "What are they?"
Kip gazed at him sadly. "Dude. You are totally homeschooled aren't you?"
"I'm what?"
"This is an Oreo cookie. A chocolate sandwich cookie with something called stuff inside. You can get them in different flavors but my dad always says you can't beat the classics."
"Oh, I see. It's a food."
"It's the food, Crash. I'll bet wars have been fought over these. Or Fig Newtons."
Crash brightened. "I know what figs are. And Newton. Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night; God said, 'Let Newton be' and all was light." Crash chuckled. "That Pope."
Kip didn't get it. "Which Pope?"
"Samuel Pope." Crash explained. "He said that. About Newton."
"Ah."
Crash seemed fascinated by his cookies so Kip took pity on him. "Like this, see? You break them apart by twisting, then lick."
"Sweet," Crash observed when he did the same.
"My mom says they're nothing but sugar and pig fat."
Crash's eyes widened as he nearly gagged. "Pig fat?"
"Not really, though. You're probably a vegan huh, or eat macrobiotic food? Kenji Sarukowa in my class eats macrobiotic."
"Sometimes it seems to me that you aren't speaking English."
"That's probably because you don't get out much."
Crash laughed at that. "Do you have anything in there that might be useful?
"I carry my books in my backpack. Papers, pencils. Crayons."
"Pretty soon it's going to be dark."
"I know that, I have my cell phone, and it has a little light that we can see by."
Crash snorted. "And how will that help you when it gets cold? Surely you can't expect it to keep you warm? Its glow gives off no heat at all."
"Are you kidding me?" Kip looked at Crash again, peering at him through the shadows. "Probably not, huh?"
"No."
Kip reached for his phone and opened it, sliding the keyboard out so the screen lit up and he got his first really good look at the boy he'd named Crash. His first conclusion ---that the strange boy had to be Amish or something--- seemed to be corroborated by his weird perfection. It almost hurt to look at him. Kip stared at Crash in awe. "Dude."
"Dude, again. What do you mean when you say that?"
"I can see why it might be hard for you in public school. You're learning English as a second language plus you're as pretty as a girl. If you went to my school Sean Velasquez would run you up the flagpole in your underwear."
Crash stared at him with wide gray eyes.
Kip's voice rose. "Crash. When you fell, did you hit your head?"
Crash growled, "I'm right here. I can hear you fine. I just wish I could understand you."
Kip stopped what he was doing when understanding dawned. "You're scared, aren't you, Crash?"
"No."
"'Cause it's okay if you're frightened. I mean--- it's a dark and kind of scary place. How long have you been down here?"
"A while," Crash seemed reluctant to talk about it. "But I'm really not frightened."
"All right." Kip dismissed his denial. If Crash didn't want to admit he was scared, it was no big deal. If he didn't have to keep up a brave front for Crash he'd probably be scared too. "I didn't even know this place was here. I come home this way every day."
"I know." Crash told him. "I watch you. I could see that one day you'd simply step on the wrong board and fall through."
"Jeez! If you could see that, then why didn't you say something?"
Crash shrugged his shoulders.
"Is that one of those immigrant things? Were you afraid to talk? First thing we're going to do is work on your language skills."
"My---"
"Hold on, Crash, I got this." Kip turned his back, holding his phone out to squint at it. "Cool. We've got three bars." He could feel Crash's fathomless gray eyes boring into his back.
"Three bars? Does that mean we won something?"
Kip ignored him. "Hello? Mom, you won't believe this..."
How shall I describe it? Once I stared into the void. Once I gazed upon the very spark of creation. Even then the idea of you was in my imagination.
Yet as easily as if you found a shiny pebble --- as effortlessly as plucking a stone off the ground and placing it your pocket --- you pulled me into the immensity that is your human heart and made me whole. That day, when I gave up everything to break your fall, you caught me.
Even years later, even after I'd made my home securely in your heart, I had no idea what that would mean to me...
Crash pushed his body harder than he ever had. He ran as fast as he could, cursing the limitation of lungs, the pitiful skin sacks that pulled air into his chest and refined it, and heart, the pump that sent oxygen through his blood to his muscles. He railed against the meaningless restrictions of natural law. He'd given his all, as always, but as he tore through the empty campus he feared the consequences of being even seconds late. He reached the science building barely in time to throw open the door before the buzzer.
During school, when students broke free of their classes and ran pell-mell through the hallways, the place thrummed with energy and laughter. Now, during winter break it was as deserted as an ancient tomb, open only to those who really had no business being there, and Kip, of course, whose job it was to lock it up after he fed the laboratory animals. Crash took the stairs two at a time and pelted for the lab, knowing exactly what he'd find there.
"HEY!" he shouted, shoving aside three beefy boys. He used the precious adrenaline that seemed to flow from his fear to his fingertips as he fought for possession of the man they held down between them. For the love of heaven, they'd already begun to tear Kip's clothes off. He'd almost got there too late after all. "I've already informed campus security and they're on their way. Leave him alone or I'll---"
"Or you'll what," snarled a boy with short spikes for hair.
Crash stood his ground, vibrating with such rage it made the very air around him crackle. Kip's attackers looked at one another. They took several steps backward. Crash smiled his most beautiful ---and therefore his most alarming--- smile.
I've still got it.
Crash held his hand out to help Kip from the floor.
Kip drawled, "Or he'll tell you long, drawn-out stories in Latin until you drop dead of boredom, that's what." He got shakily to his feet. "Crash? Meet Bullies. Bullies, Crash."
The three boys who'd attacked Kip seemed to lose their nerve, possibly because they were believed the lie he'd told about campus security. It was a tremendous relief when they fled. Crash let out a shaky breath. Kip was safe and the threat was gone.
A useful thing, adrenaline, but it had its drawbacks.
"Those were not bullies. They intended to ravish you."
"Ravish? No need to take on like someone's Victorian auntie." Kip refused to meet his eyes. "I doubt it would have come to that."
Kip's legs trembled, but as always he didn't show his fear. He walked past Crash to wash his hands in a show of bravado that nearly made Crash cry. When Kip kept washing and steam rose from the sink to fog the mirror, Crash was reminded of Lady Macbeth.
"How did this happen?"
Kip was silent, even when Crash pulled him away from the sink and gave him a towel.
"Tell me."
"I told you I went to a club last night, right?" Kip pulled a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lit it with hands that still shook.
Crash reached out and grabbed the cigarette away. "And I told you. You may not smoke." Crash frowned when Kip surrendered without a fight. "You went dancing with Stacey, didn't you?"
"Not exactly." Kip turned and sat in a rolling chair behind a computer, making notes, still avoiding his eyes.
"What do you mean not exactly."
Kip put up a token resistance. "You're not my mother."
"No." Crash agreed. "I'm not your mother." He sat down beside Kip and waited patiently, which he knew Kip hated. Kip despised patience in any form.
Kip sighed and rolled his head. Crash swiveled Kip's chair around and began to massage his shoulders before he even thought about it, using his strong hands to knead the ropy muscles that ran down Kip's neck and across his back. They probably burned with agony as he dug into knots that seemed like acorns, but Kip leaned into his touch as if it were hot water.
"That's good."
Crash said nothing, merely continued to push with his thumbs, relaxing Kip's still tense body until he chose to break his silence.
"I went to a club alone. The one on 19th Street. Pulse."
"Pulse?" Crash tried to hear what Kip wasn't saying. "What happened there?"
"I danced." Kip hissed when Crash pressed his elbow into the knot just below his shoulder blades. "I met someone I thought was nice and we went outside for a smoke."
"I hate that you do that."
"I know." Kip swallowed hard. "Prepare to hate this even more. I didn't just go outside to smoke. The person I met was hot."
"I see." Crash's hands stopped moving.
"I thought---" Kip slumped into Crash's touch, silently asking for it to continue, like a dog that wanted to be scratched. "I thought we had something going. It turned out it was all some sort of awful prank and I ran away."
"You didn't tell me." Crash's heart slammed into the bones that surrounded and protected it, very much like it had when he'd run. He'd always found the sensation interesting. Apparently it happened for a number of different reasons. Like now, when he realized he'd been inadequate in his care of Kipling Rush. "How could I not know about this?"
"I didn't want to tell you." Kip didn't turn. "I thought maybe you'd rather not know."
Hmph. "And?"
"It was one of those guys, and he came with his friends tonight to finish what we started."
Crash's blood went cold and he wondered if there were times when the pump in his chest could stop altogether. "I don't think I comprehend."
Kip rolled his chair out of reach. "There was a kind of scavenger hunt. Like a game. I found about it from a friend, later. They broke up into groups of three with a list of things to get, and the first team back would win."
Crash shook his head, still not able to understand. "But what did they want?"
"The list apparently said blowjob from a queer."
"But," Crash blinked. "That's..."
"Over." Kip waved off Crash's outrage. "It's over now."
"But did... Did you want...?"
Kip lifted his chin and finally, finally looked directly at Crash. "I did. Yes." Kip moved suddenly, gripping Crash by his upper arms. "Look. I'm sorry I never told you. You're my best friend and I didn't want things to get weird between us."
Crash stared at him. "News flash..."
"Yeah. Okay. I get that it's weird now."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want it to ruin our friendship." Kip pushed a hand through his hair. "But I don't want to have to hide who I am all the time either. I can't see it making a difference but if it does, that's your damn problem, not mine."
"If you recall, I asked you to make all your problems mine." Crash thought he knew every emotion that could play over Kip's face but he couldn't begin to fathom what he saw there right then. His heart sank as he realized Kip didn't trust him with his truth. "Didn't you have faith that I could see past that?"
Kip's voice, when he finally spoke, came out small. "I guess I... maybe not."
"I did not foresee this," Crash said, more to himself than Kip. "I thought I knew what all your possibilities could be."
"What?"
"Nothing." Crash leaned back against the counter. "So when you want to meet someone you go to this place, this Pulse?"
"Yes. And it doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. Not between us." Kip turned away and picked up his sweatshirt, apparently done for the evening both at the lab and with the conversation. "I'm just getting ready to lock up."
"All right." Crash followed him.
Kip turned off the lights, closed the door behind him, and fumbled for his keys. At the last minute he seemed to change his mind. "I don't go to Pulse often. I never really meet anyone. Sometimes a parking lot hook-up."
"Kip---"
Kip held his hand up. "Before you ask, I always have safe sex. I don't plan on getting a disease and anyways, normally tricking isn't really my thing."
"Kip---"
"Hear me out, alright? Sometimes I get a little lonely, and I think why not, you know?" He turned the key in the lock and tugged it hard to make sure. "I'm a junior in college. I work hard. I get good grades. I just want a little fun."
Crash stopped him so they were eye to eye. "Kip---"
Kip let out a long shuddering sigh. "Please don't lecture. It's not like I'm playing Russian roulette or shopping the after Christmas sale at Best Buy. I don't even hook up, half the time. I just---"
Crash covered Kip's mouth with his own. It was a move guaranteed to stop him from talking, but beyond that, it was something he'd always wanted to do but had never dared.
Crash experienced his own surprise. His heart---which had already had such a busy night---had only just begun it work. It thudded loudly in his ears and seemed to throb in his groin. He backed Kip up to the door they'd just firmly locked and held him there, teasing and tasting and testing the limitations of their new connection.
Kip pressed both hands to Crash's chest, at first to push him away, which Crash didn't allow, and then to grab the lapels of his jacket in order to hang on. Crash found a way to wedge his knees between Kip's, pushing his feet apart, and before he knew it they were cock to cock.
"Crash." Kip still struggled weakly. "Don't do this."
Crash stopped, but didn't move away, he lifted his head. "You want me to stop?"
Kip shook his head as if to clear it. "Just tell me why?"
Crash was unable to find words.
Kip pushed past him for real, and Crash let him, following at a discreet distance, knowing he'd messed up, knowing he had to do something, but his body was vibrating with something he'd never felt before and he couldn't think.
When Kip got to the outer doors he looked back. In that moment he looked so devastated, so completely alone, that Crash took a chance that he could find the right thing to say if he simply tried. "I knew there would eventually be somebody."
Kip turned his body and folded his arms, waiting.
"I knew that you'd want someone, someday." Crash swallowed. "I never foresaw that it could be me. I never imagined... But---"
Kip shrugged and started walking again.
"Kip." Crash nearly wept with frustration. There was a time when his voice held a deep and resonant beauty so powerful that it made humans fall to their knees. Now he pushed air through folds of flesh, mucous membranes, he'd read, to vibrate them. No matter how hard he tried, he could never say what was in his heart. "I really, really wanted it to be me."
Kip turned back to Crash in shock. The last thing, the very, very last thing he ever thought he'd hear was that Crash wanted him. They'd been friends forever. Deeply, richly connected in ways that he'd felt with no one else, but Crash... Well... Crash was beautiful. Golden and shiny and almost perfectly inhuman... And he'd never, ever showed one hint of attraction to anyone that way.
Kip had long ago written his best friend off as one of those guys who was simply asexual. Not interested. While the rest of their friends had been spanking it and reading skin rags, Crash hit the library or helped out at the local soup kitchen. That was just...Crash.
Kip chalked it up to the fact that he was HomeSchool-Kid; that he was innocent and decent. That he hadn't been nurtured in the high octane, erotically charged yet sexually crippling crucible of public school and their family didn't watch television or read the paper. He'd imagined that Crash's family probably spent most of their time playing various musical instruments and singing hymns in eight-part harmony.
"Oh, hell no." Kip turned his back on Crash a final time and walked away.
Crash kept following after him, his footsteps remarkably uncertain.
"Don't, Crash. Don't follow me, not tonight."
"Why?" Crash sounded...odd.
"Why?" Kip turned to find him flushed and angry. "Because you have no idea what you're asking, that's why. You want me to blow off a friendship I've had forever---the best thing in my life---on the off chance that you know enough to know that it's me you want, when you've never, ever showed one bit of interest in me before?"
"Never showed..." Crash drew back. He looked as if he wanted to tear his hair out. "I never showed one bit of interest in you? Are you out of your mind?"
"That way. You've never been interested that way."
"Because I thought you were interested in women. Because I thought when you chose someone to love it would be a woman."
Kip shook his head in disbelief. "But all this time, there's never been anyone you've even glanced at---"
"Except for you!" Crash poked his chest. "I've never glanced at anyone except for you. I've lived for you. I've been here for you every single time you needed me. I've loved you since I first laid eyes on you!"
"But, Crash, that's different from wanting to fuck me."
Crash frowned. "But loving you. That's what drives desire, right?"
"Not always," Kip said gently. "I just don't think you understand, and it isn't something you can offer lightly, all right?"
Crash took Kips hands. "I don't offer it lightly. I give my entire being. You're right when you say that I don't understand but if ever I did, it could only be with you. I belong to you, Kipling Rush. I've waited whole lifetimes to say that."
Kip wanted to look away but couldn't. Tears glittered in Crash's eyes.
"Please understand." Crash crushed his hands and the pain made his words grow sharper and gave them a resonance that tripped some kind of wire in Kip's heart that blew it up until it nearly burst. "I am yours."
"No pressure or anything," Kip complained, keeping hold of Crash's hand. He started walking with no particular destination in mind to allow himself time to think. He and Crash had literally slammed into one another in the fifth grade, and he'd always felt, always known they had more than a bond of friendship.
Something happened to him when he was with Crash. Night air got crisper. Scents and sounds that were elusive and distant teased and tickled him, begging to be explored. Books were better, jokes funnier, films more poignant, even the sun was brighter and warmer when shared with Crash, so yeah. It stood to reason that sex... That would have to be something else, right?
Kip was the first to admit that--- together---he and Crash were more than the sum of their parts. He couldn't speak for Crash, but he hated to jeopardize that for anything. It reminded him of a story in a children's book he'd allowed his mother to read to him just once before he demanded she staple the pages together, because he'd been upset---was traumatized even now--- by the illustration. It was about a dog who had a bone, but saw what he thought was a bigger bone in another dog's mouth. Being greedy, he snapped for it to try to take it away and lost his own bone because what he saw was actually his reflection in a pool of water.
The moral of the story was supposed to be about selfishness, or being grateful, but all he could see were the dog's sad eyes in the aftermath of bad choices, of not being glad that things were perfectly fine, but instead trying to get more somehow, and he'd never forgotten it.
Crash snapped, "Don't you start with the dog story."
"What?"
"This isn't that."
"It's apt." Kip argued, not even curious, after all the years they'd spent together, how Crash seemed to read his mind. "It's got that bone, and it's a perfectly fine bone, a great bone..."
"Enough with the fucking dog already, Kip."
Kip stared. Crash, uncharacteristically profane. Wow.
"You always use that story to illustrate why you can't have more. Why you won't dare try to make things better. You're happy to carry a spear in the school play so you don't audition for the lead, you're happy to work in the lab feeding the animals but you don't apply to veterinary school even though you have the grades. You're happy to have nameless, faceless encounters but you're afraid to be with someone who loves you."
"Crash, don't do this man. You are my one good thing. If I fuck that up..."
"I will always be your one good thing. Always."
Filled with misgiving, Kip couldn't help but notice that the hand in his felt good. It felt right. He continued to walk and hold Crash's hand until he saw his car in the parking lot, which meant they had another decision to make. "Do you want to come home with me?"
Crash smiled pleasantly, as though Kip had asked if he wanted a stick of gum. "Yes, please."
Kip's Honda chirped when he unlocked it remotely and they got in. As soon as he keyed the ignition the radio started playing, loud, some hip hop, and Crash turned it off.
"Nervous?" Kip asked. He'd have to stop swiveling his head to look at Crash or his neck would be sore in the morning.
"No."
"'Cause if you're nervous you know you can back out at any time. I'm not going to think any less of you. I get that we're close, maybe we should just---"
"I'm not nervous, Kip." Crash hummed something quietly and Kip found it beautiful. "Are you?"
"Me? No." Kip reared back in his seat, fiddling with his shoulder belt. "No. Why should I be nervous? I mean, I've done this lots of times. I was just thinking you might be nervous because it's your first time and all..." Kip stomped his foot on the brake; he needed to watch the damn lights or he'd get them both killed.
Crash gazed at him. "Were you nervous your first time?"
"No." Kip made himself keep his eyes on the light. "Me? No."
"Then why would you think I'd be?"
When the light changed Kip didn't let the clutch out fast enough and it made the transmission grind--- metal against metal. Kip's lips were pinched by the time he got the car into gear and smoothed it out.
Crash grinned. "Forgive me, but you seem nervous now."
Fucking Crash, pointing out the obvious.
Crash started to hum again. Kip sighed. The tune seemed old; it had a piercing sweetness, each note sung with simple clarity, but it traveled along a minor key that gave him gooseflesh. After a few moments of listening to its haunting transitions he felt relaxed and at peace, although he couldn't say exactly why. Maybe it was simply Crash's voice and not the song. At the worst moments of his life, like when he'd been attacked that evening, he could always hear Crash's voice inside his head soothing him.
Kip looked over at the man sitting next to him in the car and decided he wasn't going to ever tell anyone that.
"Feel better?" Crash asked idly.
"Yes."
Kip pulled into the driveway that led to the back of his apartment building and parked in his carport. They walked through the grounds together in relative silence, then mounted the stairs to the two-bedroom Kip shared with his roommates, two other students who had both returned to their families for the holidays. There was a wreath on the door and when Kip unlocked and opened it, he ushered Crash in. He had a tiny Douglas fir tree in the corner, covered with inexpensive ornaments and icicles and when he toggled the switch, the multicolored lights he'd strung painstakingly around the apartment and on the tree lit up.
"This is nice," Crash stood in the entry and waited. Kip rubbed his hands together.
"I'm going to have a beer," Kip pulled Crash to the kitchen. "What do you want?"
"A beer would be fine, Kip." Crash's eyes followed him like short shadows.
Kip froze. "You never drink beer."
"No. I don't."
"Yet you're having one now?"
"Based on my perception of what is going to happen, I thought it might be wise to have relaxed muscles. Was I wrong?" Crash blinked at him.
Kip let himself fall backwards against the refrigerator, which thunked against the wall behind him. He rolled his eyes. "Crash---"
Crash stepped forward and pressed dry lips to Kip's. He must have sensed there was something not quite right, because he leaned back and licked his lips while his gentle hands fluttered from Kip's shoulders to the sides of his face. Kip felt Crash's thumbs trace the arch of his brows, then the curve of his cheek. The tip of Crash's tongue touched the fullness of his mouth and he groaned.
"Crash." Kip leaned in and pulled Crash close, slipping his hands into the waistband of his jeans. He felt a sweet heat building in the pit of his belly, like the warmth of hot coffee or even booze. Crash's lips opened to his exploration and their tongues found one another in a delicious slip and slide of flesh, moist air, and noses pressed together. A bristly upper lip scratched like crisp crumbs on his skin.
Kip felt Crash's surrender all the way to his toes, Crash melted around him, his skin damp with passion; sweat that---for some inexplicable reason---gave off the faint perfume of sweet-butter sugar cookies. When Kip opened his eyes, he saw that Crash's eyes were closed in what could almost be termed ecstasy. He moved then, and broke their kiss reluctantly so he could take two bottles of beer from the refrigerator. The light from inside the fridge limned Crash's face.
"Kip." Crash smoothed his hand over his own forearm, looking at it as though he'd never seen it before. "My skin feels like it's on fire."
"Yeah?" Kip handed him a beer. Blushing, he nudged at Crash's neck with his nose, breathing in that sweet scent and nuzzling with his lips. "Do I make you hot?"
"Yes," Crash hissed, leaning in. "I burn for you."
Kip sighed. "You say some pretty outrageous things."
"What should I do?" Crash took the cap off the beer and smelled it. It made him wince.
"You don't even like beer, do you?"
"No."
"Want something else? I have some Bailey's." Kip raised his own beer to his lips and took a healthy swig, but Crash caught his hand and lowered the bottle, tasting the beer on his lips.
"Beer is nice, when I taste it on you. Look. I just want you, Kip. If you don't want me then stop stalling and say so."
Kip stared. When had he not wanted Crash? From the second he'd realized he wanted the boys at school and not the girls, Crash had been his holy grail. He'd learned to breathe the scent of him, to suffer through the affectionate touching, to walk and talk and smile as though he was perfectly satisfied to spend the rest of his life without ever having the one man that he wanted more than any others because... well. Because Crash wasn't gay. Was he?
"Crash, are you even gay?"
Crash displayed the exaggerated patience that made Kip see red. "I don't even know what that means, gay. I am simply yours."
For a fraction of a second, maybe the space of a heartbeat, Kip wanted to test Crash's complacence; it was an itch he wanted to scratch. He wanted to push Crash over the table, shove down his jeans, and put a cock up his ass--- just to do it--- just to see how fast Crash changed his tune. An image came to his mind, unbidden, of fucking Crash hard and angry, looking away so he didn't have to see the pain and disappointment in his eyes.
"Never in anger." Crash's hands found Kip's face again. He felt Crash's thumb ring bite his cheek a little to go with the admonishment. "Anything we share will be beautiful. I promise you that."
How did Crash always seem to...
"Come on, lover, I'm not so untried as to believe that we'll accomplish anything standing in the kitchen."
Kip allowed himself to be led toward the bedroom, but grumbled, "Shows how much you know."
"I know enough to know it will require me to undress you." Crash looked at Kip from under his lashes. Teasing. Seductive. "I hope."
Kip let the breath he'd been holding escape him as a shuddering sigh.
When they reached his room Kip left the overhead light off and lit a couple of candles. He thought maybe that would be better under the circumstances. Crash reached for him, firmly caressing his shoulders and pecs before slipping his hands over and down his chest and abs to grip the hem of Kip's T-shirt.
"Lift your arms," he told Kip before pulling it over his head. When Kip's head popped from the tight neck, Crash's face was the first thing he saw. He wore that same sweet smile, the one that said, wherever you go, I'll follow, that he'd worn since they'd met in that hole.
Kip tried to calm his racing heart; it thumped like a high school drumline, echoing off his ribs. Crash placed the palm of his hand flat over it. "You'd think I'd be the nervous one."
"Aren't you?" Kip could hardly catch his breath. For an answer, Crash reached for Kip's belt buckle and undid it, removing the belt and working open the button on Kip's jeans.
"About this? No. I'm worried how you'll look at me tomorrow. If you'll want me again. If you'll see me differently and whether you'll still be my friend."
Kip caught Crashes hands. "This makes things weird."
Crash shook Kip's hands off. "When was it ever not weird."
He slid Kip's zipper down, and for a moment, Kip worried that he'd misread the situation. That Crash had a lot more experience than he'd ever let on. Crash pushed Kip's jeans and briefs down and his cock sprang free.
Kip groaned when Crash's hands wrapped around it. "It's like velvet," Crash whispered.
Kip fought a snort of nervous laughter. He toed off his shoes and stepped out of his jeans. "Not much different than yours," he murmured, embarrassed.
"You know that's not true."
Yes. He did know. Crash and Kip had innocently compared their cocks--- while pissing--- when they were just boys, since Kip was cut and Crash wasn't. That had led to an interesting discussion in the Rush household and they'd been told to be more modest in the future. Crash had always taken that to the extreme. While he might have been forced to urinate in front of other boys in public bathrooms, Kip realized he'd never once seen Crash in the nude. They'd never even been swimming together. Crash claimed he was afraid of the water.
"I mean how it feels. Crap, why is this suddenly so---"
Crash kissed him again, this time with one hand wrapped around his cock, pulling his hot hand along the length gently, sliding his fingers down to explore his balls. Kip thought he might have died and gone to heaven.
Crash laughed against his lips, a deep, throaty sound that vibrated over Kip's skin like the light buzz of static electricity.
"Why am I the only one undressed," Kip reached for the collar of Crash's button down shirt. "You're such a geek." He undid the tiny pearlescent buttons and found Crash wore an undershirt. Kip raised his eyebrows. "You dress like a missionary."
"I get cold," Crash defended himself. Kip saw his cheeks color.
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about." Kip removed the first shirt and grasped the hem of his white v-neck.
Crash stopped his hands. "Stop. Wait---"
Kip's heart froze. He fully expected Crash had changed his mind the second it came down to skin on skin. And damn, he'd gotten this close. He could almost still feel Crash's hand on his cock. Shit.
Kip let go of Crash's undershirt. "I'm sorry. It's okay."
Crash still had hold of Kip's hands. "No. I just wanted to say... No one has ever seen me entirely without clothes. Well. Except my family. Doctors. It might be..."
"It's all right. You don't have to be shy." Kip waited for what seemed like an eternity for Crash to say more. "Is it all right?"
"Yes." Crash relaxed a little, but when Kip indicated Crash had to let go of him to take his T-shirt off, he didn't seem to understand at first. Then it seemed to dawn on him and he dropped his hand. "Oh."
Kip's heart did a little tumble when Crash blushed again, lifting his arms as the shirt came off. His let his hands explored that amazing expanse of pristine, creamy white skin. They circled around to Crash's back to pull him close; there, his fingers encountered a territory of transition, smooth, slick, and then rough, nearly plasticine skin. He stopped what he was doing and frowned.
"I have scars." Crash admitted. "On my back. From a fire."
"What?" Kip turned Crash around. Crash's entire upper back--- the area surrounding his shoulder blades, up towards his neck and downward nearly to his waist---was covered in ugly, rough scars that looked like nothing so much as gum, chewed and stuck haphazardly on his skin, pushed down and flattened, but shiny and red. As different from his pale skin as night from day. Kip's stomach lurched. "Fuck me. What happened?"
"It was before I met you. I was burned."
Kip's hands traveled over the ruined skin. That was the understatement of the century. Crash had been... melted. As if he'd backed into a blast furnace. "It must have been horribly painful. You've never mentioned a word. Did your house catch fire?" Kip couldn't stop himself from touching it, smoothing his hands over it. As if he could heal it.
Crash frowned. "No. Not the house." Crash's voice sounded rough. "I... I reached for something I wanted and didn't think of the consequences. No one but me was hurt."
"Oh, Crash." Kip's hands caressed Crash's scars, then his lips. He kissed each shoulder blade where it stuck out, because they seemed to be where the worst of the damage had occurred. "I'm so sorry."
"It's all right," Crash spoke to the ground. "It was a long time ago."
"That's why you never swim." Kip rested his head on Crash's shoulder and reached around to the fastenings of his chinos. He unbuttoned them, slipping his hands into Crash's serviceable underwear to mold his hands to that heavy, uncut cock. "Did you at least get what you wanted?"
"Yes," Crash whispered. "Finally, I think. Yes."
Kip pushed Crash's pants and underwear off his hips, kneeling and helping him off with his shoes and socks until they stood facing each other, completely unclothed.
"You're beautiful," Crash spoke first. "Exactly as I imagined you."
"Crash." Kip swallowed hard. "You're perfect."
"Hardly," Crash rolled his eyes. "The crispy bits aren't very attractive are they?"
"Doesn't matter." Kip leaned in to kiss him once again, gently at first, and then more passionately, as he pressed Crash backwards toward his bed. "You're perfect. Perfectly...perfect."
Crash sat first, then lay back on the small mattress. "I'm perfectly happy," he admitted shyly, "to be here with you like this."
Kip cupped Crash's cock then, drawing the loose foreskin over and down as the plum colored head emerged, slick from where it hid. He thumbed the slit, rubbing around and over the surface, watching Crash's face as he reacted to the touch.
Crash moaned and lifted his hips, pushing his cock into Kip's fist. "That feels so..."
On impulse Kip leaned over and ran the flat of his tongue across the shiny purple skin, slipping and sliding his hand until he was teasing the flesh inside the foreskin, and tasting Crash's essence. Crash jumped like he'd been struck by lightning and his hands clamped down on the sides of Kips head.
Kip didn't think that was a no...
"Kip." Crash's voice pleaded. "Holy... Kip."
Kip continued, excited by Crash's need. He changed his angle and took Crash deeper, drawing off hard, with lots of suction, then teasing with his tongue as he took Crash in again, deep enough to bury the tip of his nose in the thatch of curly blond hair above his cock.
The scent he'd found so intriguing on Crash's skin---the rich, vanilla-infused butter and sweet of sugar cookies---appeared concentrated in the folds of skin where Crash's legs met his torso but underlying it was the scent of a fully aroused man. Kip couldn't stop himself from using the heels of his hands to push Crash's thighs apart and explore his balls. He pulled first one into his mouth, then the other, sucking them, then nudging them away with his nose as he slipped his tongue beneath them to the strip of skin above Crash's pink, puckered hole. Then he returned his lips to Crash's cock, working the length, bobbing and twisting until Crash let out a warble of shock as Kip ran a wet finger over his entrance.
"Feels so good," Crash writhed and licked his lips, gripping the sheets in both hands.
Kip rumbled a groan of his own, transmitting the sound and vibration through Crash's skin. "So hot," he murmured against the velvet length.
Crash arched as Kip allowed him to drive into his mouth in his own rhythm. He found he quite like the desperate edge of Crash's passion and the way his voice turned needy and sweet as he begged.
"Please." Crash practically sizzled as his balls drew up. "Please, Kip."
"Please, what?" Kip teased gently, loving the jerky movements that accompanied Crash's uncharacteristic loss of control.
"I don't know." Crash thrashed, hot and breathless. "Just... Please."
Kip swallowed Crash's cock as far as he could and pressed a finger into his hole. Crash nearly blew apart in his hands, shuddering, squeezing his finger and shooting come down his throat. When Kip looked up, his gaze met eyes so amazed he paused for a minute. The expression on Crash's face was... Well. That was innocence. He'd--- not only--- never been sucked off before, he looked like he'd never even...
How could that be possible? Kip lost all concentration and choked. Great. He'd be in the paper the next day, having choked to death while fellating a lover. Good thing he could only aspirate the jiz and not the entire dick. He pulled off coughing, and felt Crash's hands firmly rubbing his back.
Crash still breathed like a racehorse and he couldn't hide his chuckle. "Well. This is awkward."
Kip buried his head into Crash's lap and tried to tell himself he wasn't hiding. His voice muffled, he said, "Crash, can I ask you a question?"
"Yes."
Kip coughed again, clearing his throat. His eyes teared up. Crash's soft hands never stopped moving over his skin, and the result was so satisfying. It soothed him like water lapping against the side of a boat, or the trickling of a fountain.
When he finally had got his breath back he asked, "Have you ever been with anyone?" He hoped Crash wouldn't confuse things by being coy. Crash would know what he meant. Crash always knew.
"No."
"Do you ever jerk off?"
"No."
"While you sleep? Did you ever...?"
This earned Kip a blush. "Yes." Crash looked away. "Sometimes I dream."
"Oh, my fucking... Crash." Kip sat upright and pushed Crash onto his back. He climbed between his legs, his cock hard and throbbing. It felt delicious pressed against the still damp skin of Crash's groin. He shuddered and rocked his hips, driving his cock against Crash, giving in to his desire to grind. Something tender and a little protective flared to life inside Kip. "I love being your first."
Crash wrapped his arms around Kip. "First. Last. Always. The alpha and omega." He seemed to find that funny.
"I want..." Kip couldn't finish that sentence.
Crash shifted under him a little. "You want... to fuck me?"
"Yes." Kip didn't know how he withstood Crash's frank gaze but he did.
"All right." Crash appeared to be waiting for him to make the first move, which, considering that between them Kip was the one with experience, should have been easy. He hesitated. "It's all right. I'm not experienced but I'm not... ignorant."
"I need..." Kip got up to get condoms and lube from a shoebox on top of the television tray he used as a nightstand. "Maybe you should roll over? It's easier that way for the first time."
"Maybe you should just assume I won't do this at all unless I can look into your eyes," Crash's own eyes seemed to sparkle. "I'm certainly not getting down on all fours like an animal when I could be facing the man I love."
Kip dropped back on his heels and sighed. "You say shit like that and it makes me feel stupid. Why didn't you say something? How come I never knew?"
"You've always known." Crash's smile faded a little. "You have. If you think about it."
Kip thought about all the adventures they'd had: the lovely, lazy school days and stargazing of childhood, the tough emotional excesses of adolescence, the insecurity of making their way into college and choosing their individual academic paths. Through school and fast cars and first love, Crash shadowed him, solid and loyal, unquestionably his, through everything.
"You're the one person who has never let me down," Kip said finally, awed by it, as if he'd never given it serious consideration. Maybe he hadn't.
"I never will."
Kip heard the truth of those words and believed it with his whole heart.
He took his place between Crash's legs again, and this time, he had no words. He uncapped the lube, and began by stroking Crash's cock back to life, pleased at the soft gasping sounds that emerged when he did it, but not really, entirely, certain from whose mouth they came.
He found it fascinating to watch the minute changes flow over Crash's face as Kip's hand traveled from his cock to his balls, down further, to the delicate skin of his entrance. When he pressed a thoroughly lubed finger into the tight channel, a flush deepened over Crash's creamy skin, rising from his chest to his neck and filling his cheeks. Kip got gooseflesh from the sight as he watched, entranced.
Crash's lips parted on a groan and stayed slack. Kip dared another finger along with the first. Crash's breathing quickened.
"Kip." He panted, his voice barely audible. Crash drew his knees up to give him access. Kip tried to find Crash's sweet spot, curving his fingers upward until he found the spongy mass and brushed it, watching wonder unfold on Crash's face as the jolt of sensation shot through his body. "Kip!"
Kip tore open a condom and rolled it easily down his shaft. He pumped its length a time or two, unnecessarily, because he'd never been this hard before, like granite. He knew he'd die--- or kill---if anything stopped what he planned next but forced himself to ask, "Are you sure?"
Crash leveled a look of such trust at him that it took his breath away. "Yes. I'm sure."
Kip carefully pressed forward. Crash bit his lip and sweat beaded his brow, but he remained silent. He wrapped his hands around Kip's hips, and when Kip might have slowed, he used pressure to indicate it was all right to keep going.
"Kip?" Crash spoke on an indrawn breath. Kip didn't hear him breathing for a few seconds and grew concerned.
"Take a breath." Kip kissed away the frown on Crash's face. "You need to breathe and try to relax if you can."
Crash drew a shuddering breath in, and huffed it out just as quickly. "Kip."
Kip started to pull back "Look, we don't need to---"
"No." Crash held him where he was. "Don't go. I want this. I want you. Please."
Kip met Crash's frank blue eyes. "It hurts at first. I'm... I'm scared you won't like it."
Crash shifted his hips and Kip slid deeper inside his hot, tight channel. He was nearly balls deep in his best friend. Holy...
"Don't stop," Crash implored. He writhed again and Kip twitched the rest of the way in. They were connected in the most intimate way for a full minute before Kip came to his senses and his body begged him to move. He fought the urge to flex his hips and fuck Crash hard. His muscles trembled as he forced himself to hold back. Crash squirmed minutely, pulling away from the cock in his ass, then back again to get it deeper, and Kip thought it might be all right to begin....
"Keep breathing," Kip said, even as he pulled out, just a little, and thrust back in.
Crash lit up a little, emitting a tiny startled "Oh." Dazed eyes met Kip's and he whispered. "Oh. Do that again."
Kip complied, this time, dragging it out a little, changing his angle slightly as he watched Crash's head drop back on the most exquisitely erotic sigh he'd ever heard. After that, he gave in to his need and fucked Crash like a machine, losing himself in the rhythm of it. They rose and fell like music, especially Crash, whose every sigh was lyrically beautiful and whose voice sent shivers and warmth throughout Kip's body.
Absurdly, Kip imagined that very sound, their intimate music, was a liquid fire that flowed throughout his body and back into Crash where they were joined, even as Crash received it from him and returned it. That they drank from a vast invisible fountain of flames that scorched and purified and burned them both to ash.
Crash locked his ankles behind Kip's back, then wrapped his arms around him and clung. Kip lowered his head to join him in a passionate kiss. He continued to snap his hips forward and drag back; push... pull... until Crash jerked in his arms and hot come spattered between them.
Kip groaned as Crash's body clenched around him, arms and legs and ass spasming and squeezing him, until the first chilling buzz in his balls signaled his own slide into the breathless chaos of release.
There was nothing like it, ever.
Kip slid over the edge with nothing to stop his fall; only a hot, breathless, equally confused body to cling to as the ground fell out beneath them. "Crash." He fought to drag in air. "Crash. Shit."
Kip's skin, damp and mixed with come on Crash's belly stuck as he withdrew carefully from Crash. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The first ominous misgivings were beginning to hit him. What if everything changed? What if they didn't? What if Crash regretted making love? What if he didn't enjoy it? What if---
"Don't you dare fucking start." Crash dropped his feet to the floor on the opposite side of the bed and padded into the bathroom.
Kip pondered what he was certain was only the third f-bomb of Crash's life until Crash emerged from the bathroom minutes later with a damp towel. He used it to clean Kip's skin, but not before he bent to taste his own essence, licking a trail from Crash's naval to his pubic hair.
"Kipling Rush you're beautiful."
Kip saw that flush on his cheeks again and realized it was a ruse. Crash was still shy about what they'd done. "Regrets?"
"Not even one." Crash threw the towel aside and curled up next to him. He drew Kip's arm around him, forcing him to spoon up, even as he began to drift off to sleep.
"Me neither." Kip kissed the back of his neck, nuzzling in to fill himself with the Crash's scent, which was like cookies now, with some deeper, more intoxicating note, like hearty dark red wine or port maybe. "You smell delicious."
"You too," Crash murmured sleepily. "Like heaven and earth and all good things. Did you know the stars smell like raspberry?"
Kip smiled at that. "Crash, I never imagined..."
"Neither did I." Crash sighed. "I should have though. I thought I'd foreseen everything. This proves you still have the power to surprise me. I love you Kip. More than any human words can say."
"Use inhuman words."
Crash snorted. "As if."
Crash began to hum again, that deeply resonant, otherworldly sound that every cell in Kip's body responded to. It wasn't loud, or even powerful music, just something haunting and lovely, something so simple it seemed to get under his skin and merge with his blood. Kip's breathing, his heart rate, his very essence ebbed and flowed with the sound of Crash's voice, until at last, Kip tightened his arms around Crash and drifted off to sleep.
Did I regret? How could I? Regret seems to me as useless and foolish an invention as any that humans have ever conceived. Only those things we do and the choices we make exist. You were my choice, and I make it over again with every breath I take.
If there is anything bitter in the sweet, it is only knowing that you never see me--- truly comprehend me---as I am. Vanity is not a trait exclusive to humans after all. There will come a day, too soon, when you will perceive me in my truest form, for I will no longer need the guise in which I come to you. Will I frighten you? Will you believe what I say and trust me one last, desperate time?
Kip woke with a strangled gasp, his entire body covered with sweat. He turned to find Crash sleeping beside him peacefully, his large square hand tucked under his cheek. As always he was still as stars. At thirty-two, Crash remained inhumanely perfect. If anything he'd gotten more exquisite. A seeming impossibility, as if he'd shattered all physical law to lie there beside Kip, sleeping beauty, so gorgeous still it made Kip's throat hurt.
In fact, that very thing had probably inspired the terrible dream Kip had, the one that crushed his chest with fear and caused him to wake with a start. Kip's head dropped back onto the pillow while he waited for his heart to calm and his breathing to return to normal.
Shit.
In his dream he'd been a boy of ten again, falling through the earth, only it wasn't Crash who waited for him there but something... unimaginable. Something ancient and powerful. Thrilling and terrible, terrifying and intriguing at the same time.
That something had thickly muscled legs that ended in huge feet, like an ancient statue. It was living stone perfection that pulsed with light. His gaze traveled upward and fell on thighs like the trunks of healthy trees. The figure stood at an angle, nearly in profile, so Kip got an eyeful of sculpted abs, glutes like softly rounded boulders, the impossible curve of an immensely strong spine, powerful shoulders and wings.
When that awesome, terrifying vision reached for him, the creature's wings groaned as they unfurled, the sound loud and resonant. Leathery skin and feathers stretched over bone, over sinew and muscle that pushed outward into a space that was too small to contain them.
Kip drew in his breath, aware in his dream--- as he would never have been at that age in real life--- that the creature's naked perfection owed everything to its masculine beauty. From his thick square toes to his chiseled face, from his beautiful alabaster cock to the way the eye was drawn to it by trails of pale hair in the center of a lean abdomen surrounded by a well-defined iliac furrow, an Adonis belt, truly worthy of the name, he was everything male. A god compared to mortal men.
When Kip could tear his eyes away from his first dry-mouthed glimpse of the forbidden perfection of the creature's genitals, he found himself gazing at a face of such radiance, such divine beauty that it took his breath away. The creature shimmered before him, so bright in the darkness of the sinkhole that it hurt his eyes to look at him, but he couldn't tear his gaze away.
When he found his wits, he realized the creature's very energy throbbed with song, rich and perfectly familiar. As if somewhere within himself, Kip had the very same song buried deep inside his DNA, and he'd been waiting all his life for someone else to sing it.
"Who are you?" It burned Kip's eyes to look at the creature, but he couldn't look away.
"I am yours, Kipling Rush." The creature held his hand out, and Kip could no more fail to take it than he could have refused to draw his next breath. He placed his small hand into the creature's and flames shot up around them, momentarily excruciating, terrifying, agonizing flames that reduced them both to ash. He'd shot up fully awake then, to find his nice safe life, his Crash, sleeping beside him.
"Shit," Kip hissed, his hands shaking as he reached for a glass of water. Beside him, Crash shifted---as always--- to draw him near.
"Hm?"
"Bad dream," Kip allowed himself to be folded into the comfort of a warm embrace.
"Mm." Crash's arms tightened. "Sleep for a while longer. We have don't to be at the airport until noon."
"I know." Kip gazed off into space as Crash hummed against his skin, the sound both familiar and frightening.
The song from his dream.
Kip closed his eyes and felt the music wash over him as he drifted back to sleep.
"Do you have any bags to check Dr. Rush?" The man behind the counter looked up from his ticket.
"No, thank you." He patted his carryon sized pilot case. Crash had his own carryon and the laptop case he insisted on carrying for Kip. They got their boarding passes and made their way to the TSA security checkin.
As always, every eye found Crash, from babies to octegenarians, from polite interest to naked lust, Crash could barely walk through a building without generating a ripple of enthusiasm wherever he went. It only got worse as he matured. Crash had grown into himself, Kip thought, looking at him. It had taken lots of practice for him to learn to wield all that charisma and caring. From his work for an international not-for-profit that focused its efforts on protecting the health and well-being of children worldwide, to his most recent project, establishing an-award winning choir at the local senior citizen's outreach center, he'd found his place in the world, and not just the one he'd carved out for himself at Kip's side.
They made quite a pair in their aging, eclectic neighborhood: the handsome veterinarian and his gorgeous partner with the funny name. Kip told people they could retire and simply sell Crash's picture over the Internet, maybe even make enough money to live and some left over. Crash frowned at him when he said it, usually following up with a manly thump to his shoulder. But oh, how true it was.
Kip saw Crash turn a smile of confused gratitude on the TSA employee who helped him gather his coat, phone, and laptop into a single gray bin and walked him to a chair where he could put on his shoes. The man grinned back so hard it nearly cracked his spine. Kip frowned as he watched, knowing that the metal detectors could electrocute him and no one would even notice his sizzling corpse lying there until it began to stink.
"Sour grapes," Crash muttered, standing as Kip approached.
"Maybe," Kip shoved his feet into his shoes and pulled his watch over his hand, clamping the fastening bar. "I don't care who has their eye on you, as long as you keep your eyes on me, capisce?"
Crash raised an eyebrow but continued on to their departure gate. Kip caught up with him when he stopped for coffee. When they boarded, Kip stowed their gear in the overhead bin and moved to the window seat while Crash waited in the aisle. Kip liked to look at the sky when they flew---he kept his eyes firmly on the heavens---because he didn't care to think about being hoist in a machine tens of thousands of feet in the air. He knew Crash would take his hand when the engines roared to life, squeezing it to impart his strength and confidence. Kip laced their fingers together when the plane began to gather the power it would need to hurl them into the sky.
"You scared?" Kip asked as they began to taxi down the runway.
"No." Crash told him.
"Because it would be all right if you were," Kip continued. "It wouldn't make me think less of you."
"I'm not scared. I just like to hold your hand." Crash gave him a reassuring squeeze.
Maybe someone looked over at them at that, Kip had long since ceased to register anyone's disapproval. "I like to hold yours too."
"Good." Crash smiled, outshining the sun beyond the glass.
As they gathered momentum for takeoff Kip felt the plane tug him forward. He had that awful sensation of leaving his stomach behind, waiting for it to catch up, then swoosh, his shoulders were pinned firmly into his seat by the laws of physics. He looked out the window of the plane and watched as Santa Ana, then Newport Beach and the entire Orange County coastline dropped away. The plane made its daring ascent, all the more spectacularly vertical because of laws restricting noise over the beautiful and costly coastal California homes. Then there was nothing but the wide, vast ocean below them as they rocketed up and up.
"I had a terrifying dream last night," Kip said idly as the plane shivered under them.
"You did?" Crash let go of Kip's hand when they leveled out and lifted his paper coffee cup to his lips.
"Yes. It was so real. I dreamed about when we fell into that hole."
"Really?" Crash turned his head. His brows formed a 'v' between dazzling gray eyes when he frowned. "You did?"
"Yes." Kip laughed. "I fell into that hole and instead of you being in there with me I saw... something else entirely."
"What?" Crash's fingers tightened on his cup. "What did you see?"
Kip shrugged. "Some kind of creature. It was... like an angel from a cemetery. Huge, and powerful, lit by shimmering flames. Terrifying... Jeez. Do you remember what we ate last night?"
Crash turned to him. "You saw this? In your dream this morning?"
"I woke up with my heart pounding. It felt so real. I've never seen anything so beautiful. Never imagined anything like that could exist. Why do you suppose---"
"Kip. There's something important you need to know." Crash said urgently.
Kip, cued by the sound of Crash's voice, stopped in the middle of bringing his cup up. "What is it?" He'd long ago learned not to use Crash's name on planes. "Tell me."
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course." Kip felt a bump and behind him; something beyond the draperies separating first class from coach started to rattle.
Crash's normally impassive face tightened. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence and the seatbelt signs went back on. The captain's voice came over the loudspeakers in the cockpit, but Kip's attention was focused entirely on Crash.
"Of course. You're---"
"I am yours, Kipling Rush." Kip watched Crash's seatbelt fall away when he rose to stand. He moved to the aisle, right there in First Class, and held out his hand.
"Cr..." Kip stopped himself just in time as he stared at Crash's hand. The plane shook again, and this time, lights flickered. He caught sight of one of the flight attendants as her hand snapped out to catch hold of the bulkhead wall, and she definitely did not look pleased.
"What is it?" Kip whispered.
"I am yours, Kipling Rush" Crash said again. The plane gave a terrible shudder. A cracking noise rent the air as the aircraft heaved, knocking people to the ground. Screams erupted as the rumble of twisting, grinding metal grew louder and louder. People panicked and the plane rattled, wracked with a kind of mechanical cough. A man Kip assumed was a federal air marshal barked an order for Crash to sit down and assume the crash position. Crash ignored him.
Kipling stared at the man he'd loved for most of his life, his mouth dry with shock. He knew. He knew, and he'd probably known all along, that Crash wasn't---
"Take my hand," Crash commanded him in a voice he'd never used before.
Kip put his hand in Crash's, feeling it enfolded in a warm grip, and allowed himself to be pulled close. "I saw you in my dream," Kip whispered. "Saw you as you really are, didn't I?"
"Do you trust me?" Crash asked him again, urgently, as the plane fought to stay aloft. The cabin filled with flames and smoke, making it hard to see. Crash was untouched by the chaos surrounding him. His eyes were soft. His voice was warm and imbued with the strength he'd given freely to Kip at the best of times. It flooded Kip with peace, even though this was surely the worst.
"Chemuel." Kip understood. The awful noise, the terror, the panic and despair of the other passengers fell away as if they were dust particles floating in Crash's light.
"Yes." Crash nodded. "I am Chemuel."
Kip's eyes adjusted to the brightness of Crash's fire as his clothing burned away and his wings unfolded. The flames licked away at Kip's clothes, but they didn't stop there, they burned away his flesh, tore at his muscles and bones, eked their way inside his body when he tried to draw in breath and filled his lungs with pain and smoke. He knew he was crying, but he couldn't stop. He gripped Crash's hand like a lifeline. Crash's eyes never wavered. He never looked away. Kip felt his touch and heard his song--- deep within him--- in a place the fire couldn't touch. Inside, where Kip discovered he was as ancient and eternal as Chemuel seemed to be.
"Is this...?" Kip swallowed hard, knowing his life was over, knowing he'd left so much unfinished. "Are we saying goodbye?"
"No. We will never need to say goodbye."
"My G---"
"Shhh." Crash hushed him.
"But... All these people. What about them?"
Crash shook his head. He grew taller and light emanated from his skin. "They are not mine."
Crash's wings spread with a snap, like great sails on an old fashioned ship. Crash held him, even though Kip knew there was nothing---there could be nothing left of him---after the fireball that had blown through the cabin when the plane burst into flames.
Whatever Kip was, whatever was left, Crash pulled it into his arms and rose with a thundering beat of his leathery, feathered wings, away from the twisted, burning metal just as the entire mass of fiery wreckage hit the Pacific ocean with a horrendous, dying hiss.
"Are you mine, Kipling Rush?" Kip heard Crash's voice as a rumble all through his being as he was lifted up, away, skyward.
"Yes, I am yours Chemuel."
"Then come with me." Air pulsed around them and Crash's song found Kip's heart, weaving what was left of him into something entirely new. Strange and different. Powerful and eternal.
Chemuel-who-was-his sang their song.
Chemuel, whose music could bring him back to life.
As surely as Kip knew his life was over but had only just begun, he understood the words of Crash's music for the first time.
"In all the world, there is only we."
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
For a creaky old 'mo, I'm generally pretty solid. I like that in a man, so I like to be that kind of man. I can handle problems, have a fairly stable outlook on things large and small, and for the most part, I'm unflappable when it comes to stuff that truly matters.
But once in a while....
A few posts back, I used the analogy of jumping hurdles as a way to describe the day to day dramas we all star in.
I wonder how many fans of the sport would ever admit that aside from the thrill of the race itself, the chief, albiet ilicit attraction is waiting for someone to take a tumble. Aside from relays, there is no greater potential for sheer mayhem than a bunch of people hopping over stationary, not not terribly stable, obstacles.
Usually a runner hits a hurdle and by design, the thing drops flat and the guy continues on. If he can successfully recapture his timing and speed, he might even win. Occasionally though, the drop flat design of the average hurdle will work to disadvantage, and the crash will be spectacularly gruesome. Human bodies were simply not designed to juggernaut through metal and plastic obstacles and in such a confrontation the runner will always lose, in more ways than one, and blood will fly.
Today I tripped over a hurdle that simply refused to fall away.
I woke up at 7:30 or so, delighted that I slept for four whole hours. Answered a couple of the seemingly endless rounds of emails, and promptly fell asleep again. Three hours later, I woke up again at 11:00 with one thought on my mind; I miss my truck.
Even the folks who knew me before the writing and before the cancer cannot truly understand the symbiotic relationship I have with my truck. For almost twenty years, mine has been transportation and load hauler as you'd expect, and every summer or when I was working on location, it was also my house. To put it mildly, it's tricked out in greater detail than most full blown RVs. Just... smaller. :)
On a more esoteric level, it's also a manifestation of my independence, though I suspect that's true for many, many people.
I've not driven in over a month. Legally, I can but I decided I shouldn't simply because that damnable fatigue hits so suddenly and without any warning at all. I could just see myself tooling down the highway and feeling that drain which signals a crash. Too likely it would become literal if I didnt have a place to pull off and damn fast.
So I dont drive. Yet this morning, for the first time in ages, I felt like I could, and boy did I want to. Just to the gas station to flip lottery tickets or something. It didnt matter where I went. All that mattered was that I did.
Silly boy, dont you know the universe conspires against you?
Before I could make my great escape and prove my self sufficiency, I discovered one of the cats mistook the counter for either a convenient tree, or a litter box. By the time I had that cleaned up, and the toaster sitting outside, plugged in and burning off any possible "overspray" in the coils, I was sweeping the back porch, waiting for the charcoal that was once bread to do it's job.
Sweeping is such an innocent task, yet it proved to be my undoing and it robbed me of whatever reserves of energy I foolishly thought I had.
As I set the broom aside on a nice sunny day and sat down, landed really, it hit me like the proverbial truck yet again that my contract for independence, the option and ability to pick up and go at the drop of a hat without hold or hindrance from anyone, was expired.
All I had wanted to do was get in my truck, turn on some audio book, and drive. Such a simple thing that we take it for granted, maybe sometimes even see as a chore, and dont fully appreciate until it is gone.
"Butch, meet your new life. His name is Bitch."
I wont tell you about the crying jag while sitting in my truck with the engine running and going nowhere, nor the almost fundamental need to get out and escape for a while, nor the sense of complete hopelessness that tripped me like a hurdle that didnt fall away, tangling my feet and slamming my face into the asphalt. No way could I even describe the sense of depletion that stole away my self control and showed me in unequivocal terms that no matter how desperately I wanted my life back, it simply wasn't going to happen any time soon, if at all.
While all of that did happen, it doesnt really matter because I got a reprieve.
The kids came over to raid my Christmas boxes for decorations for their house. There is no one in the world who can shout at me from the sidelines to get up, get going, ignore the blood streaming from my nose, and run like my kids.
Very likely there is no one else for whom I'd even try.
If Doc has his way, I will be here forever, or I may be gone tomorrow, snatched out of his carefully tenacious grasp by an errant bus. Either way, for however long the race lasts, I will continue putting one foot in front of the other, running with the sound of a baby's laughter in my ears and never looking back.
Patric
Thursday, November 26, 2009
I hate the Thanksgiving holiday. Always have, for as long as I can remember.
Never mind why. we all have certain holidays we'd rather just passed on by without fuss or muss, dont we?
That said, there is one part I do like, and that is the original, supposed reason for the holiday to exist. Gratitude.
No, I never liked the around the table "Tell us what you are thankful for, Patric." Probably because the very first thing to enter my kid shaped brain was invariably "I'm thankful that we are eating because it means this day is almost over." I sort of instinctively knew that comment would never fly, so I had to find suitably innocuous alternatives.
None of which ever came close to what really mattered, because those things too generally wouldnt fly. :)
As we get older, if we are lucky at least, or perceptions change, evolve, become wider in scope and awareness, and I'd like to think mine have similarly grown. Certainly, being glad my kitten got better after he was sick would be superseded by a new bike, passing math, having a car that actually runs, having a boyfriend that doesnt, and so on down the line.
Now as I push on the other end of that proverbial line, I find that my general pragmatism in no way colors the sense of wonder I've managed to retain, and I have to be thankful for that above all else.
I just got done changing the packing in the "cavernous maw" in my leg. While I was poking iodoform soaked strips into the hole and hating the task, I realized I was thankful that I could do it myself. So many people would not be able to. Which of course got me thinking, because today is supposed to celebrate gratitude after all, what else I might add to the list.
Lets see....

I've got a doctor I adore, I have people who, despite my best efforts, "brace the dragon in his den" and put up with me anyway, and I have, if not my health, then a fair shot at it someday.
I have kids, and cats, who think I am made of gold, I have toys and computers, gadget freak that I am, that keep me entertained when I am stuck in the house, and I have the internet which keeps me connected to still more people so that I dont completely forget my own humanity.
I have a brain that works, even at a diminished capacity, that lets me understand and appreciate what I have, and that lets me keep myself busy with meaningful things.
I have memories, both good and bad, that remind me I've spent my life fairly well, all told.


I have the product of that life, things I've made and done, people I've met and influenced, and I've seen a million changes in the world, generally for the better.
I have the things both great and small that make living at least doable, if not often pleasurable; a roof over my head, food to eat, people to laugh with, friends who care, and so on.

All told, I have myself and all of the family, friends, lovers, life, and living that implies. I reckon that's all anyone can really ask for, and it's enough for me. :)
Happy Thanksgiving!
Patric
Friday, December 4, 2009
Oi. Sorry. I promised an update today and I've run out of steam after all.
Nap time, then I should be able to fulfill my obligation... If the damn hiccups will cease.
Groan. :)
Two days later....
Scratch that. FIVE days later....
4th cycle sucks. No two ways around it.
And right now, I cant even remember what happened in the last five days. Ups and downs like the proverbial roller coaster.
If I missed something significant that I promised someone I'd mention, remind me.
Oh, and I made a hat. :)
Maybe the next update will be a little more useful.
Yeah, and maybe I'll live forever, too. lol
Hugs y'all..
Monday, December 7, 2009
Okay, I never said I was the brightest candy cane in the tool shed. (How's that for mixing metaphors?)
But I just discovered comments....
Yeah, really!
Some of y'all have been leaving little notes here and there, and I never saw them until now.
Never occurred to me to look, I suppose. (And yeah, I thought this bloggy thing would email me or something when someone posted, but even that's really no excuse.)
So.... My apologies for being remiss, and my gratitude for your attention!
I admit, I'm suddenly seeing this update stuff in a whole new light. It was once just a way to cut back on all the email, and now it has a deeper meaning-- a welcome obligation to pay heed to others instead of just myself.
How absolutely remarkable to be given such a gentle reminder to hang on to my humanity and interact with others, and in such a kind manner.
Hence, the admittedly obscure title of this post. You people, you wonderful souls who take time out of your lives to touch mine, are all truly stars!
Muaah!
Patric (who is gonna poke around in the settings and make this beasty thing tell me next time a comment gets posted.) :)
C. Zampa
To My Little Sweetie, My Petit Garcon...

So if you're sand, not rock,


Then you have the strength to polish our friendship like a stone,


The beauty to sparkle in the morning sun of my day,


The softness to succumb to the strong waves of my heart


And bend with my feelings,


The power to hold the mighty ocean of my heart within its limits,


The warmth to comfort my feet when I tread,


The miles and miles of vast stretches that never leave me


Without a place to rest,


The clay with which to build the sandcastles of my dreams,


The substance in our hourglass of friendship


Which never runs out,


The resistance to withstand the swooping tide of night,


And still be there when the surge washes back out to sea.


But if you're sand, not rock,


I must cup you in my hands like precious gems,


Hold my fingers tight together,


Or you will slip through that sieve of my heart.


But, since you're sand, not rock,


Even if you slip through the parting of my fingers,


Where is there for you to go but back where I


First found you, to the endless beach of our friendship?


Because you ARE sand, not rock.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Someone asked me recently if I believed in karma. Thinking I knew where the question was headed I replied, "No, not if you're talking about that come back as an earthworm bit to learn humility because you missed the lesson the first time around."
Well.... Seems karma decided teach me a lesson anyway. :/
A few posts back I mentioned an abscess caused by infection. Fun stuff, that. Especially the twice a day packing where one fills the hole with strips of cloth impregnated with iodaform. (It's what makes "the hospital smell." Ugh)
Last night, I discovered what I thought was my last bandage, the one I applied over the 'gaping maw' until it closed completely, had been soaked through. Subsequent digging, poking, and squeezing revealed a drainage point and I sent an email to the doctor handling the case, describing what I observed.
Her response: "Come see me at 11:00am."
Sigh. I was afraid of that. :)
I watched, fascinated, as she laid out her tools with the air of long practice. She chatted amiably about plans for her future, barely glancing at me as she tore open packages and pads, scissors and swabs, and laid them out on her tray.
"This will be uncomfortable," she said as she brandished a long handled cotton tipped swab. Her eyes met mine, and I'm sure I saw something like regret on her face.
I shrugged and told her not to worry about it as I scrambled to get my video recording phone into position. Laid back as I was, I could see neither her work, nor the screen, and I hoped my estimated angle was correct.
She nodded and turned to her task.
I couldn't help wonder what she was thinking as she poked and prodded, seemingly indifferent to the fact that her canvas was a living body, full of nerves and sensitive places that simply don't respond well to the intrusion of foreign objects.
Obviously she cared, else she wouldn't have made her comment, and yet, she worked with the casual precision of a master painter, well versed in the art of wielding a brush. Such precision either comes from long practice, or from simply divorcing herself from the reality of the situation. Yet neither seemed to apply to this pleasant lady. She was not old, nor did she present herself as brusque or uncaring.
As I looked down at myself, laid out like meat on a slab and still modest to the world, it occurred to me there must be a third option. Something I had not considered until now: Resolve.
Her blue gloved hands were deft and sure, and her voice as she described her suspicion was steady and crisp.
"Ah, that's what I thought," she said and held up the wooden handle of the swab, indicating the depth of her discovery with a thumb placed almost two inches from the opposite end. "You've got another pocket."
In layman's terms, for I surely cannot remember the technicalities, she described a 'hole beneath the hole' where the previous infection, now thankfully gone, had left a kind of chamber that filled with fluid and needed to be drained.
Again.
I should have known, should have expected it. Hadn't I described just such a thing during the first go-around, and hadn't I removed a chunk of 'stuff' from that very hole? Knowing that the healing process must occur from the bottom up, I should have realized that the cavity was not simply 'the space between muscle and skin' as I originally thought, and should have packed deeper.
My bad, but then again, I'm not a trauma surgeon. There are some things I do not know after all. :)
I acknowledged her explanation and she looked at me again, closely.
"I have to say, I am surprised by how stable you are. Most people wouldn't be able to deal with this sort of thing very well."
"What sort of thing?" I asked.
She shrugged. "You know, the pain, the packing. Stuff like that."
I smiled and nodded. "Oh. I have a high tolerance. That's all."
True enough, but in light of my revelation watching her work, it came to me that there was perhaps another reason as well: Resolve.
Simply put, personal resolve makes us do what needs to be done, even when the work isn't enjoyable. Resolve carries us to destinations despite the hazardous travel conditions, and it allows us to be strong when we'd much rather run crying from the situation.
Her resolve to do the work, despite the pain she knew she would cause. My resolve to accept the circumstances as fact and deal with them.
Our resolve to reach our goals, regardless of the stumbling blocks life often puts in our path as we make and keep a place for ourselves in this wide world. Resolve guarantees we arrive, wiser if not safer, and cements our position in the great karmic equation.
And personally, I have no intention of coming back as an earthworm. :)
Thank you Angila, for your commitment and for your resolve. I wish you the best of luck on your new adventure, and I'm confident you'll reach your chosen destinations easily. No resolve needed. :)
Folks, I kid you not. I have the very best doctors in the world!
Patric
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Content Advisory:
The following post will likely contain copious quantities of whining. Feel free to take a pass and move on. The gods know I would, if I could. :)
I often have long, sometimes heated discussions with my doctor. With the exception of once each month, these discussions take place solely in my head.
Perhaps not so surprisingly, I often get the same answers from 'Doc', my imaginary oncologist, that I get from 'John,' the real thing. After all, 'I don't know.' is fairly universal. :)
(And before I go any further, let me remind new people that John's ability to say 'I don't know' is what endears me to the man. I value his honesty and candor above all things.)
Still.... I wouldn't mind in the least if he, someone, or something else (A Magic 8 Ball?) did have all the answers because I am more than tired of trying to find them myself.
To recap before we delve deeper into what is sure to be the snivel-fest of 2009, I am still packing the hole in my leg twice a day (when I dont forget) and I am still hovering on the evolutionary scale between Neanderthal and Homosapien.
Put another way, I've lifted my knuckles off the ground, but I still don't feel qualified to be communicative to the rest of the world. Grunts and monosyllabic responses simply don't count. :)
Also, as I have alluded to previously, alluded or outright shouted, this cycle has been the worst so far, and I spend a good deal of time playing the "Russian Roulette of Percocet" game. We'll get to that later, I suppose.
Anyway.... I woke up last night from yet another unexpected nap with a bloody nose. I can count on one hand and still have room to name a few planets how often I've had one of those. Once the crimson cataract was stemmed, off I went to Google the reason why. (It should be noted here that Google is the functional equivalent of the Magic 8 Ball, with marginally more accurate responses.)
Okay...
Fact: I am at nadir, the point in time during a cycle when the chemicals are at their most active in my system.
Fact: You need platelets to coagulate blood, and despite the Neulasta booster, designed to ramp up blood cell production, platelets are likely at their lowest point during nadir.
Fact: I've been known to wake up with a finger up my nose. (Have I mentioned lately I have no modesty left? Well, dignity is also apparently in short supply.) :)
Conclusion: My bloody nose is the result of the weakened condition of the skin wall being damaged in some manner, and the resulting flow more prevalent because of the thinner blood.
Okay, I can work with that. My source of 'comfort' has ever been understanding why this or that happens, as opposed the hand holding and counseling sessions the rest of humanity seems to find so helpful. Moving on...
This morning, I woke up with the unlovely feeling of having chewed my way through the week old carcass of a buffalo that died of distemper. (What a visual, huh? I guess I'm still a writer after all.) :)
I'd already Googled that one. There is a marked correlation between the increase of plaque in the mouth and chemotherapy. Supposition is the decreased ability for the body to fight bacteria.
As I stood at the sink, looking at a face that resembles a guy twice my age, and brushing away the imaginary remnants of buffalo guts, a million questions ran through my head, all of which began with a single word; "Why?"
In a long ago age, I used to adore that word, or more precisely, I used to adore answering that word. I had discovered ages ago, when my four year old lease on the question had expired, ("Why is the sky blue, Mommy?" always seems to be the deal breaker.) that it would be up to me to find my own answers and I clove to the task with a vengeance.
Forty years and change later, I still ask why, then dig until I find the answer(s).
Until today.
By the time I was done brushing my teeth, thereby expending all the energy I had on tap, and wondering yet again why I seemed to be doing this whole chemo thing backwards, ( I feel best just after chemo, and get progressively worse until the next cycle. Even John said I was weird.) I wobbled back to bed, pushed the everpresent cat to one side, (the little demon always tries to usurp my warm spot) lay down, and opened my conversation with Doc.
"How are you feeling?" Doc asks
"Tired," I reply
"Chemo tired? Cancer tired? Or just in general?"
"None of the above," I say. "I'm tired of digging for answers. Tired of being stoned all the time, and tired of aching when I'm not."
Doc temporizes. "Well, we knew this would be a rough one, what with the increased dosage."
"Yeah, I know, and I'll do it again if we can. Look." I show him the spot on my foot. It's the external manifestation of this particular type of cancer, and it is all but healed. "That alone tells me the hassle has been worth it, Doc."
"That does look much improved, doesn't it." As usual, Doc makes the phrase a statement.
"Yeah. Wait a sec. I gotta blow my nose." The noisy result is still spotted with red.
Doc watches me with all the avidity of a hawk spotting dinner and I grin crookedly. "Sorry about that."
Trina the Tank Engine knocks on the door and hands over a few sheets of paper. They are copies of Doc's progress notes from the first and second session. (Even the imaginary version of the woman is lax about getting me copies of my records, it seems.)
I scan the pages quickly, knowing that I'll lose Doc's attention when my 40 minutes are up, and see nothing we havent already discussed. No new answers, in other words.
"How's the neuropathy?"
I'm startled at that. I havent mentioned the increased numbness in my hands and legs, but then I remember this is an imaginary conversation, so of course Doc knows things John does not.
"I havent fallen over yet." It's my usual flippancy at work again.
Doc starts to re-phrase the question, and I wave it off. "I'm dealing with it. I drop things all the time, and buttoning my shirt is bizarre beyond telling when you can't feel the buttons, but it's no biggie." Even to an imaginary doctor, I'm leery of telling him too much lest he arbitrarily decide to upset the status quo.
"So do you think you can handle the symptoms next time?" Doc jots a few notes in his folder, and I sigh, knowing that it'll be most of a month before I get to see what he writes, even if Trina the Tank does her job.
"Physically, yeah. Mentally, I'm tired of the whole mess." I wait for Doc to look up from his scribbling and continue when I have his attention once again. "Dude, it's like being in a huge warehouse with no exits, and I'm blind. I have to sort out what's around me strictly by feel, and never mind trying to figure out where the hell I am. After a while, after poring over countless objects and machines, I still cant figure out where the exit is, and all I want to do is sit down and wait for someone to find me."
"Weren't you the one who blogged about resolve, just the other day?"
Damned imaginary doctors know too much. "Yes," I reply tensely. "And I meant every word. I know I'll get there eventually because there is no one to find me, but that doesnt make the doing of it any less bothersome."
"I'm sorry," Doc says, and it's the only answer I can expect, real or imagined.
There really is no one else to sort out the problems I personally have. Certainly I can talk to any number of people, all of whom are willing to commiserate, but ultimately, none of them can do my thinking for me. Knowing me, I probably wouldn't let them even if they tried. So I shrug off his reply and tell Doc again that it's no big deal.
"Well, go see scheduling and they'll get you set up." Doc says.
For he and John, that's my cue that the visit is over, and I can't help but grin as one last question comes to mind. "Say Doc, one more thing," I say as I stand and gather up my stuff,
"Sure. What is it?" He has a quizzical look on his face as he pauses with his hand on the doorknob.
"Why is the sky blue?"
My apologies to everyone whose been waiting patiently for me to surface again, and my apologies to those who've been reading this blog. I have no cheerful ending today because life isn't a sit-com, and sometimes you just have to acknowledge the fact that shit happens. This last week or so has been one of those times, and I just don't have the energy to find the silver lining in the clouds.
The best I can do is munch the Percocet which make me stupid and simply not care for a while as I plod along and wait to see if all this chemo nightmare will be worth the effort.
It may not be fun, but at least it's real.
Hugs to all, and thanks.
Patric
Monday, December 21, 2009
All's Quiet on the Western Front
They say "No news is good news." and in my case, truer words were never spoken.
Several times this past week or so I thought to myself, "I need to update that blog." and invariably got distracted, sidetracked, or just plain lazy.
Which sort of suggests I'd rather snivel than cheer, when you think about it.
Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that an update is in order, and for a change, I have far fewer downs than ups on this roller coaster.
Towit:
The gaping maw which became the hole beneath the hole is now the annoying pinprick. Scarcely a quarter of an inch wide and maybe twice as deep, and still draining... something. :)
That's a good thing, though I am mortally tired of pulling and packing. It's gone beyond an exercise into mindless ritual and lets face it, I was never much for ritual. Habits, usually bad ones, I have in plenty, but rituals? Not so much.
I discovered myself chafing at the (virtual) proximity of others. On the surface, that sounds like a down, but in fact it's a signal that I am more "me" than usual. I have ever been insular and aloof, and for reasons I don't need to elucidate. All that matters is that I am rather more or less reverting to my natural state, and I have to count that as a good thing, even if it puzzles others. Probably even hurts, too. Both of us.
A few days ago, I took myself to an appointment. After all, I haven't been taking any pain medication for several days, hadn't crashed more than once a day for just as many, and I figured I could handle it. I went the whole day by myself and was delighted, making my appointment and even braving the thronging masses to grab a few groceries.
Paid for it the next day though, despite my not having pushed much the day before. Slept nearly 18 hours of the day away even though I did push and tried to stay awake. I'm thinking it's the gods of chemo reminding me I am still at their mercy, and while I might get a day off, like everyone else in their fashion, my nose is still firmly pressed against the grindstone.
At the risk of making a truly horrific pun, I can live with that. :)
The best of all though, and the primary reason for not updating this blog at least a few days sooner, is that I've proven my theory that I'll get at least a week out of every three to write again. This past four days have seen a bit over 6k on a new story, once I finally got around to subbing A Voice in the Darkness to Dreamspinner's angels anthology.
As before, this one is just for fun, born of a silly idea that's taken on a life of its own. 6k in four days is chicken scratch compared to my 'normal' output, but as others have said, "Words is words." and I'm keeping these ones. I might even submit them somewhere.
All in all, this has been a pretty good end to a rather bad cycle. I'm going to ask John if we can keep the dosage, despite the extra damage it does in the middle. Clearly, I can recover from the effects and while I am too pragmatic to cling to the idea, I'm reasonably certain the enlarged nodes are smaller than before, and that's the best news of all.
Cheers people. I'd write more, but I've got work to do! Here's a snip:
After several hours, and several fishing holes, Marshall shouldered the wide strap of a canvas water bag containing his day's still wriggling catch and headed home. He preferred to do his cleaning well away from where he fished. The offal would attract predators, competition he didn't need, and if he instead tossed it into the water to avoid the smell, that would serve only to make the rest of the fish fat and lazy. Roughly midway between his cabin and the river, Marshall veered to his left, his eye on the crumbly, splintered remains of a huge pine tree that had likely blown over long before he came to this part of the world. He never used the same exact path from cabin to water, not wanting to leave tell-tale signs of his travels, and this morning's return trip saw him slightly south of his last journey. Thus, it was the first time he had seen this particular tree, and as he did each time he came upon such, he investigated it's potential.
Old trees like this one were a gold mine for the grubs which made excellent bait for days when he felt pensive and content to simply sit by the water at the edge of a quiet pool and let the bottom feeders come to him. If he was lucky, he might even find a beehive, and honeycomb was always a treat to a man who drank bitter tea. Mostly though it was the stump itself he sought. Fatwood, often found at the heart of old trees, burned even when wet and made an excellent firestarter, but the tar he produced from it was even more valuable for its unrivaled ability to seal his home against rot, and the very grubs he sometimes collected.
Marshall hung his water bag on a branch and set his back to the rising sun. He kicked at the stump with a booted heel, knowing that the fresh scar he made would be visible when he came back from the direction of his house, but would still look like nothing more than a bear or a randy deer had been at it. Dry, rotted wood exploded from the force of his strike and showered down to the thickly needle strewn ground. Bright white spots wiggled out of the new scar and he sighed. Termites were fine for bears to lap up like candy, but he wanted the almost obscenely fat wood borers that left such fascinating, ever widening trails between wood and bark as they chewed their way deep into the heart of tree and branch. Trails which fascinated him as a boy whenever he found them, darting from rock to tree like a like a magpie, looking for new treasure as he hiked the woods with his father.
Marshall kicked the stump again and felt a solid jolt as his foot glanced off a section that refused his determination. Nearly translucent because it was saturated with pitch, the fatwood he sought gleamed mellowly in the dappled sunlight. He broke off a sliver and sniffed at it. Rich, fragrant pine scent assailed his nose and made his eye water. Overhead, a bluejay shrieked. Marshall unerringly sought and found the source of the racket, flitting from branch to branch in agitation as though it protested the damage Marshall had done. He frowned, wondering if there was a nest nearby to cause the bird to be so distressed by his proximity. As he turned and reached for the water bag, mentally marking the location of the stump in his mind, he heard a deep, quietly ominous growl directly behind him.
Tomorrow I have another appointment. I haven't been on any medication lately, and I've only crashed once today.... Hmmm. :)
Patric
Monday, December 21, 2009
And the children were nestled..... Finally.
Yowsa!
I have said it a thousand times, so one more wont hurt. I have the best doctor in the world.
Set the Wayback Machine, Sherman! Go back to while I am sitting in the dentist chair, waiting for his august presence.
Or we can go back still further to when I called, made the appointment, and told them what I needed to have done. It amounts to the same thing.
Note: The following dialog and conversations are paraphrased, only.
"Hey Mr. Dentist Guy, nice to meet you." Says me.
"You too. I understand you you're on chemo?" Says he.
Me: "Yep."
He: "And that you are looking for extractions?"
Me: "Oh hell yeah!" (Not terribly delicate, me.)
He: "Well, your condition does pose some risks."
Sound Effect: Screeching tires on asphalt.
Me: Yes, I know. I talked to my oncologist about it. He suggested the last week of the cycle as optimum, but insurance runs out at the end of the year so I dont have much choice. I doubt we'll have much of a problem though, because the appointment I have scheduled with your office is six days later. By then, the booster will have already kicked in, and my blood counts tend to run high rather than low."
Insert shot: Me handing him a complete history of blood counts to date. Its a big stack.
He: Well, I'll have to call your doctor and see what he has to say.
Sound Effect: A single heart, beating rhythmically in the otherwise silent room.
Me, silently: "Shit. Here we go again."
You know, I get that most patients dont tend to their own welfare, preferring to let doctor or dentist do all their thinking for them, and simply accept whatever they have to say.
I dont like it, but I get it.
And yeah, I get that I've never talked to Mr. Dentist Guy before, so he doesnt know me from Adam, but damn. I dont carry that big black accordion folder FULL of medical information around for nothing. It doesnt matter to him that I know my blood counts, that I know the risks and deemed them acceptable for the situation, AND that I can (and tried to) back up my position with information from that stupid folder.
All that matters to him is that he talk to the doctor. Meh. (and yes, I know I am being somewhat unreasonable here, but this crap has gone on since day one, with everyone, except my number one, hired cancer killer, John.)
The one guy who listens (and hears) what I have to say. The one guy who doesnt automatically assume I am blowing sunshine out my butt or being foolish.
So naturally, I try to call him before Mr. Dentist Guy can get hold of him. And run smack into Trina. (Knew that was gonna happen, though.)
The process of speaking to God works like this: Call the office, get routed to the doctor, get intercepted by voice mail from Trina, leave a message, and wait for a call back.
I'll give her credit that she does call back rather quickly, comparatively speaking, but when she does, it's time to fence. Yes, I understand why she has to be a buffer for him, and even agree with it, except when she takes on that I have to be buffered. Although I never asked, I am fairly certain John knows I dont abuse the situation, and NEVER call unless there is real need. I hope. :)
Am I asking for special treatment? Nope. But I am asking to be recognized as out of the ordinary, at least.
"Hi Trina. Yeah, I know. Mr. Dentist Guy said he was going to call. I wanted to talk to John and see if there were any other risks for getting this work done earlier than we had discussed."
"Well, the main risk is for bleeding and infection."
"Yeah, I know that. I was looking for anything else I didn't know about. I kinda wanted to talk to him directly."
"Well I cant make any promises, like I said we're pretty backed up. I'll pass on the message and see what he has to say."
(Fortunately, my fuming is inaudible.)
"Okay." Click.
Crap. I don't believe for a minute that she will accurately impart my questions. Call it a hunch, inaccurate or otherwise, but I just know she'd rather err on the side of caution and recommend to Mr. Dentist Guy to refuse the procedure. In all honestly, that's likely just me being twitchy after that whole infection mess (which I found out later she was in no way responsible for, contrary to my original supposition) but twitchy or not, if I wanted to talk to her about my health, I'd have asked to talk to her.
John is the only one I trust.
So, while I wait, I find out my new glasses come in. Off I go (did I mention I'm driving myself? Whoo hoo!) to get them, and that Doc is busy, so I visit the cable internet place around the corner so I can shoot the breeze with the receptionist. Christi is a sweetie so the waiting is not a hardship at all.
I'm bouncing back and forth from one place to the next, and it occurs to me that I have proof rather than supposition for my blood count levels. I had tests taken seven days after I got chemo when that infection first presented. I'm on my way back to my truck to look in my folder and confirm when John calls.
Oh sweet God and sunny Jesus, thank you thank you thank you.
"Hey John!"
"Hi. How are you feeling?"
"Pretty damn good, actually. I'm driving myself today. I'll pay for it tomorrow, but what the heck."
"That's good. I got a call from your dentist, but I wanted to talk to you first before I answered him."
(Yes! That's my guy!)
"Yeah. Insurance runs out so I'm stuck getting this work done earlier than we originally discussed. I need to know if there are any other risks I dont know about that might change my mind."
He told me about the increased risks of infection, a risk that increases further the more invasive the work done, etc. Told me where that infection was likely to end up (scary!) and so on.
I referred him to the tests on the 19th, seven days after the cycle started on the 12th, told him that I thought the six days would be enough to get levels back up, etc.
He agreed, and added the safety margin of taking antibiotics beforehand just in case, and I can do that easy.
Have I mentioned that I love this guy? I give him facts and my perspective, and he processes it through the sieve of his knowledge, and tells me if I am right or wrong. No other doctor extant has taken the time to do that with or for me, and that makes him solid gold.
Since I have not heard from Mr. Dentist Guy, who promised to call if there was a problem, I get to make the next appointment and hopefully he wont waffle out and refer me to an oral surgeon anyway. That part I can tolerate. Canines are pretty long after all.
So I got a brilliant finish to a great start despite the crappy bump in the middle.
A brilliant finish made even shinier when I found out my sister and her youngest, plus friend, showed up a day early from out of state for the holidays. Whoo Hoo!
Add to that the fact that I'll finally have a tree this year (because of them) and I'm gonna explode with an excess of Yay.
So folks, if I'm scarce online for a while, it's not because I'm a Neanderthal dragging my knuckles, but because I'm human, getting more so every day, and probably hanging tree ornaments with my family.
Heaven on earth for a cranky guy who lives under a rock. :)
Patric
P.S. Why the goofy title? Because I started this post after finally getting a place made for everyone to bed down. Whew! This is a little house!
Lex Valentine
Weylyn awoke with a sense of foreboding. For a happy-go-lucky werewolf, the sensation of evil lurking seemed somewhat dramatic. In the normal course of things, Weylyn adored dramatic. But dramatic coupled with the sensation of bad things afoot was not the norm for a guy who spent his nights playing rock music in a band, his days sleeping, and the time in between getting his "were" on. Bad things didn't happen to Weylyn.
He rubbed his head. The sensation did not go away. Placing a hand on his chest, he could feel the uneven cadence of his heartbeat. What. The. Fuck?
Beside him, the sheet stirred. He glanced down at his lover, Drake Keating, and found his deep blue eyes glowing in the darkness. Normally, the wizard's eyes didn't glow. He had to be involved in some heavy-duty wiz thing for his eyes to look all freaky.
"Wey, your eyes are glowing too."
Drake's voice held a note of wariness Weylyn had never heard before. He paid no attention to Drake reading his thoughts---the wizard did that on a regular basis---but the tone of his voice had Weylyn alarmed. Nothing shattered Drake Keating's composure. Under pressure, Drake smiled and laughed. He did not ever show concern or wariness. Tonight, his voice held both.
"Something's wrong."
To Weylyn, when something went wrong, his manager or his roadie fixed it. He didn't have intimate knowledge of how to fix anything. Except maybe someone's broken libido. He could fix that well enough.
When his cell phone rang, neither of them jumped. They looked at each other with the expressions people had when they knew the ringing of the phone was a harbinger of things they did not want to hear. On the first ring, Weylyn decided he wouldn't answer it. On the second ring, he realized he'd better. On the third ring, he picked it up and said, "Hello?"
"Weylyn! It's Grant. How are you?"
The pleasant voice on the other end of the line made Weylyn frown. Grant was a fellow werewolf from a neighboring pack. They'd hung out in the past, drinking and picking up guys at a local bar. Grant had always been good company and a great friend. Weylyn hadn't ever had sex with him, but that was mostly because Grant swore Weylyn wasn't his type. But they'd been friends for years, despite Weylyn's often long absences from home while on the road. And even though they'd been friends for years, it wasn't like Grant to call in the afternoon when Weylyn was sure to be sleeping.
"I'm good, Grant. Just hanging with Drake. What's up?" Weylyn couldn't keep the cautious tone from his voice. Something smelled wrong, and he had a very good sense of smell.
"I'm at a bar, and I thought I'd see if you could meet me so we could have a few drinks and get caught up. I don't get to see you very often anymore."
Weylyn's eyes went wide with shock. Something definitely was wrong. Grant's voice sounded just a hair too casual, and the werewolf never drank during the day, even the late afternoon. He and Drake exchanged worried looks. As much as he rarely stirred before dusk, he'd have to now. He needed to discover what was wrong with Grant.
"Sure, Grant. Just give me some time to shower and get there," he told his friend in a voice carefully devoid of worry. "Where are you?"
"I'm hanging out at In the Light. It's a bar in the Shadoworld. I think you've been here before," Grant said. "I'm sure you've told me about playing here."
Weylyn's frown deepened. He had played the bar before, several times. And he'd never liked it. Being a musician meant he often had to travel the Five Dark Realms, going where the gigs took him. The Shadoworld always gave him the creeps. The realm existed on a plane between the Darkworld and the Afterworld. Its nebulous origins were said to have come about because of Fallen Angels. The Angels' home was the Shadoworld, but they moved between the realms as befit the jobs they did, alleviating suffering and saving children who had died from an eternity in the Afterworld. Weylyn had never understood who, besides the Fallen Angels, lived in the Shadoworld, or why they would want to. The place always screamed "haunted" to him.
"Yeah, I've been there a couple of times," Weylyn admitted, a little grudgingly. He wished Grant had chosen a bar in the Darkworld. He hated being at the mercy of a portal for travel. He preferred cars, motorcycles, and limos. Even cabs were better than a portal, although considering how most cab drivers drove, not by much.
"Good! Then I'll see you soon?"
Grant's voice held a note of insistence that rang alarm bells in Weylyn's head.
"Yeah, sure. Save me a stool, and don't eat all the peanuts, would ya?" Weylyn joked, trying to act as natural as he could with every nerve ending screaming at him that something was very, very wrong.
"I won't. Bye, Wey!"
Grant hung up, and Weylyn turned to Drake.
"I gotta go," he said gruffly.
Drake brushed a lock of hair off Weylyn's forehead and leaned in for a quick kiss that normally would have heated his blood. After the call from Grant, Drake's sexiness couldn't even rouse a lick of interest in Weylyn's libido.
"I know. I heard," Drake murmured. "What do you suppose is wrong?"
Slipping out of bed, Weylyn padded naked toward the bathroom. "No clue, but I sure as fuck do not like this." He looked over his shoulder, his gaze catching Drake's. "You'll set me up with a portal?"
Drake nodded with a crooked smile. "Do you even have to ask? It will open a couple of blocks from the bar, just in case of trouble. When you're ready to leave, it will appear in the same place and bring you right back to this room."
"Cool." Weylyn let out a heavy sigh. "If I need you..." He let his voice trail away, and he swallowed hard, unable to put into words the plethora of dire circumstances that flitted through his ever-imaginative brain.
"You know how to get me there in a matter of moments." Drake smiled at him in a way that Weylyn knew should have been reassuring. Unfortunately, the darkness that had settled on him just before his phone rang sucked away any attempt he made at thinking everything would be okay. All of the signs pointed to the opposite.
Weylyn showered quickly and dressed in his usual uniform of faded, button-fly jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket, and heavy boots. He looked up from fastening his boots to find Drake in a pair of sweats, his muscled chest bare, conjuring a portal for him. For a moment, Weylyn wished he could just ignore the phone call from Grant and take Drake back to bed. The wizard might not be his mate, but they'd been lovers and close friends for several years. Weylyn relied on Drake to balance him sometimes when his creative side got a mite too creative and he forgot to ground himself.
He stood up and walked toward the portal that gleamed with golden edges as if light seeped around the edges of a closed door. With a resigned sigh, he reached out and wrapped a hand around the back of Drake's neck, pulling him close for a languid kiss filled with tongue and promise. He stroked his palm over the wizard's bare chest.
"You are almost too hot to resist," he murmured as he pulled away.
"Almost?" One of Drake's golden brows rose in a sardonic expression.
"Yeah, almost. You're not hot enough to keep me from doing the right thing. Something's wrong with Grant, and I need to find him and help him. Then I can come back here and suck your cock," Weylyn said wryly.
Drake chuckled. "You always do the right thing, especially when you suck my cock." He slapped Weylyn on the ass. "Get out of here. Call me if you need me."
Weylyn dipped his head in a nod. "Will do. And Drake? If I'm not back here in a few hours, you might want to come looking for me," he said on a serious note as their gazes met. "You felt it too. Something is really wrong."
"I know. And I'll be ready to come after you if I need to. Now, get going." Drake gestured toward the glowing portal.
Taking a deep breath, Weylyn stepped through the portal and felt his stomach twist with nausea like it did in a super fast elevator headed downward many flights. The scent of damp night air hit his nostrils as he found himself on a wet, cobbled street beneath a dim street lamp. The Shadoworld had very little daylight, and most of it had a gray, overcast sky. Even though it had been late afternoon in the Darkworld, the Shadoworld's time was several hours later, and night had already fallen.
The darkness of the realm made Weylyn shiver. The impenetrable shadows unnerved him. No matter how bright the street lamps were, they barely made a dent in the stygian darkness. He looked around and got his bearings, recognizing the street. The bar was only a couple of blocks away, so he started walking, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders hunched against the damp air.
Resisting the urge to keep looking over his shoulder, Weylyn hurried to the bar. A block from its doors, he saw the white neon sign, "In the Light," jutting out from the side of the brick building. His steps quickened, and he reached the door moments later. Pushing it open, he stepped into what looked like an upscale honky tonk. Despite the sawdust on the wooden floors, the long bar gleamed with brightly polished brass rails and rows of glittering glasses hung behind it, close at hand for the bartenders. Black leather stools, deep black leather booths and chairs complimented the weathered brick walls, beams and wood trim that glowed with the rich patina of age. Even the green baize-covered pool tables with low hanging beer lights fit the décor of roadhouse meets trendy tavern.
A hunched figure sat on a stool at the end of the bar, near the windows. Weylyn pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto a coat rack as he headed toward his friend Grant. As he approached, Grant lifted his head, and Weylyn barely stopped himself from recoiling. Grant didn't look anything like his usual self. His dark eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw stubbled, and faint bruises could be seen beneath the skin covering his cheekbones. He seemed almost gaunt, definitely rumpled, and worse for the wear.
As he slid onto the stool beside Grant, Weylyn said, "What the hell happened to you, dude?"
Grant shrugged and fiddled with his beer mug. "Got in a fight. It's no biggie. Doesn't hurt."
Weylyn signaled the bartender to bring him whatever Grant was drinking. "You should have shifted. Would take the bruises away."
The internal alarms that had gone off inside him earlier were back, ringing louder and clearer than before. Weylyn had a tough time shaking them off so he could concentrate on Grant.
"They don't bother me."
Weylyn could tell Grant didn't seem to want to discuss his appearance, so he reached for the bowl of peanuts and took it from his friend. "I thought I told you not to eat all the peanuts," he said jokingly.
Grant snorted and pulled the bowl back, but not before Weylyn snatched a handful of nuts.
"You always tell me to save you something to fuck too, but it should be me saying that to you. No matter where we go, we run into people you've been with," Grant complained. "A guy like me always ends up with the scraps!"
The bartender set a mug in front of Weylyn, who handed him some money and told him to keep the drinks coming. After a sip of his ale, Weylyn eyed the grin that quirked up a corner of Grant's mouth. He tried not to stare at his friend's swollen lower lip.
"Is that why you're here? You're trying to get yourself one of the Fallen Angels?" he asked, determined to find out why Grant was sitting in a bar in the Shadoworld looking like he'd been hit by a truck.
Grant shook his shaggy blond head, his face taking on an expression of mock disgust. "Are you kidding me? You've had all of them too!"
Weylyn laughed in spite of his worry. He'd always loved Grant's sense of humor. "Actually, I don't think I have. I've certainly had more of the females than the males. And I've been hanging with Drake again, so I'm not in the market tonight. All of which is good news for you, my friend," he pointed out with a grin.
Sipping his ale, Grant shot Weylyn a wry look. "You're trying to get me laid?"
Blinking in mock innocence, Weylyn said, "But of course! What else would a friend do?"
"Fuck the only guy in the bar I'm interested in."
Grant made a face, and Weylyn could barely contain a laugh. He loved bantering with Grant.
"You have to bring that up again? Geez, man. You are never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"No." Grant popped a few peanuts in his mouth. "You are the only guy I know who can get laid without even trying...without even wanting to! A guy tells me he's a power bottom and asks me if I'm interested. Before I can even reply, 'Hell yeah!' you've got him topping you!"
"That only happened once," Weylyn protested. "I didn't know you'd already been talking to him when I met him in the men's room."
Weylyn felt the sting of guilt. It was true that he'd ended up with more than one guy whom Grant had had his eye on. Not that he'd meant to. Every time it had happened, he hadn't known Grant was interested in the guy. His friend tended to be really low-key about his sexuality and wasn't a blatant prowler like Weylyn. Grant never broadcasted his sexual preferences, but Weylyn knew that he revealed it easily because his gaze never followed women, only men.
"I can't believe there are Fallen Angels you haven't fucked," Grant grumbled and finished his drink. The bartender brought him another one instantly.
"Dude, I swear to you, I haven't been with that many." Weylyn tried to edge the peanuts closer as he watched his friend.
Grant eyed him in mock disbelief. "Still don't believe you, but I'll find out later. I'm not yet in the mood to go chatting up the men in here only to find each is just another in the long list of your conquests."
"You make me sound like some kind of sexual predator."
"You are a predator. In everything you do. It's inherent in your nature as a shifter," Grant conceded. "Believe me, I understand that. Add that to the whole rock star thing you have going and you get laid without even trying."
"Well, I promise to sit back and let you do all the hunting tonight. I'm not in the market anyway. Drake will be waiting for me when I get back."
"You lucked out there too, Wey. Drake's one of the most powerful wizards in the Darkworld. And more importantly, one of the sexiest. Why the man drops everything when you come sniffing around is a mystery to me." Grant pushed Weylyn's hand out of the way and grabbed some peanuts, popping them into his mouth.
"Oh, I agree I lucked out with Drake. All that hotness and power at my disposal whenever we're in the same area. It's a total turn on."
Weylyn sighed contentedly. He did enjoy having Drake as a best friend and occasional lover. They fit well together for men who weren't mates. He wondered again why he hadn't ever hooked up with Grant. He loved the guy. They were close friends and had known each other a long time, yet neither of them had ever seen fit to hit on the other. Grant always joked that Weylyn wasn't his type, but somehow, Weylyn didn't quite buy that.
He would have jumped Grant if he'd ever been given the slightest indication that the other man would welcome his advances. The younger man had a lean, attractive body with muscles that rippled beneath his clothing, shaggy dishwater blond hair that probably felt like rough silk, and deep blue eyes that made Weylyn think of the deepest part of the Mediterranean. Why he'd never tapped the taut ass that filled out Grant's jeans had always been a bit of a stumper to Weylyn.
He watched Grant's gaze follow a tall, dark-haired man who had to be a Fallen Angel. The man leaned over the end of the bar and spoke to the bartender, then disappeared into the back. Yep. An Angel. Only the Angels were allowed in the back room of In the Light. The bar had long been a hangout for them, and the owner had given them their own taproom in the back. Fallen Angels and their guests were the only people allowed there. Weylyn had been there once with a lovely Angel named Aimee. He remembered fucking her on a pool table when everyone else had left. He also remembered that the room had a built-in portal to each of the Five Realms.
"Tell me the truth, Grant," he murmured as he absently eyed the door to the Fallen Angels' taproom. "Why did you always stop me from hitting on you?"
Grant stared down into his ale for a long moment, his jaw working. Then he looked up, his blue eyes filled with sadness. "Because I would have only been a fuck for you, Weylyn, a good time with a friend. But I'm just not made like you. I would have wanted more from you than you were willing to give, so it was better that we stay platonic friends," he explained softly.
For a moment, Weylyn wondered why he had never known that about Grant. Why hadn't he sensed it? He wasn't usually so boorish. But then his innate honesty rose to the surface. He hadn't known because he hadn't wanted to know. Breaking the heart of a guy like Grant would be a bad, bad thing.
He stared at Grant intently. "I would do anything for you, man. You know that." He willed his friend to know the truth of his words.
Grant smiled so wide Weylyn could see his fangs. "I do know it. I've always appreciated the lessons you've taught me, Wey." He turned away for a moment, sipping his drink, then glanced at Weylyn, his head angled to the side. "Do you remember the first time we ever had a run-in with Trainor?"
"Yeah." Weylyn frowned. "Why?" He'd never liked Trainor. The wolf had a mean streak a mile wide and a know-it-all attitude that bordered on bullying. If you were his friend, you were golden. If not, you could expect to be derided every time you came within earshot. Trainor was the kind of guy where you were either with him or against him. And if he really didn't like you, he made a "frenemy" of you so he could keep an eye on you. As far as Weylyn was concerned, anything to do with Trainor was all bad.
Grant shifted his shoulders, wincing a little at the movement. "You told me for a man of worth and honor, doing the right thing always outweighed everything else. You told me not to dish out to Trainor what he dished to me and to others, that two wrongs don't make a right, and to make sure that the people who mattered knew what I knew of Trainor's bad behavior. You practically made me tell Mel."
Weylyn remembered the incident well. He'd used it as a lesson to Grant about watching your friends. When he and Grant had first met, Grant had been good pals with Trainor, running with him in a group of friends from the pack. But Weylyn had seen the ruthlessness in Trainor, the urge to win at all costs. The black wolf cared only for himself and his agenda. He surrounded himself with other wolves who would further that. Unfortunately, Trainor also had a charismatic personality, a self assurance that drew others to him. He could be very generous with his friends, but Weylyn had seen instantly that crossing Trainor would be bad news.
The incident in question had been about an acquaintance of Grant's who'd been willing to do anything to be part of Trainor's golden circle. Trainor and his pals had hazed the young wolf, expecting Grant to take part as well. Grant had been appalled at their behavior and refused to join in the hazing. At that point, Trainor had turned on Grant too. Weylyn had stepped in before anything bad could happen, but the bad blood between Grant and Trainor had been born that night.
He and Grant had taken Grant's friend back to the pack estate and made sure he was okay. Then Weylyn had given Grant a lecture on friendship and loyalty and belonging. And he'd insisted that Grant tell his Alpha about Trainor. Melina had reinforced Weylyn's words and had gone so far as to mention that she'd already had an inkling of Trainor's bad behavior. As uncomfortable as Grant had been telling Mel about Trainor, he'd been relieved that she'd already suspected. He'd told Weylyn about his meeting with Mel and thanked him for teaching him to always do the right thing.
"I remember," Weylyn said quietly, dragging his thoughts back to the present. "Why'd you bring that up?"
Again, Grant made that uncomfortable shift of position, an almost imperceptible movement of his shoulders, as if his body hurt. "He's been fucking around with people again."
"Tell Mel. She'll put a stop to Trainor's antics or kick him out of the pack," Weylyn said instantly. "Don't dick around with this, Grant. You don't know what Trainor's capable of."
Irony settled on Grant's handsome features as his expression hardened. "Oh, I think I know more than most people how cruel and self-serving Trainor is. But that's not the point. The point is that I won't let him get away with hurting others when there is something I can do to stop it."
"Good." Weylyn nodded his approval. "Still, make sure Mel knows."
Grant looked up, and their gazes met. Weylyn felt shock ripple through him at the depth of emotion in his friend's eyes. Pain, regret, resolve, and a fierce determination all swirled in the blue irises.
"She knows."
Then the werewolf flashed a huge, teasing grin that automatically drew an answering smile from Weylyn.
"So who would you hit on if you weren't going home to Drake?" Grant asked, tipping his head toward the people who filled the booths of the bar.
A laugh burst from Weylyn. "Earlier, you acted as if I'd already fucked them all!"
His friend made a face, laughter turning his blue eyes almost turquoise. "Well, have you?"
Weylyn looked around the room and then sheepishly pulled the bowl of peanuts away from Grant. "Okay, maybe a few," he said in a low voice. "But none of the guys. I swear! I told you I haven't been with many Fallen Angels."
A predatory expression settled on Grant's handsome face. "So, you think I could snag me one?"
Heaving a sigh, Weylyn reached out and patted his friend on the back, noting at once that Grant winced as if in pain. "I think if I had my choice, I'd rather fuck you than any of them," he said softly. "You're a keeper, Grant. Any one of those angels would be lucky to be with you, as would I."
Grant grabbed hold of Weylyn's hand and squeezed it tightly for a moment before letting it drop. "You're a great guy, Weylyn. A good friend. I won't ever forget the things you've taught me."
"Good. Then you won't forget how I taught you to approach a guy like that big one at the end of the bar whose cock I know you want to suck." Weylyn winked lasciviously, and Grant laughed.
"I won't forget, Wey."
They stared at one another for a long moment, Grant smiling his usual half-hitched grin that made him look damned near irresistible. Then an odd sensation caused Weylyn to shiver a little. Grant's gaze flickered, then fell.
Something propelled Weylyn to his feet. "I gotta run, dude. Drake's waiting. But we'll get together soon, okay?"
A shadow seemed to cross Grant's face, darkening his eyes once more. He mustered a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sure, dude. Thanks for coming."
"You're welcome." Weylyn snatched up some more peanuts. "Thanks for the peanuts, Grant."
He popped the nuts into his mouth and grabbed his jacket, pulling it on and turning toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he gazed back at Grant to find the werewolf eyeing the big Angel at the end of the bar. Then Grant looked up and waved briefly. Weylyn returned the wave and pulled the door open. Icy fingers trailed down his spine, and for a moment, his chest tightened with pain. Before the door shut, he saw Grant limping toward the Angel. They exchanged a few words, and then the Angel led Grant into the back taproom.
Some unknown force compelled Weylyn to turn around, and he took a step back into the bar, only to be brought up short as the bartender frowned fiercely at him. He sensed a chill in the bar that he hadn't felt before. When he looked around, every eye in the place had fixated upon the door to the Angels' taproom. Confused, Weylyn pulled open the bar door again, intent only on getting home and asking Drake to help him sort out what had just happened.
Weylyn stepped out onto the street and turned toward the portal back to Drake's penthouse. A few steps away from the bar, a woman fell into step beside him. They walked a half block before Weylyn turned his head to look at her. The Alpha of Grant's pack had long, red-gold hair and keen green eyes that made her one of the most beautiful women Weylyn knew. However, tonight, her exquisite face held an expression more sober than he'd ever seen it. As he gazed at her, the puzzle pieces of the night fell into place.
"Grant's not really there is he, Mel?"
She shook her head. "He's at the pack's estate, in his bed, dying."
Weylyn's blood suddenly ran so cold that ice water could have sluiced over him and it would have been warmer. He stopped walking. "Fuck! What the hell happened?" he asked, throwing out one hand in a gesture of helplessness.
"He tried to do the right thing," Melina said in low, angry voice. "Trainor and his pals were picking on Eliza. They'd worked her over to the point where she was crying, hysterical, and frightened. Grant came upon the scene. Trainor told him to walk on, that no one would hurt Eliza. Grant refused to leave without her."
Weylyn shook his head in stunned disbelief. "Grant took on Trainor and his friends? Without help? What was he thinking?"
Melina drew a deep breath. "He thought he was doing the right thing. He tried to protect her from bullies. I can't fault him for that. It was the right thing to do. Just, perhaps, it wasn't the right thing to do without help."
Sadness settled on her beautiful face. "They broke his back while he was in shifted form. He's paralyzed. He can't shift, but he's also not in pain. However, he is dying. As you know, that's what happens to any werewolf who can no longer shift. The Afterworld calls you home."
"He called me to say goodbye," Weylyn muttered, his heart heavy with anger and loss.
Grant's Alpha nodded. "He wanted you to know that he did the right thing. That he remembered the lessons you taught him and remembered what you had told him about Trainor being a bully. He loved you, Weylyn. He needed to say goodbye in a way that wouldn't leave you with memories of him lying broken and dying."
"Fuck!" Weylyn swallowed hard, trying to push back the tears that welled while fighting the loss that twisted his gut and made him want to puke. He raised his head and stared hard at the Alpha. "Tell me Trainor paid for this."
Again, Melina shook her head. "He's gone. He disbanded his little group, and he and his best pal Darren fled the area. If they ever show their faces on pack land again or even in the area..."
Her voice trailed away, and Weylyn knew she would never forget Grant's sacrifice, nor would she forget what the bullies had done. If she ever caught up with them, pack justice would see the killers' souls sent to the Netherworld for the demons to have as a snack.
"How is Eliza?" he asked hoarsely, still fighting tears.
Melina sighed heavily. "Okay. But in some ways, she's broken too. Her own friends didn't stand up for her. They let Trainor taunt her because they all feared him. And she feels responsible for Grant's death." Her gaze dropped from his. "I feel responsible."
The senselessness of it all ate at Weylyn, but he couldn't allow the Alpha to feel so badly. "Mel, Trainor is the only one responsible. He is the one who thought he was above the law. He is the one who did this. Not you, not Eliza. No matter what you did to try to contain him, he always thought he was better than others. Why do you think he had his little pack of goons? They were nothing more than sycophants who parroted his words, pumped up his ego, and did his bidding. They took things a step too far and they know it; otherwise, they wouldn't have attacked Grant physically, and they wouldn't have run afterward."
The Alpha reached out and took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "Your Alpha is lucky to have you, Weylyn," she said in a low voice. "I wish I could have foreseen that Trainor needed to be watched more closely. I don't hold with bullying, and this will be a lesson to the pack. The one member of his group who didn't run will be punished. Hopefully, it will deter others from thinking they can do this and get away with it. And we will never stop hunting Trainor and Darren."
Leaning into her, Weylyn brushed a kiss to her cheek. "Good. 'Cause if you didn't, I would."
Melina let go of his hand and stepped back toward the shadows. "I've got to go. Grant has little time left. Goodbye, Weylyn."
"'See ya, Mel." He lifted a hand in farewell as the Alpha disappeared into the mist.
Weylyn walked the last block to his portal alone, steeped in his memories of his friend, sadness permeating his soul. He stepped into the portal almost absently, emerging into Drake's home. Night had fallen in the Darkworld while he'd been gone. He looked around the bedroom to find Drake coming out of the bathroom, half dressed.
"I was just about to come looking for you," the wizard said. His gaze flickered over Weylyn, and his lips tightened angrily. "Don't tell me not to read your thoughts, Wey. I can't help myself. You're practically broadcasting them."
Weylyn smiled weakly and sat down on the end of the bed. "I know. And they aren't the most pleasant of thoughts, either."
Drake sat down beside him and placed a hand on his thigh. "I can find Trainor for you."
Grief struck Weylyn like a knife in the heart. "It won't bring him back, Drake. And really, Mel needs to do that. She needs the closure of making Trainor pay." He shrugged carelessly. "That part isn't my fight."
"I'll send her some information anonymously. She'll catch Trainor," Drake said grimly. "As for your fight, they're just demons, Wey. Dirty little demons in your head that plague you with 'what if.' What if you'd been a better friend? What if you'd never given Grant that speech about doing the right thing? What if you'd kicked Trainor's ass yourself years ago when you first saw his predisposition for becoming a bully?"
"Well, what if?" Weylyn burst out, his anger and frustration fueled by pain. "Maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe Grant would be alive!"
Drake shook his blond head emphatically. "No, Wey. Things happen for a reason. You can't blame yourself any more than Melina can. What you told her is true. No one is responsible for this except Trainor. Let her go after him. You need to grieve and let your friend go. The Afterworld isn't so bad after all. Haven't you played there before?"
The wizard's joke about Weylyn's band having played in the realm of the Afterworld made him smile a little. In fact, his heart warmed a bit as he realized the joke would have made Grant laugh. With a deep sigh, he pulled off his jacket although he still felt chilled from the Shadoworld.
"Everywhere but there, it seems," he admitted, with a little smile. "Now that Grant's headed there, I'll have to see about booking a gig there."
Drake cupped his face and kissed him softly. "It's okay to mourn your loss," he whispered.
With those soft words from one of his oldest and dearest friends, Weylyn turned loose his grief. Tears tracked down his face and he leaned on Drake, holding the wizard in a bone-crushing embrace as he cried silently. His grief, rage, and helplessness all flowed forth with his tears.
A long while later, he raised his head, knowing his eyes were red-rimmed and his skin blotchy from crying. He also knew Drake wouldn't care. The wizard loved him anyway, just as he loved Drake. Even after the two of them found their mates, they would still have a special bond. They'd been through much together, and they knew their friendship would stand the test of time and mates. And Weylyn knew that Drake would always read his mind, whether he wanted him to or not.
Drake chuckled and rubbed Weylyn's shoulder in a light caress. "Of course, I'll always read your mind. What use is it being a wizard if you can't use your power to read your lover's mind?"
"Read this," Weylyn growled and placed Drake's hand on the erection that bloomed behind the buttons of his jeans.
Before they could do more than begin a hot, open-mouthed kiss, Weylyn's cell phone beeped. He pushed away from Drake and pulled it out of his jacket pocket.
"There's a voicemail," he said and pressed the button to call for messages, then put the phone on speaker.
"You have...one message. First message..." the phone barked.
With a crackle, Grant's voice came over the line and Weylyn stiffened.
"Wey! Hey! Dude, you'll never guess! I found a Fallen Angel you haven't fucked! Seriously, man. He's hot, and he has no idea who you are. Unless he's lying to me. But I didn't think Fallen Angels could lie. Can they? I'll have to ask him. Anyway, I just wanted you to know I'm okay. I'm here now and everything is alright. Don't be sad. It's not a good look on you, dude. And I'd miss your smile if you were sad. So hey, I gotta run, but give Drake a big slobber kiss for me. I'm sorry I never got to fuck him, but then again, I have an angel you haven't fucked, so I guess that makes us square. Take care, Weylyn. I'll see you here someday."
The call ended, and Weylyn saved the message and closed his phone. He looked at Drake and tried to keep his face composed. Unfortunately, he couldn't. He felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You know, Grant would probably get the biggest kick out of me fucking you to celebrate his elevation to the Afterworld," Weylyn murmured, his hands reaching for the buckle of Drake's belt.
Drake leaned back on his elbows, giving Weylyn a clear shot at his belt and zipper. Weylyn could already see the outline of the wizard's swelling cock beneath the denim.
"Then I guess we should assuage your grief in a manner your friend would approve of, don't you think?" Drake said slyly, wiggling his brows suggestively.
Weylyn opened Drake's belt, pulled down the zipper of his jeans, and wrapped his fist around the wizard's thick erection.
"I think I need to make up for the fact that he found an angel I hadn't fucked. And here I thought I'd had them all," he joked.
Drake laughed softly. "You have me and lots of memories of Grant. Don't be sad, Wey. All life comes to an end someday. You heard it for yourself. He's okay. Now, fulfill his last wish and give me a big slobbery kiss."
Weylyn leaned over his lover and took his mouth fiercely, relishing the mashing of their lips and teeth and tongues together. Life did indeed end for everyone at some point. Grant had gone into the Light and come out in the Afterworld. Weylyn would miss him, but at the same time, he held his memories of his friend close to his heart and knew that where he now resided was a better place. Especially since Grant had found his own angel and his own peace.
Sinking down onto Drake's hard body, Weylyn let his grief go, and as Drake caressed him, he mentally said his goodbyes to Grant. Doing the right thing might not always have the outcome that seemed fairest, but Weylyn decided it was the only thing a man with a conscience could do. Taking the consequences of your actions in stride and embracing what life---and the Afterlife---had in store for you showed the measure of the man. And by the Gods, Grant had done that in spades.
Weylyn's pain subsided to a dull ache in a corner of his heart as Drake stripped his clothes from him. He stretched out on the bed and celebrated Grant's life in the way his friend had wanted...by living life to its fullest, embracing pleasure, and walking in the light.
A post from Patric to Ethan Day's Yahoo Group
Yeah. I'm PUTTING realism in my writing because I am often.... nonplussed by the truly bizarre notions I see perpetrated as fiction. :)
No offense intended to anyone without genuine GM parts, but hey... A twink is a young, generally smooth male without a huge muscle mass.
He is NOT a "bad guy". Just saying.
Ass burn: I've seen it mentioned constantly, and it's always in reference to first entry, and is always overwhelmed by the pleasure of the activity. But you know what? Any guy who is NOT a hole virgin can take it up the bum without burning, if they take their time, and there is enough lube. Burn pretty much only happens when the grease runs dry, or there wasnt any to begin with. On a purely technical level, it's the result of inflamed tissue because the mucous lining was rubbed away. And as long as the irritation stops, it stops burning fairly quickly.
Another thing is finger prep. Ok. Good plan, and certainly considerate, but it's always written as if it were a necessity. In fact, I've only read ONE book where the character says it's not necessary for him. (Red Tainted Silence) And that's true. If you've played more than a few times, its remarkably easy to take anything without a lot of prior fuss. Obviously, this excludes those guys who are naturally reticent, totally inexperienced, havent been laid in donkeys years, etc. :)
And, older guys simply arent as... stringent... in that department anyway. Simple fact of life. So if the December in your May-December romance is squeaking at a measly ol' dick up his butt, it's nonsense. (And dont even get me started on stretching or fisting. Yikes.)
What else do you want to know? You know what they say, "Those who cant do, teach."
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Holiday cheer doesnt always come in a cup.
Where else but at a holiday gathering can babies learn about gravity the hard way, the dog can lap up spilled wine faster than paper towels, strangers can laugh and tease like they've been best friends forever, and close family can be so unfathomable (all at the same time I might add) and none if it is the least bit unusual?
Christmas Eve, the day after chemo, was an outright Happy Day as expected. I find myself rather glad I haven't lost those "Days After" altogether. This one in particular allowed me to play catch up, and as I do every year it seems, I spent most of the day (and night) "elfing" to arrive bleary eyed and sleepy to Christmas Day. Also a Happy Day, though it took the magic of a White (pill) Christmas to do it. Good enough for me!
(And it should be noted for those who follow such things, that at this point in the chemo process things are generally going well, though as always there will be room for consideration at the end of the run. Certainly enough for John to look ahead at the future, which will no doubt be a topic for later posts. Fingers crossed!)
Anyway, the usual day's commotion was fun, despite the aforementioned wine and baby things (though luckily the incidents were unrelated) and my sister came up with the ultimate gift: An autographed copy of Julie Bell and Boris Vallejo's book of collected works. I have his, and later after they got married, their calendars as far back as 1972. Though from then to '85 or so there are several missing years.
I've been following his work though his "periods" of pure fantasy, to a brief stint where his subjects were all body builder poses sort of stuck into situations, (and what a queerly apt analogy those painting were for "writing a situation instead of a story.") and through to where he (apparently) married one of his students named Julie Bell and got himself back on track by painting jointly.
In a very peculiar way, she seemed to be the missing part of himself, and their joint works are even more visually stunning than his alone. She does metal like he does flesh, and the imagery always leaves me awed and fascinated when they work together.
Curiously, the autograph reads "Keep writing, Patric." and their signatures. I have no idea in the world how Sis managed that one, and when I asked if they knew what I write, she got a bit cagey so I'll have to ask again later on when distance once again gives her a comfort zone between how I used to be and how I am now.
Gods love her, the poor dear is having a bit of trouble getting her head around the whole cancer thing, though she's a trooper and puts on a good face.
It dooesn't help any of us to remember that we lost our Mom literally between Christmas and New Year's Day which makes my oldest niece's departing comment all the more poignant; "Now we just have to make it through New Year's Day and we'll be good for the rest of the year."
I think that was the only major undercurrent to the holiday, and it's one I really couldn't stem. I'm too easy to read to keep the knowledge from anyone that the day was getting rough, and if I wander off to take a nap, that left imaginations to run wild. But despite that, we ate our way through most of a grocery story, let the big people empty the wine bottles, (not me, I was loopy enough as it was!) bagged mountains of trash, and had a great time.
Like the ghosts of Christmases past, getting there might be anticipatory and exciting, but the best part of all is when it's over, the dishes are washed and the little ones are fast asleep, leaving the rest of us pleasantly enmeshed in each others company and filing away memories to sustain us through the coming year or years when we will once again all end up at the same place, and do it all over again.
Looking forward to that future....
Patric
P.S. Boris, Julie... Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Yikes!
Once again I am remiss in my duties, and whole weeks have gone by since I posted anything new. My apologies.
The problem is two-fold, really. On one hand, when things are going well, I'm busy catching up on the world in general. On the other hand, when things aren't so good, I'm kinda too tired to do anything at all. The end result is that this poor little blog (not to mention the other blog and my website) don't get updated. Grr...
Oh, and as a point of reference, I prefer cheddar with my whine, thank you!
That said, I'll have to take a stab at a better update later on. Too bloody tired to think.
Maybe tomorrow. :)
Monday, January 11, 2010
EDIT 01-12-10:
The following is NOT a beg for money!
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Well, it's official. I only write in this damned blog when I'm fucked, or feel like shit, 'cuz right now I'm both, and here I am!
(That's me, spreadin' the love.)
If the preceding isn't enough of a DISCLAIMER, here goes:
The following post is very likely to contain expressions of anger and disappointment, couched in epithets not suitable for delicate ears (eyes). If that ain't your cup of tea, move on freely. :)
It will also divulge information of a personal nature that might make some people, people who willingly read this damned thing, rather uncomfortable.
Caution delivered: Proceed at risk.
The concept of an axle, a thing around which something turns, came into vogue about the time the wheel was invented. As we progressed from stone to wood, and later to spokes, we as a race of thinking beings have ever been a slave to the axle. Not the wheel, as some would contend, but the axle, the pivot point, the nexus. Without it, a wheel is nothing more than a toy or a paperweight.
Curiously, an axle need not necessarily be a concrete thing. There are axles everywhere. Call them the point where things resolve, and in whatever way you choose, but whether they are made of steel, or something far more esoteric, we're still slaves.
I offer you a series of events, all turning around a central them. My axle, if you will. Feel free to argue or debate, but I reserve the right not to participate, should it come to that.
Like everything else, it's simply a matter of perspective, and mine has ever been skewed. :)
Long ago, at the start of a career that would eventually span half of my adult life, I stood on a street corner. Mostly at night, and always with guys I counted loosely as friends (inasmuch as these lads were capable of friendship, at least.)
These guys were junkies and hustlers, most often in that order, and while I'd love to be able to say something like "They had a quiet bravery regarding their situation, meeting adversity with dignity, and the resolve to carry on." it'd be so much bull shit. The bald truth is that most of these guys were feeding a habit and nothing else.
The difference between me and them is that they shot their habit into their arms, and I was my own habit. Pesky habit, eating. I can't seem to break myself of it.
I cant say I would have starved entirely back then. There are always alternatives, whether it be hustling, or scrounging off friends, or dumpster diving. Of those, pride pretty much precluded scrounging off friends, and lets face it; everything is a choice, even if it's the choice to do nothing at all. And having a little fun never hurt. Since I wasn't feeding a monkey, I could pick and choose, to a degree.
I wasnt much good at hustling though. The boys said I was too old, which was sort of sad. Too old when you wouldn't hit thirty for a good while isnt what you'd call a lengthy career. So I mostly learned the alternatives.
"Spanging" is the term for shaking a cup and asking for change. I couldnt quite manage that, either. Not desperate enough to forgo that damnable pride, yet.
"Groundage" is the term for when a generous soul would buy something like fast food to go, then throw it away untouched, knowing someone had an eagle eye on the trash cans at McDonalds. You'd be surprised how often that happens. For the donor, it's a way to feel good without actually having to get your hands dirty. For the recipient, you get to feed at least one habit. (Pun intended) And of course there is always dumpster diving. :)
The stint didnt last long, fortunately, and the boys and I parted company. They to whatever waits for junkies, and me to another job, hopefully.
The point is, that time existed, and I got on by learning from them. You do what you need to do to survive, whatever you are surviving on. (and to the reviewer who panned Night Moves as preposterous, you are an idiot.) There, I said it. :)
Anyway, moving on. We'll come back to all that later.
Now we jump ahead to another point in life, when the situation is the same, but the circumstances have changed. Another spoke on the wheel if you will, spinning around that axle called money.
For some bizarre reason I dont fully grasp, no one wants to hire a dead guy. (Bigotry is so pervasive...) :)
Okay, so maybe that's more of a problem than I thought, because the hospital had a plan.
"Here, fill these out. They are application forms for Social Security Disability."
"Whaa?" (I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed that day.)
"Disability. Income for while you're doing chemo because you probably wont be able to work."
"Why not?" I ask. Like I said, not the sharpest tool, me.
"She gives me a look that says, "Buddy, you are so clueless." but she's patient and reminds me that chemo, my chemo, is pretty rough.
"Okay." (Stage one of the claims process.)
I remember Social Security. That mysterious government agency to whom I've paid a portion of every paycheck I've ever received for the last thirty years. Yeah! That's what it was supposed to be for, right? Emergencies like this? Cool. I'm all over it because nothing will depress me faster than not keeping up on my bills. Seriously depressed.
Ah well, the axle turns, doesn't it. I lucked out with the guy who conducted the phone interview. (Stage two of the claim process) He was considerate, easy going, and knowledgeable. He explained the process, and the pitfalls, and like a dope, I thought I understood.
"Lots of people making claims, you know, so the process isn't as fast as we'd like."
"Okay, I get that." I say.
"And there is a five month waiting period before we can issue a check."
"Er, what?" I ask. "What are they waiting for, to see if I'll die?"
"In a nutshell, yes."
I deeply appreciate candor, prefer it in all instances, but that surprised me. I was thinking it was more along the lines of Unemployment holding back a week for themselves to cover operating costs.
Turns out its both.
Until now, I've pretty much ignored the agency entirely. After all, I had all the time in the world to learn about it, right? snort
They do pay out, eventually (if your claim is approved), and there are a lot of people who flat need the service, but as is apparently well known, there is more going out than coming in. Duh. Tool in the shed, remember?
I'll forgo the politics, thank you. It simply wont change in my lifetime, harsh as that sounds.
I will say that any delays beyond the foot dragging crap they do is totally unnecessary. And their rules! Holy shit on a shingle. What they constitute a valid claim would make my hair stand on end, if I had any left. But I'm jumping ahead. Back to delays....
Seems a lovely young lady working on my claim has been stonewalled. How, you ask? By NOT getting medical records from a certain doctor's office.
So stage three of the process of filing a claim comes to a head. Waiting.
You will perhaps recall that I jumped the gun previously regarding a certain medical assistant, so I'm trying not to do that again, but when I was told by the claims worker that she sent several emails and left several voicemails and still hadn't heard anything back, I sort of went ballistic. After all, I know how hard it was for ME to get records, and I'm standing in the same damn building!
Tomorrow, I have a chemo session. My sixth. That there will be two more after that doesnt bode well for my success. Maybe. But discussing that hast to take a back seat to my plan of spending my allotted forty minutes getting those records sent out. Fuck the "how are you feeling" shit. Which rolls to the next point...
On one hand, if I'm medically screwed, it means the cancer wins and Disability will say yes. Pay the dead guy! Yay! It'll be short term, and we'll get to keep most of what was in his coffer.
On the other hand, if the cancer is being handled, I'm denied. Dont pay the guy. Never mind he'll have been eight months in the hole by the time we have a definitive answer. Most of that Soc.Sec. has already spent waiting to see if I'll live. We keep what's in the coffer!
On another hand, if I have to do a bone marrow transplant, that's an automatic acceptance of a claim, and once again, pay the dead guy, for a while at least. There's a six month recovery period for that shit, assuming it's successful, and I am so NOT looking forward to six more months of hell. Oh yeah. Keep most of whats n the coffers. (It's a recurring theme.)
The problem with all of these hands is that none of them will come in time to cover what I have extant, and the choice literally becomes "Get the transplant and pay bills, or declare bankruptcy." (And that's not even a choice I can make for myself. Someone OTHER than John does that, and I dont trust anyone but John.
Honor and responsibility are at something of an impasse here because tomorrow, John will ask me how I'm feeling. I wont be able to say one way or another because of the possible affect on that damned claim. And I've run out of hands. Mutter.
The whole process is so convoluted and geared toward the system rather than the individual that it's no wonder at all the only ones who profit are the members of the administration, and the low life scum who cheat the system itself. (Probably one and the same. Administrators get paid regularly, right? Too bad they dont get paid exactly what the approved claimants do.)
I really wish I was one of those low life scum. I wish I knew HOW to cheat the system, just so I can pay my damned bills. It's not like I drive a Cadillac or have the latest in Home Stereo Theatre, etc. Never mind. More politics I don't want to get into.
Since I'm not a low life scum (usually) and choice always exists, there is another option for a guy who falls asleep at the drop of a hat.
I write.
Surely not fast enough, and definitely not prolific enough, but it's something I can do and I do get a few bucks, eventually.
There are detractors of my genre who say that writing Romance is little more than hooking on a street corner. (You knew we'd get back to that sooner or later.)
I dont care. I like the work, LOVE the people I've met, and like those days twenty years ago, it's an option. I'll never get rich at it, probably wont even break even, truth to tell, but it's a choice I make hoping to keep a little dignity by keeping busy (the keyboard doesnt give a shit if I doze off) and again, like those far off days, its fun.
So I'll hop on anther spoke, or maybe another axle entirely and keep writing; keep hustling on the street corner. I've done it before, right?
I might even get lucky and one of the married bastards who makes up the rules for Soc.Sec. will drive by slowly and check me out. Shadows are handy things. They hide all manner of secrets. Including whether my grin is interested or predatory. Just dont let me anywhere near your balls mister, 'cuz I'll crush 'em.
And besides, a little sex on the side never hurt anyone. :)
Patric (who is much calmer now)
Karenna Colcroft
If the road didn't go on forever, it came pretty darn close.
By Zack's lack-of-watch reckoning, at least fifteen minutes had passed since he'd turned off the blacktop side road onto this dirt track that was barely wide enough for his van. He'd seen no houses or any other signs that anyone lived up here, but the notes on the clipboard beside him insisted that he was supposed to install a satellite system in a house at the end of this road.
If the road ever ended. Which it didn't seem to.
He had to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. He remembered the directions saying something about turning left at a blue mailbox, which he'd done, but it might have been the wrong blue mailbox. There had to be more than one. Otherwise, he was apparently driving down a dirt road that led to the next county, if not the next state. And he couldn't even pull over to check the directions again, because there was no "over." If he stopped the van, he'd block the entire road.
He silently cursed his coworker, Pete, who should have been riding shotgun and helping with navigation. Pete had called in "sick," which, from what Zack had learned about the man over the past few months, meant he'd been out partying the night before. Since Pete had waited until five minutes before Zack had to leave to make the call, there hadn't been anyone else available to go with him on this job. He'd done installations alone before, but they were a bitch to do without a second set of hands to help with the equipment, and without someone reading the map for him, he'd clearly gotten himself lost.
No one lives this far out in the middle of nowhere. I should call the office and find out where I'm supposed to be.
He fumbled his cell phone out of its holster on his belt, only to find he had no reception. He shouldn't have been surprised. After driving this long down a road on which all he could see were relentless lines of trees on either side, branches meeting above him barely allowing any sunlight through, he'd begun to wonder whether he was still on earth.
Sure. I've gone through some fantasy portal into some magical land of trees and shadows.
At the thought, he shuddered, then laughed at himself. Some people just didn't like other people. He was installing a satellite system for a hermit, that was all. Assuming he ever reached the end of the road where the hermit's house allegedly sat.
Peering ahead, he saw what looked like a break in the trees. Finally!
A moment later, he drove into a large clearing. Ahead of him sat a farmhouse that looked like something from a child's storybook, complete with a brook meandering along the edge of the lawn. Patches of brightly colored flowers were scattered around the house at seemingly random spots. The grass was the greenest Zack had seen outside of Astroturfed stadiums, and lush weeping willows lined the brook.
The house itself stood two stories high and was painted white with red shutters and a red front door. A long wooden swing hung from the ceiling of the front porch.
In the swing sat a man. A skinny man, height indistinguishable when he was sitting, with hair so dark it seemed to have green highlights. His face was one of those that might fade into a crowd, but even from several yards away, Zack saw a light in the man's eyes. That light made him reluctant to look away from the guy.
Zack pulled up beside the porch, where the road ended, stopped the van and quickly got out. The man on the swing stayed seated. "Hello?" Zack said tentatively.
"Hello." The man's voice was deep and melodious, and it tugged at parts of Zack's body that really shouldn't have responded that way to a customer.
"I'm from the satellite company." Flustered, Zack opened the back doors of the van to give himself something to do other than staring. "You have an appointment to have a satellite system installed?"
"Yes." The man rose and walked down the steps to stand beside Zack. "It's a bit quiet out here. Most television doesn't interest me, but I thought it might be a welcome distraction. Do you need any help unloading your equipment?"
There was absolutely no double entendre in the man's tone. But Zack heard one anyway, and his "equipment" responded by stiffening. He quickly turned away and said, "No, thanks, I can manage. I'm Zack, by the way."
"Robin. I'll get out of your way, then."
Robin returned to the swing. Zack felt the other man's eyes on him as he began unloading the van, though each time he glanced up, Robin's gaze was elsewhere. For some reason, that disappointed Zack. He wanted the man to watch him.
Because I'm being paid to pick up the guy, he thought sarcastically. He shook his head and returned to making sure he had all the right cables.
When Zack climbed the front steps to bring things inside, Robin rose from his seat and held open the front door, then followed Zack into the living room and indicated the TV, a large flat-screen. "Just go ahead and set it up," he said. "If you need to rearrange things, feel free." Without waiting for a reply, he went back outside, and after a moment Zack glanced through the front window and saw him back in the swing.
Later, when Zack had to climb the ladder to position the satellite dish, Robin held the ladder for him, standing silently at the bottom and staring at the brook. Otherwise, the man gave no sign of even remembering that another human being was on his property, and he spent most of the time in the porch swing.
Usually, when Zack did installations, the homeowners buzzed around, chatting with him and asking questions that he would have answered when he was finished if they'd left him alone long enough to finish. Sometimes he had to restrain himself from yelling at them to shut up and let him do his job. If anyone had asked, he would have said he preferred not having anyone talk to him while he worked.
He wanted Robin to talk to him.
Of course, he pretended otherwise. He was here to do an installation, nothing more. The fact that he had such a strong reaction to Robin disturbed him a little, if he was honest with himself. None of the other men he'd been attracted to had caught his attention so completely right from the start.
The installation took quite a while, and in the utter silence, it felt even longer. That scratchy feeling of being watched never quite left the spot between Zack's shoulder blades, but he never caught Robin looking at him. In fact, much of the time, Robin wasn't even in sight. Only the weight of his gaze indicated his presence, and kept Zack in a state of distraction.
Finally, he connected the last wire to Robin's TV, then went outside to find the other man. Robin knelt beside a small flower patch a short distance from the porch, and didn't appear to notice Zack even when Zack walked over to stand behind him. After an awkward moment of waiting to be spoken to, Zack cleared his throat. "Everything's hooked up, if you want to come inside and test it out before I leave."
"Thanks." Robin pulled a flower from the ground, then swiftly stood and leaned toward Zack. Before Zack could respond, the other man blew a puff of something from the flower he held.
Without thinking, Zack ducked and frantically waved his hand to push away the cloud of what looked far too thick to be pollen. Some of it blew back into Robin's face. Robin coughed, and his eyes widened. "You!"
"Me?" Zack scrambled backward. "What the hell are you doing?"
Robin stepped forward, eyeing Zack with a lustful, predatory gaze. "You're gorgeous, do you know that?"
What the hell? Zack took another step back. "I've been here for hours, and you're just now noticing that?" he quipped, hoping a joke would take some of the weirdness out of the situation. None of this added up. First he'd sensed Robin spying on him while he worked, even though he'd acted as if he didn't even see him whenever Zack had tried to catch him watching. Then the thing with blowing a flower at him.
"What was in that flower?" he asked.
He didn't really expect an answer. The whole idea of a flower having anything to do with Robin's change in attitude was completely ludicrous.
"Cupid." Robin grinned. "An arrow from Cupid's bow struck a patch of these flowers. Anoint the eyes of someone with the juice from one, and that person falls in love with the next living thing they see."
The explanation sounded dimly familiar, but Zack couldn't place it. Not that it mattered. Cupid didn't exist, and flowers didn't act as love potions. Besides, there hadn't been any juice. "You blew some kind of pollen at me," he argued.
"I've been raising these a while. I've made some modifications." Robin came closer and sniffed. "You smell incredible."
"You're freaking me out." Zack whirled around and hurried toward the van. Robin followed close on his heels. Zack sped up and so did Robin, until they ran to the van door. Zack yanked the door open and climbed into the driver's seat. "Leave me alone. I need to go back to work. Just call the office if your system doesn't work right."
"Don't go," Robin pleaded. "Stay here for a while. You don't know what you'll be giving up. I can give you anything you want if you stay with me."
A chill ran up Zack's spine, and he shuddered. While he'd been working, he'd wanted Robin's attention. Now it gave him the creeps, and all he wanted was to speed down that dirt road back to the highway as fast as he could make the van go. "I just want to go back to work," he said firmly.
Professionalism took over for a moment, and he picked up the clipboard from the passenger seat. "You have to sign."
"I'll do anything for you," Robin said vehemently.
"Yeah, great. Just sign the form." Zack rummaged in the crack between the seat and seat back for the pen that never wanted to stay on the clipboard. He glanced at the clipboard at his customer's name. "Robin Goodfellow. Interesting---"
Then it clicked. The familiarity of the story about the flower. The recognition of the name.
Robin Goodfellow. Another name for Puck, the fairy trickster best known as a character in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Unless this guy's parents had had a very weird sense of humor about naming their child, Zack was talking to a member of the Fae.
Chills ran up his spine. Fae didn't exist any more than Cupid did. He couldn't be talking to one. Yet he didn't doubt it for a second.
His grandmother had told him stories about the Fae, and he knew better than to mess with one. He had to get out of here before Robin---well, he had no idea what Robin might do. That was the frightening part. That, plus the fact that a corner of his mind didn't want to leave at all.
Robin nodded with a sheepish grin. "Yeah. That's me. Robin Goodfellow. Thou speak'st aright, I am that merry wanderer of the night, and so on. Not that I ever really talked like that. Old Billy just had a thing for language." He reached toward Zack, who shrank back. "Your hair is so beautiful. Let me touch it?"
"No touching under the influence." Zack held out the pen and clipboard. "Just sign, assuming Robin Goodfellow is even a legal name."
"It's the closest I have."
Robin's fingers brushed Zack's when he took the clipboard, and something like a static jolt shot through Zack. His cock twitched, and he swallowed hard and thought about the liver and onions his mother had always made for Sunday dinner to try to calm his libido. "So, um, the whole fairy thing. Serving Oberon and stuff. How'd that end up with you living here in Oregon?"
"I didn't serve Oberon. We had an agreement." Robin scrawled something at the bottom of the form on the clipboard and handed everything back to Zack, making sure to brush fingers again. This time, Zack was prepared enough that his body barely responded to the touch. "I worked for him," Robin went on. "Did some errands, played some pranks, that kind of thing in exchange for him not killing me when I played pranks on him and Titania. They were kind of fun to mess with, though."
He leaned against the open door and studied Zack intently enough to make Zack squirm. I really need to get out of here.
"I make you nervous," Robin observed.
"Given how you're acting since that flower thing, yeah," Zack admitted.
"You were flustered before that." Robin grinned. "You were turned on when you saw me. Admit it. You thought about asking me out. Or maybe asking me in."
"I didn't go that far." He swallowed again. He couldn't deny that he'd been attracted to Robin. Even if he'd been a decent liar, he remembered his grandmother telling him that lying to the Fae was a really, really bad idea. "Yeah, I was. You're good-looking, I won't deny that. And there's something about you." He paused. "Fae something, right? Some kind of glamour?" Fae did that to people, from what he'd read.
"No glamour." Robin stepped back and spread his arms to his sides. "This is what I really look like. All those costumes showing me wearing leaves or all green or something are just figments of people's imaginations." The sun glinted off his hair, showing the same green highlights Zack had noticed when he'd arrived. "Okay, maybe a little green," Robin said, as if agreeing with the sunlight. "I am, after all, a nature Fae. But this is my real face, Zack. My real body." He yanked off his T-shirt, revealing a chest that wouldn't have looked out of place on a professional athlete. "You do like what you see, don't you?"
"Just stop." Zack dropped the clipboard and pen onto the passenger seat and folded his arms over his chest, trying to pretend nothing below his waist stirred at the sight of Robin's bare pecs. "You're doing this because of that stupid flower. Didn't you learn anything with that whole mess in the play?" He hesitated. "Wait. Did that even happen?"
"Yeah. I used to hang out with old Billy once in a while." Robin chuckled. "He was pretty fun to mess with too. And he wasn't too hung up on the whole gender thing, if you know what I mean."
Zack really didn't want to hear about Robin's affair with William Shakespeare. "Okay. So you told him the story, and he wrote it. Made you look kind of foolish for putting the flower juice in the wrong person's eyes." He couldn't resist the jab. "Kind of like right now. You were trying to send that crap into my eyes, and you got the dose instead."
"Yeah." Robin rested his hand on Zack's knee. "Can't say I'm sorry about it, though."
The warmth from his touch spread through Zack, hardening his cock and sending images of a naked Robin racing into his brain. He shook his head. "So what was your plan, to make me fall for you so you could laugh your ass off at me?"
Robin shrugged. "Maybe. I hadn't really thought much beyond using the flower. I retired from pranking people once some of the things I used to do became illegal, but once in a while, I like to play a little trick or two, just to keep things interesting. Probably I would have made sure you didn't look at me before you left. I can prevent humans from seeing me if I want to. You'd have driven back to wherever you came from, seen someone walking down the street, and fallen for him. Or her."
"I'm gay." Zack didn't usually blurt it out that bluntly, but given the current circumstances, he didn't think Robin would be particularly judgmental.
"Doesn't matter. The flower makes you fall in love with the next living thing you see, regardless of gender." He chuckled. "Or species. That whole Titania falling in love with an ass thing? Billy-boy changed it into a man dressed as a donkey. In reality, it was a donkey."
"So what about Bottom and his pals?" Zack snorted. "Oh, my God, I just got that joke. Bottom...ass. Twenty years since I first saw that play, and it took me this long to figure that out."
"Humans can be pretty slow sometimes," Robin teased. "Look, I'm really not interested in giving you the whole story. Point is, if the first person you'd seen after having the flower stuff in your eyes had been a woman, your sexuality wouldn't have mattered."
"It would have to me." Zack narrowed his eyes. "So you wanted to mess with me. Looks like that backfired on you just a bit. What are you going to do now?"
"I have the antidote." Robin nodded toward a patch of green several yards away. "I'm not stupid enough to grow Cupid's flower without having the counter to it on hand. This is kind of fun, though. I've seen it happen to so many other people, but I've never experienced it myself."
"Being dosed with love juice?" Zack muttered.
"Being in love." Robin rested his palm against Zack's cheek. Zack jerked his head back. "I really am making you nervous, aren't I?" He sounded proud of it. "What do you think will happen if I touch you, Zack?"
He leaned into the van, and Zack had no room to back away. Part of him didn't want to. Robin was hot, no question about that, especially without a shirt. Maybe it didn't matter that the flower had caused all this. He'd been attracted to Robin from the moment he'd arrived, and if Robin wanted him too, there was no real reason not to give in.
"I have to get back to work," he stammered, trying to convince himself as much as Robin.
"Call them and tell them the installation took longer than you thought." Robin leered. "I'll show you all about installing things."
Zack rolled his eyes. "That's probably the worst proposition I've ever heard."
Robin shrugged. "I live out here in the middle of nowhere, and I'm a thousands-year-old Fae. You expect me to be good at pick-up lines?" He stroked Zack's cheek with a finger. "Stay for a while longer. Surely you don't have anything else scheduled today. It's too late. By the time you get back to your office, it'll be time to leave. So why not just call them and tell them you won't be back till tomorrow?"
He was far too persuasive. For several seconds, Zack couldn't think of any reason at all to leave. Robin traced his finger down Zack's cheekbone to his neck, then further to his chest, and Zack's cock rose to full hardness. He wanted Robin, and the only thing preventing him from staying was the fact that he was driving a company van that had to be returned.
"Tell them the van broke down," Robin said softly, as if he'd heard Zack's thoughts. He leaned so close his warm breath seemed to caress Zack's face. "Tell them you can't get a tow truck to come this far out, so you're staying the night and someone will fix the van in the morning."
"They won't believe that," Zack said hoarsely. "They have a contract with a tow company. They'll send someone out to fix the van tonight."
"How long did it take you to get here?"
Zack considered it. "About an hour, I think. I'm not even sure if you're in my office's region. This place really is out in the middle of nowhere." He stared at Robin. "This is still in the real world, right? You don't have any weird Fae portal on that dirt road?"
"No portal," Robin assured him. "You're still in the human world. Like I said, I retired."
"You retired from playing pranks. You didn't say you retired from being Fae."
"Well..."
He turned away from the van. Zack caught himself reaching for the other man to pull him back. Maybe he'd gotten a dose of the flower after all. He definitely was developing strong feelings for Robin, feelings that made no sense without some kind of magical explanation. He'd only just met the guy, after all.
Robin took an audible breath. "I didn't exactly retire from being Fae. More along the lines of being thrown out. I did mention that Oberon wasn't exactly happy with some of the pranks I've played, didn't I?"
"I think so." Zack slid out of the van and put his hand on Robin's shoulder. While he didn't approve of the man trying to use some kind of love drug to make him stay, he knew what it was like to be lonely. If Robin really had been forced to leave the Fae world, it was no wonder he'd go to extremes to keep someone around for company. "I'm sorry. It must be hard for you not to have any of your people around." The thought that Robin might only be making a play for sympathy crossed his mind. "How often do you have company here?"
"Pretty much never." Robin sighed. "Don't stay if you don't want to. I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me. Humans and their pity are pretty annoying, to tell the truth."
"Then why did you tell me what you just told me?" Zack let his hand fall back to his side.
Robin turned to face him. A lone tear trickled down his cheek. "Even when I was with the Fae, I was alone. Everyone knew who I was. They didn't want me around. They just wanted entertainment, and some of them didn't think that was worth the cost of being associated with me. Oberon treated me like a servant, not a friend. Fae don't really have friends, actually. Or lovers. That whole thing between Oberon and Titania was a political alliance, nothing more. You don't have any idea how lonely it can be."
Zack's heart ached. He wouldn't have expected Robin to be so open. The snarky part of his brain said that Robin was just trying to guilt trip him into staying and he shouldn't fall for it.
Naturally, he fell for it. "No, I don't know how lonely it is to be Fae." He sighed. "I don't have many friends either. I think you only want me to stay because of that stupid flower, though."
Robin shook his head. "I want you to stay because I love you."
"Because of the flower," Zack repeated.
"Maybe. Who knows?" Robin took his hand. "Will you stay?"
Even if Robin did only think he loved him because of the influence of the flower, that wouldn't change unless he used the antidote. Zack would make sure he used it the next morning. For tonight, why not stay? Having companionship would be nice. Even if the companionship stayed G-rated, which somehow he doubted it would.
He fished his cell phone off its holster on his belt. To his surprise, it showed a faint signal. He pressed the button to auto-dial the office. The call went through, and Kate, the receptionist, answered. "Hey, Kate, it's Zack," Zack said.
"You're awfully late." Kate didn't sound impressed.
"What do you expect when you send me out on a full install with no assistance?" Zack snapped. "Anyway, I'm going to be even later. Something's wrong with the van, and the homeowner's letting me crash in his guest room till tomorrow."
"Or I could just send a tow truck out," Kate said. "Because we kind of don't like having our employees spending the night with customers."
"I'm not spending the night with him." Out of habit, Zack crossed his fingers against the lie. "I'm spending the night in his guest room. By the time the tow truck gets here, it'll be after dark. This place took me over an hour to get to. It's out in the boonies. If we wait till morning, the guy thinks he might be able to fix it and get me on my way." He glanced at Robin, who nodded. "It probably isn't anything major," Zack added to Kate. "Just something stupid, but we can't seem to get it running right now."
"Boss isn't going to like this," she warned.
"Yeah, well, he can fire me after I bring the van back, then." Zack laughed. "I'm sure he will, and I'm equally sure I don't care." If he was fired, he could come back here and spend more time with Robin.
Yeah, that flower definitely did something to me, even if I didn't realize it.
"I'll tell him," Kate muttered. "Keep your phone on, because when he blows up, I'm not going to let him take it out on me."
"Whatever. Thanks, Kate." He hung up and re-holstered the phone. "Okay, Robin. What now?"
"Come inside and we'll talk about it."
Robin smiled and extended his hand. When Zack took it, another jolt shot through him. This was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but it was still perfectly right.
As they climbed the steps to the door, he said, "Maybe you should grab one of the antidote flowers."
"Don't need it," Robin replied cheerfully.
"You don't want to keep me around just because you're under the influence, do you?" Zack said.
"I'm not."
Zack let go of his hand. "What do you mean? Not keeping me around because of that, or...?"
"Not under the influence." Robin turned to face him, eyes twinkling. "Those flowers? Perfectly normal pansies. The powder was just baby powder. Both of us were interested, neither of us dared to say a word, so I just moved things along a little. I'm Puck. It's what I do." He grinned and took Zack's hand again. "Now, come in so I can teach you about installations."
For half a second, fury clenched around Zack's chest. Then he shook his head and let Robin lead him inside. Flower or no flower, trick or no trick, he wanted to be here.
He would just have to make sure Robin didn't mess with him again.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
I fear I am remiss. Possibly to the point of making a grave error in our relationship. I have, in the depths of my cynicism, (or despite them) have placed you on a pedestal so high you must surely experience nosebleeds!
Perhaps I would not have noticed the altitude at which I have forced you to operate were it not for a brief comment you made recently.
Why, John, why did you not tell me so much sooner that I am not all that unusual after all?
Here I was, for months and more, fretting over what appeared to be a reversal of commonality. My consideration was no doubt fueled by my overanalytical, overactive imagination to believe the very worst of outcomes to our continued interaction-- that I would inevitably leave your gentle humor and thoughtful regard far behind.
And yet, in five simple words, you turned all of that asunder with all the speed, power, and mixed blessings of an earthquake that destroys life and property even as it reveals a pocket of raw gold. My foundations heaved all the way to bedrock, and yet, in the aftermath I found a bright gleam in Stygian darkness; the thought that failure might not be my inevitability after all.
I have to thank you for that, gentle John, despite the discomforts of the past.
Perhaps I am still provisionally amenable to playing our game yet a while. Maybe.
Certainly, you've given me reason to doubt the halftime score.
So, at the risk of base callousness on my part, I must hand you cotton balls and ask you to shove them up your nose, for you are still my hero, still dear to me, and still perched on a column of finest marble. I shan't let you down unless we both fall together, and even then it's pretty damned iffy.
Thanks, Big Guy.
Patric
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Aftermath of Inevitability
They say that only death and taxes are inevitable, and while that's true enough, I beg to differ.
Having recently had ample opportunity to examine both in various guises, and for various reasons, I've noted a few more "inevitables."
The sun rises, government services are a reluctant ally at best, there are only two possible outcomes to an illness, and people will surprise you.
The sun is a given. Even here in dreary winter, the hope and promise of a new day is merely masked by clouds, a degree of tilt in the earth's axis (it's axle, if you will), or perhaps a deluge of rain or snow. Behind it all, the sun remains a driving force, a promise, and something bright to look forward to in coming months. That it will be there when I need it most is inevitable.
Government services were covered in a previous post, and while my comments were noisy, I find they are not at all unknown to many. Their very nature makes them inevitable. (Notice I'm leaving out 'useless' as well....)
Illness will either be cured, or it will kill you. Never mind remissions and declines and all those degrees of distinction, the outcome is inevitable.
In my case, there is reason to believe (and forgive my pragmatism, but I ain't holding hope until Time, another inevitability come to think of it, proves out.) that I am headed for a remission. We'll have a better idea in two weeks when I have a CAT scan and get the results back. Final determination will be a bone marrow biopsy to be sure, but in the midst of my being cranky with John prior to starting the sixth chemo cycle, I asked him what he expected to find. His very simple response was "That things are returning to normal."
How much or for how long remains a mystery of course. We're dealing with a rather uncooperative form of lymphoma here, but I'll take what I an get, despite vocal evidence to the contrary. :)
If the results are good, The Sixth (note the proper noun status) will be my last cycle, and it will be unlikely that I have to have that fabled bone marrow transplant. (As a note in passing, there is an irony here. Having a bone marrow transplant is an automatic grant of Disability. Give that agency's reluctance to give over, that tells me all I need to know about how hairy that procedure must be. heh)
At any rate, I could do with a last cycle. This one sucks already. Not even one bona fide Happy Day. Mutter.
And finally, one last inevitability.... People will surprise you. I "met" a lovely lady working in another branch of the social services (SSI) who was patient, willing, and did not automatically expect me to start screaming and yelling. The one from Disability could take lessons from her!
She helped me grasp nuances in the system I had missed, specifically in terms of what I was actually paying out and how it should have been classed from the start (my bad) and because of the courtesy of her time, I now have the means to survive until either I can work again, or until I have to have a bone marrow transplant. Laugh.
One way or the other, I'll still be underfoot, writing and causing mischief when I'm not snoring or whining.
It's inevitable. :)
Patric
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Sometimes you just need a little reminder that the world is on track, regardless of the situation. Whether it's coming out of an exam room to find someone waiting for you, patient and constant as always, or in this particular case, seeing reminders that the rest of the world goes on.
I really, really like stuff like this, and especially on days like today. Little gifts from a larger world.
And for those who've read the previous post, do please note that the sun is shining. :)
Patric
Friday, January 15, 2010
Or perhaps that should read "The Price of Gifts" because most of yesterday was surely a gift, at least until I had to take myself to a simple appointment.
Seems my built in chauffeur has a life of his own. Who'd have believed such a thing?
So off I go, and by the time I return, having rested in a few parking lots along the way back, I now have every side effect I usually get over the course of a week, all happening at once. Plus new ones.
WFT?
Details spared, thats pretty much the reason why I disappeared so suddenly today. Apologies, ladies.We were having a good time in Z's group, I think.
It's also why I'm still awake now, even after not having slept for three days, except in fits and starts, until the hiccups kick in again. Mutter.
Yup. A gift and a slap. They seem destined to go together, at least this week.
Laugh. (What else can you do, 'cept laugh?)
Maybe sleep a bit, come to think of it. G'night. :)
Patric
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Just a short note for those who've been asking....
Not such a good day today, unfortunately.
I'll be off line and (hopefully) sleeping until further notice. My apologies for the abrupt fade-to-black.
Patric
Tame Adams (chrysalis)

Silent darkness, stillness, unseen forces


And yet, a silver shard darts forth.


Where it has come from, we know not


To whom it will devote illumination?


I care not.


I watch you, that shard, unfettered by human hands,


condescend and fall upon my meager existence.


My mental anguish, my willful pain


finally illuminated by your brilliance.


And I...I am caught in my own web


Of patent thin veneer and self-deceit


Burning, your fire begins to dart at my heels


Now unshrouded and unfettered---utterly brilliant.


My hands lift, to capture... to feel... to know


That drive, that passion, that breathless descent.


I begin to capture colours, daguerreotypes, images,


My senses desperate to envelope you in.


And then, as if by a whirlwind made flesh & bone,


you were at once torn almost asunder,


left bare, thin.


The vulnerability of your essence,


Dimming that fevered brilliance


I stand there, helpless, needy,


Witless.


As you struggle to maintain that powerful presence,


Suddenly, I understand, while watching,


now hovering...


Your pain, unceasing fire, unquenchable thirst,


that silver brilliance.


Your shard dims to a flicker, but wait!


Fiery splendour meets my eyes as you streak towards the sun.


While those ashes and smoldering embers thicken for a moment,


then die out.


As you fly higher,


More powerful than mere mortals can attest,


A mortal body may fade to a mere twinkle,


and sheer nothingness.


Your soul made limitless by love & steadfastness.


As your call echoes through that nadir,


Lifting and burning brighter than tears or pain.


And at once, all is light, searing,


Breathless I am in wonder...


and then... all is quiet once more,


but forever changed.


And the silver shard, now solid and strong,


ceases tearing its own heart asunder.

Another post from Patric to Ethan Day's Yahoo Group -- Part I
First off, thank you all for your participation. I wish to hell I had the steam to thank you individually, or even be sure I got all the names without forgetting anyone, but my head is deluged with chemicals, which is a piss poor excuse, but a fact nevertheless. :)
I promise I will answer when I can with what I can, but for now a general shout of gratitude will have to serve.
For those who asked, and because I am right pleased with them, here are my copies of the Prostate and Sounding Stories. Funny how they seem to have taken on such mythic proportions. :)
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
Ok....
I just got back from getting some tests done. I look like I was mugged by a pincushion, so I'm in a weird mood.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
The question was: Is all the hoopla about the prostate gland worth the hoopla of finding it, and the short answer was yes.
Here's the long answer: Oh HELL yes!!
Here's why:
To fully understand, you have to have a basic idea of what it FEELS like for a guy to come. Ask your guy friends that question and you'll get as many different answers as stars. I mention this so when I elucidate what I get, you WONT take is as gospel fact and I wont see it in print in a dozen different books, written as though it were fact. In other words, every body is different.
So Sherman.... Set the WayBack Machine to 1969 and we'll visit a little boy earnestly tossing "Paratroopers" into the air, over and over again. He'll experiment with overhand and underhand throws, all the while teaching his arm to throw straighter and straighter, until he reaches the pinnacle of his skill. At that apex, he can toss his tiny plastic paratroopers very nearly vertically.
Now these little toys are nothing more than a chunk of plastic molded to vaguely resemble a human male, with a ring sticking out of his back. Attached to this ring by six flimsy threads is a chunk of plastic about the size of a handkerchief. The idea is to throw them into the air and the plastic unfolds, becoming a little parachute. Pretty simple, and loads of fun when you're a little kid.
But, what you are interested in is the times when the chute doesn't open. See the boy toss the toy. See how it travels at speed which decreases as gravity asserts itself? At the very nadir of its possible upward travel, just before gravity demands its return, the little plastic paratrooper seems to hover in the air for the briefest fraction of a second, right?
That's the part that matters.
Now, watch as he throws again and this time, the chute does open. Our little plastic hero floats safely to the ground.
To recap: There is a point when the toy is thrown where its acceleration is overcome by gravity and it seems to hang in the air. The other point is when the chute opens, and the toy floats back down.
Got that? Good, because now it's time to return to the present, where the boy is all grown up, and he has a real life paratrooper, naked and sweaty, and with a hard-on the size of Florida grunting behind him. (Hey, deal. I write fiction, remember?)
We'll call our grown up boy Tom, and our paratrooper Jones, because its just too creepy to keep using man and boy in sexually explicit sentences. One or the other, but not both.
So here we are, in bed with Tom and Jones, and Jones is pumping his hips like some mindless rutting animal. At this point he pretty much is mindless, because virtually all of his sexual gratification is coming from overstimulation of about 20,000 nerve endings in the uncut portion of his foreskin, (the lucky bastard) plus however many thousand more along the rest of his rather massive dick, augmented by sights and smells and the input (and output in the form of hormones) from that most erotic organ of all, his brain.
(For the sake of Tom's ego, we'll also mention that Tom is as tight as Tupperware down there, and he knows full well how to use what he's got.)
Jones is just on the verge of exploding. He is very much like that little toy being thrown into the air. Everything is rushing to that point when he, and the toy, are on the verge of something great. For the toy, it is a triumphant return to earth after an exhilarating run for the sun, and for Jones, he's about to come a gusher.
In case you missed that overly literary allusion, I'll recap. Jones orgasm builds, higher and higher, until his body's version of gravity brings him back down. His explosion (when he actually comes) is the apex of that arc, and lasts about as long as the little toy hung in the air, then he floats back down to earth. Get it? Lots of build up, big finish, and nothing for 15 to 60 minutes or more, depending on how old Jones is.
Believe it or not, that's the key to why the prostate matters.
Now lets take a peek at Tom, and more importantly, the sheet under him. He's got this puddle going, far more than just precum, because Jones is an attentive paratrooper and he knows just the angle to set himself so that all of his mindless stroking smacks bang into, and over, Tom's prostate, over and over again.
In a word, Tom is being milked like Aunt Sadie's Guernsey cow, and he's loving it.
A properly functioning prostate adds a lot of volume to the fluid portion of his come, and the pleasurable sensation Jones felt was all that fluid moving though all the little tubes and stuff, explosively and all at once.
Tom on the other hand, (or under the other hand as the case may be) is getting much the same sensations, but for a much LONGER period of time, because Jones's Florida sized dick is squeezing a little juice out of Tom's prostate every time it hits Tom's gland. Additionally, since Tom is pretty much bypassing the the usual explosion of jizz and getting milked instead, his brain DOESN'T send the signal to shut down that Jones's brain sent to the rest of Jones's body, and dear Tommy can keep going, and going, and going. And in fact he does, because like I said, he knows how to use what he's got. When he hears Jones's grunts catch in his throat, a few quick strokes of his dick and Tom triggers the same explosion so they come together. (It's the neighborly thing to do, dontcha know.)
But, unlike Jones who had one wave of intense pleasure, Tom has had several, though each was slightly less intense, PLUS he got the usual ultra intense one by jerking himself off. Tom got the best half of that deal, I think. :)
In short (and why I didn't start short I haven't a clue) hitting Tom's prostate pushes a wee bit of the seminal fluid through the tubes which in turn triggers the pleasurable sensation we call an orgasm, and as long as the pipes are flowing, the pleasure continues.
Now, for the sake of argument, some basic facts to lend verisimilitude to stories (and to keep guys like me from snorting when they are reading them when the author gets it wrong.)
Using the butthole as a reference, the prostate is toward the FRONT of the body, not the back. If Tom is flat on his back and Jones is fingering him, Jones's palm is UP and the pad of Jones's finger is hitting it. The gland is between two and three inches in from the opening, which is just around the length of a finger, so the mechanics work great. It's a lump about the size of a walnut, but you'll only feel one side of it. To me I always envision a teeny tiny hill in an otherwise flat field. (I'm very visual)
Jones and his massive dick can hit it if Jones is thoughtful enough to pay attention to his angle. If Tom is flat on his stomach, then Jones positions himself slightly higher so the fulcrum of Toms hole forces the head of Jones's dick DOWN, and hits the prostate. If Tom is on his back with his feet in the air (or wrapped around Jone's waist, then Jones will lift Tom's butt a bit higher so the natural angle of Jone's dick points upward, again hitting the prostate.
If Tom is an aggressive little bottom and is riding Jones, then he can skide himself forward or back until that beast of a dick hits where he wants. The drawback of course is that the beast of a dick is actually TOO big, so Tom has to raise himself high enough that the head of Jones's dick hits in the right place.
Size queens will tell you that size does matter, and they would be correct for the wrong reasons. Anything larger than the average dick takes extra effort to get that head to press against the prostate. An average sized dick will hit it every single time if the angle of entry is good.
(The size queens are more interested in STRETCHING anyway, which is the subject of a completely different essay altogether. :)
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
As I've said in the past, the sun rises. Always a(n) euphemism for looking ahead, things will get better, yadda, and true to form, that solar immensity has done it once again.
Couched behind dismal grey clouds as is typical for this time of year, it is nevertheless still there, still noisy in it's consistency, and still adamant.
Kinda like me. :)
I won't even begin to say last week was easy, or even tolerable, but at the time of this post, it was at least survivable. Moreover, it was something of a kick start, or perhaps it's just the timing since it's this close to the end of all this nonsense.
I commented to a dear friend last night that for the first time in nearly seven months, I was once again thinking on a scope wider than my immediate surroundings; my 'survival' if you will. I'd say that was exciting (it is!) but it's a lot like washing a car around here on a sunny day. As soon as you do, it rains.
The point is, despite all the weirdness, and even the possibility of additional cycles, there is finally a glimmer of light in the darkness.
Now we just wait to see if it's the end of the tunnel or the oncoming train. Laugh!!
Cheers all, and thank you for your patience.
Patric
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Once again, I am remiss in my duties and failed to update this thing in a timely manner.
Feel free to kick my ass.
Since we last met, the government let me down, which was a surprise that shouldnt have been, I learned the medical profession is very much like the U.S. government, in that it's a self serving juggernaut supporting itself at the expense of the people it's supposed to be helping, that good people get caught on both sides of that fence, and that the latest cat scan suggests I get the last two chemo treatments after all.
Whee....
It's like sledding down a hill, knowing there's a lot of big trees at the bottom.
Splat.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Originally, I was going to comment about dreading this next round of chemo. My seventh.
I got sidetracked, I procrastinated, and too soon, time was up.
Certainly chemo isnt fun, and dont look forward to it, but this time I was actively dreading it. Given that I still havent healed from the last cycle, I had good reason, I think. :)
So off I go to get poisoned yet again, thinking along the way that this is nuts! The CAT scan showed that some of the lymph nodes were still enlarged. Okay. I can handle that, but John did say in an earlier phone conversation (Have I mentioned lately I love that guy? He calls, and calls back!) that there was a possibility that the enlargements could be essentially scar tissue.
So I'm thinking if it is, chemo isnt gonna do a damn thing except tear me down further, and if I had thought of it sooner, I'd have suggested doing the marrow biopsy now instead of after the last two treatments. Figured it was too late since I was already at the door, and quite forgot the end of my earlier conversation with John....
Never mind that I was particularly morose that day, having gotten bad news from SSD (Denied, the weebles) but I did tell John I was done with it, that I didnt want to play anymore, and eventually, after John's gentle coaxing, that I'd think about it.
So when he asked me today if we were still going to do the chemo, meaning had I made up my mind, I was startled, because in my head I was only just then thinking about escaping. (Stupid chemo brain) :)
Point is, the guy put up with me, again.
When he came into the little room and sat down, I still had it in my head I'd have to do seven, and maybe escape eight at least, so when he offered to skip both, I sat up straight, and at the risk of sounding like a cliche, the world looked a bit brighter.
Yeah, okay, a helluva LOT brighter. :)
I've been told I'm pessimistic. Perhaps that's true, although I prefer to think of it as pragmatic. The moniker doesnt really matter. What does is that I'm not going to ignore the probabilities as I understand them just to grab at possibilities.
Cant afford it, really. Hope is such a fragile flower, is it not?
So here's the deal in a nutshell: On Thursday, the day after tomorrow, I go in for a bone marrow biopsy. That's the big needle sucking blood out of my hip bone. Yikes! Would have done it today but the practitioner left early, twenty minutes prior when she threw out her back. Double Yikes! (Proof enough when I told John that if there was any way the universe could kick me, it would, and yeah, I was really excited to get the biopsy done ASAP, despite the needle.
So... If the results of that test are clear, it means the lumps are scars and I'm a done deal. I go on what John calls surveillance. Presumably periodic testing to see if the cancer comes back. (Remember that this type has a history of coming back. Please keep that in mind to avoid crushing that fragile flower I mentioned, just in case.) :)
If the results are not clear, then we start proceedings for a marrow transplant (Autologous, not donor) I'm assuming there'll be some sort of recovery period between now and then. It's a hairy assed procedure from what I've read.
Either way, whatever happens next, one thing is crystal clear:
I am DONE with the effing chemo, and right now, with a crash pending (I can feel my arms getting heavy) i still feel like it's a snow day from school and I am high as a kite, sans drugs.
Whoo hoo!
Victor J. Banis
There is this to be said about being old, about living in a nursing home: Every night is the end of a day just like the last. Every morning is the beginning of a day like the one before. Trevor Harding woke up wondering why. Why, he wondered, why bother opening one's eyes, to see exactly what you saw every other time?
In the daytime, what he saw was a room nearly as Spartan as a monk's cell---night table, one hard wooden chair, like something from a turn-of-the-century kitchen, an open door giving a glimpse of a toilet that gurgled endlessly, another door to a corridor wall of bilious green, bare of any decoration. From down to the left, he could sometimes hear the nurses at their station, talking, but they were like voices from out of time. He only saw them passing by, or when they came into his room.
His bed was situated so that he could see out the window, but the view had long since ceased to excite his interest. The lawn, hardly greener than the nurses' corridor, plodded its way down the hillside to the highway, sidling sullenly about a mossy sundial, evading a flagstone walk, pretending not to see a flaming bush of azaleas, and finally coming to a halt at its border of prickly shrubs.
And at night, nothing but the rectangle of light from the corridor, and a smaller, dimmer rectangle that was the window. None of it ever varied, and it was hardly worth opening one's eyes for.
Only when he did, finally, open his eyes, what he saw was different from the ordinary. As a usual thing, the room was empty. It was the middle of the night; he knew that without even bothering to look at his pocket watch. And unless he happened to catch one of the nurses doing her rounds, there was hardly likely to be anyone there.
Even at visiting times, there was no one there. Who would come to see him? He had no relatives anymore---none that counted, anyway. A cousin or three, none of whom were close enough, in any sense, to want to visit him. He was ninety-one. Most of his friends, and there hadn't been many of them for a long time, had already passed on So, it was the occasional nurse, or, more often, an empty room.
Only this time, the room wasn't empty, and it wasn't a nurse on her rounds. When he opened his eyes, he saw a young man seated in the hard wooden chair next to the bed. Seeing Trevor's eyes open, the young man smiled, a warm, friendly smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Harding," he said.
"Is it? Morning?" Trevor glanced toward the window, but it was dark.
"Technically, yes. Not getting up morning, I'm afraid, but morning. It's a bit after four, I would say."
Trevor's pocket watch was on the table by the bed, but he made no effort to reach for it. Four sounded about right. Only...
"Well, what in thunderation are you doing here at four in the morning? And you're not a nurse. At least, you aren't dressed like one."
"That's right. I'm not."
"So...?"
The young man grinned again. "Oh, I sometimes volunteer here, in my off time."
"Not at this hour of the night, you don't."
"No, you're right. It's just...well, I have a night job across town, and I come right past here on my way home, and sometimes I stop by and visit with the patients. The ones who are awake."
"Couldn't be many of them awake, not at this hour. Anyway, I was asleep. You were sitting there in that chair when I woke up."
"That's right. Everybody was asleep. I was about to leave and go home, but when I paused to look in on you, you said something. At first, I thought you were awake, and I came in to see how you were doing, but then I realized you were talking in your sleep, having a dream. A pretty vivid one, it looked like, so I thought probably you'd be waking up in a minute or two. I just sat down to wait."
"Oh." Trevor's mind was still a bit sleep-slow. It took him a minute to think of the obvious question. "What did I say?"
"Just a name."
"What name?" Trevor asked, but already he had his suspicions.
"Jamie."
"Damn," Trevor swore. He struggled to sit up in bed. "You just get straight the hell out of here, what right have you got..." The effort to sit up and his excitement caused a sharp pain to shoot through his left shoulder and across his chest. His angry sputtering deteriorated into a groan, and he sank back down on the pillow.
The young man jumped up, his face etched with concern. "Mr. Harding, don't get yourself all het up," he said. He came to the side of the bed. "Here, have a sip of water. I didn't mean to upset you."
All het up? What an old-fashioned thing to say. Trevor had said it himself in the past, probably a lot, but that was a long time ago. Nobody said it these days. He took the glass that was offered and managed a long swallow of lukewarm water, and dropped his head again to the pillow. His visitor dipped a white handkerchief into the glass and wiped Trevor's brow with it.
"Feel better?"
Trevor let his breath out in a long sigh that rattled in his throat.
"I'm sorry. It just caught me off guard, your saying his name like that. You'll have to forgive me. I'm just a crabby old coot. Everybody here knows that."
"You're not a coot, Mr. Harding, and there's nothing to forgive. Would you like for me to go now?"
Trevor rolled his eyes around and looked into the young man's face. He really did look contrite. "No," he said wearily. "That's okay. I'm glad for the company. Even if it is a weird time for it."
"Do you wake up a lot like this? I mean, in the wee hours?"
"Too often. I guess I could ring for the nurse, get something to help me sleep. But at my age, you take a lot of pills. I'd just as leave not take any more than I need to. Usually, I lay in the dark and...say, the light's on."
"I turned it on when I came in. I can turn it off if it bothers you."
"No, no, that's okay. I'm just surprised it hasn't brought the night nurse in."
"She's clear down to the other end of the ward. There was a problem with another patient. Mr. Barnes."
"Barney? He's been kind of touch and go lately. He didn't...?" But he didn't like to say it. It seemed too much like courting trouble to mention death aloud. One of the superstitions that came with being ninety-one.
"No, not the last I saw. But he was having some trouble breathing."
"Oh. Well...that kind of goes with the territory, I guess." As if to demonstrate, he turned his head and coughed, a hacking, phlegmy cough.
There was a moment of silence. It was usually quiet in the middle of the night like this, but tonight, the quiet seemed particularly dense, as if the room, the entire home, was holding its breath. He listened keenly, but there was nothing. Just his own labored breathing, and a swish of starched sheets when he moved his leg.
"Mr. Harding...?"
Trevor had been focusing so intently on the silence, he had all but forgotten him. The visitor might not have been there. Trevor started a little when he heard the voice.
"What?" he asked, more sharply than he'd intended. He felt all disoriented, like his skin didn't quite fit him anymore. Like he didn't fit him anymore, whatever that meant.
"Would you like to tell me about Jamie? What happened to him?"
Trevor snapped his head around, glowering. "What makes you put it like that? 'What happened to him?' What makes you so sure anything happened?"
"The way you said it. When you were asleep. It was almost as if you were crying."
Trevor looked away from him, into the shadows in the corner of the room, as if he might see Jamie there. He couldn't, of course. Not unless he was a ghost. A very old ghost.
"He was my son," he said, and his voice broke on the last word.
"And you lost him?" It was a statement more than a question.
Trevor's eyes sparked angrily. "No, damn it, I didn't lose him. I killed him."
"Oh." The young man looked contrite again. Trevor tried to say something more, but he couldn't. He squeezed his eyes shut. That didn't help either. He saw an image of Jamie on the insides of his eyelids---the way he'd last seen him. He had been laughing. Looking back from the distance, Trevor thought, as he had thought many times over the years, that he should have known something was amiss, that it wasn't Jamie's ordinary fifteen-year-old laughter. That should have told him...
After a long silence, the young man said, "Would you like to talk about it?"
"No," and then, quickly, "yes, hell yes. It's been so many years. You'd think the poison would drain away, but it never has. It's still as bad as it ever was."
"I don't believe you really killed him, not literally, anyhow---did you?" A soft, ready-to-forgive voice.
"I didn't pull the trigger, you mean? I might as well have. If I'd paid him any attention, if I'd been the kind of father he needed..." His voice broke.
"Jamie shot himself?"
Trevor couldn't trust his voice just yet and only nodded.
"Do you know why? Did he leave a note?"
"He didn't leave a note, no." He opened his eyes and looked directly into the ones regarding him so solemnly. "But I know why. He was gay. Some kids had been bullying him after school. Every day, it seemed like. He didn't tell me, but I knew. I'd see him come in, all scruffed up---one time his lip was bleeding---and his clothes would be dirty and torn, and he'd dash to his room. I'd hear him crying in there, but I didn't go in. He was in there with his heart breaking, and I didn't go to him. That's what I mean when I said I might as well have pulled the trigger. If I had gone to him..."
"You couldn't have known."
"I knew, damn it. I knew enough. I knew my son was gay. We said 'queer' in those days. I said it too, same as those bullies. And I was too chicken to face it. You want to know the truth, I was embarrassed about it. I was ashamed. I didn't want my son to be queer."
"Fathers generally don't."
"But I didn't want him dead, either. I loved that boy. If I'd just told him that, maybe it would have chased the demons away."
"I'm thinking that he knew. That you loved him."
"I wish I could believe that."
"Kids live in a kid's world, you know. It's the worst possible time to discover that you're different, when more than anything else, more than at any other time in your life, you want to fit in. Gay teenagers kill themselves at an alarming rate."
"It's better now, though. So they tell me."
"Not so much, not so much as you'd like to think. There's been something of an epidemic of late---kids hanging themselves, kids jumping off bridges, kids shooting themselves. The lost ones. I don't think all of them were unloved by their parents. Has to do with their own private world, one they often don't even want to share with a mother or father. I'd venture to say, even if you had tried to talk to Jamie about it, he wouldn't have wanted to discuss it with you."
"What makes you think that?"
"Well, think about it. You said you were embarrassed. Don't you think maybe he was too? Fathers don't want their sons to be gay, but the sons don't want to be gay either. Especially, they don't want to be gay to their parents."
They were silent for a long time. Trevor was remembering---the way he had been remembering since the day decades before, when he'd heard that gunshot, and in his heart, he had known the instant he heard it exactly what it meant.
"Could I have another drink of water?" he asked aloud. His visitor helped him to sit up, and held the glass for him again. Trevor drank, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and remained sitting. "Thank you."
"You've devoted a lot of your life since then to young people," the young man said.
"How do you know that?"
"Oh, people know. I've always known. All that time and energy and money that you poured into helping the young. Since then. Since Jamie. That counts, you know."
"It didn't change anything. It didn't undo what happened to Jamie."
"I'll bet it changed things for a lot of other youngsters, though. I think Jamie would be glad to know that."
"Yes, I think he would," Trevor agreed thoughtfully. He gave a little bark of a laugh and shook his head. "He was something, my Jamie, a genuine pistol. From the time he was a tadpole. One time his aunt, my sister, she was visiting, and her own oldest was just a baby, and she took him into the bedroom to nurse him, thinking it might not be appropriate to do it around the family, only, Jamie walked in on her, and he asked her what she was doing, and she told him she was feeding the baby. And that boy, he wasn't but about four at the time, he threw up his hands and he said..."
"'That's not the way my mom does it,'" The young man in the chair finished for him, laughing too.
Trevor's breath caught in his throat. "How'd you know that?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"Oh---maybe I've heard that story already."
"You've been here before?"
"Lots of times. Sometimes you were asleep, you didn't even see me, but I was here."
Trevor blinked and shook his head. "I don't remember," he said. "I...I'm all befuddled. I can't seem to think straight."
"You're just tired. You need to go back to sleep. And I need to let you be."
He plumped up Trevor's pillow for him, and to Trevor's surprise, leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on his brow. "It's time, you know."
Trevor closed his eyes, but they flew open a moment later. "Time for what?"
"Time to let go. Of all of it. The guilt, the pain, the shame. All these years, you've been blaming yourself for Jamie's death, but I'd bet anything if you could ask him right now, Jamie wouldn't blame you."
"You really think he wouldn't?"
"I'm sure of it. And I don't think you should, either."
Oddly, Trevor found that he did feel better for hearing that said. He closed his eyes again, and when he opened them a moment later, there was no one there. The light was off. The room wasn't dark, though. Was it dawn already? It seemed too early, but the window had begun to glow the way it did with the approach of morning. The room was almost as light as it had been before.
He sighed, sorry now that the young man had gone. He tried to remember if they really had talked before. What had he said?---that he'd been here lots of times. He had looked vaguely familiar, too. Trevor tried to catch hold of a thought that slid through his mind, but it slipped past his fingers. Things, thoughts, images, slipping, slipping...spinning and slipping.
"Busy night?" The morning nurse, Jean Riker, was preparing to take over for her shift.
"Mr. Harding passed," Ellen Avery said. "Just a little while ago."
"I'm not surprised. He's been getting frailer by the day."
"Funny thing," Ellen said, "I went by his room about four in the morning---Barnes had an episode and I was in his room, and when I came back along the hall, I heard Mr. Harding talking. I thought maybe he had a visitor, only I couldn't imagine who would be there at that hour. So I stuck my head in, but no, he was alone, just lying in bed with his eyes closed, talking to himself, like he was having a serious conversation with somebody."
"Hmm---dreaming, probably."
"I guess. Anyway, I came back by a few minutes later, just to see if he was okay, and he had already passed."
"Should we notify family?"
"There isn't any. He talked a lot about a son, but his records don't indicate any survivors. But you know what's funny? You know how crabby he was most of the time. When I found him, he was smiling. He looked so at ease. Like a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders."
"Ninety-one," Jean said. "I suppose that is a burden."
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Somewhere, packed away in a box, and drawn in a book, there is an image I sketched when I wore much younger clothes. It depicts a guy standing in front of a large stone face, and at the time I drew it, I was thinking about escaping the regard of people without compassion.
I've been thinking about that picture for the last couple of days since I had the bone marrow biopsy.
Okay, I admit, I made a rather large mistake. I committed the cardinal sin of being happy and excited when I went in for the test. Never mind that it was apparently a bad day at the office.
The phlebotimist was grouchy enough that I asked her point blank when I sat down if she was gonna take it out on me. Reasonable question, given that she had the needle in her hand to draw blood, and justified when I had to remove the wrap she put on to hold the cotton ball in place because the circulation was cut off. (She is always smooth with the stab though, and I rarely feel it.)
Her bad mood should have been a warning and I missed it in favor of trying to make her smile. Granted, we never seem to connect, but still, it's always worth a try. Especially after I watched her be curt and abrupt with the old lady ahead of me.
Alas, she wasnt having any of my dull wit or dubious charm and I gave up, not quite slinking away, but almost.
A few minutes later, I was called in to the next stage, the "bare your butt and lay down" stage.
Christine, a sweetie, leads me into the little room and tells me to unbutton my pants and lay down on my stomach.
"What? Whoa. Hold the phone. I have to be on my stomach?"
"Well, yeah. Is that a problem?" (Ah, the innocence of youthful flexibility.)
"Jeez, yeah. My back is trashed. I can't lay on my stomach. Especially not arched like that. Can we lose the pillow at least?"
We could, and did, and ended up putting it under my stomach. I was thinking I'd be on my side, like a spinal tap. Dopey me, it never occurred to me to see if YouTube had any vids of a bone marrow biopsy so I could know what to expect..
I spent a couple of minutes trying to figure out how I was was going to aim my phone at my butt while flat on my face, and I finally asked another assistant if she could shoot video.
"No. I have to do my job." The negation was delivered in a way which I perceived as a suggestion that I was an idiot for wanting to shoot video in the first place, and that I was twice an idiot for daring to suggest she stoop that low.
"Okay. I was just asking."
"I have to move fast and get the samples prepped before it coagulates."
Ah. Okay. Makes sense. "Well, okay. Can you at least look at the screen and tell me if I have it aimed in the right direction?"
"No! You can't move during the procedure." I swear, the woman sounded horrified. "And you cant lay like that anyway. You have to be flat."
Christine was off hunting for the practitioner who'll do the work, and she returns with Jeff.
"Hi. My name is Jeff, and I'll be taking your sample today."
"I know you. You do chemo but you've never had me."
"No, I never have, but I remember you though."
Heh. I'm sure he does. I dont exactly float meek and mild through that place, after all.
Jeff sets about covering my butt with assorted paper and drapes and such, and I look over my shoulder. I spot a dark haired woman out of the corner of my eye, and I wonder who in the hell is so rude as to stand there staring at my butt and not have the courtesy to introduce herself. That happens to be a pet peeve of mine, by the way.
So, already I'm losing my happy mood in the face of all the 'Nos' I'd gotten (Justified or otherwise, it was the delivery that pissed me off) so I held the phone out to the dark haired woman.
"Maybe she'll shoot the video for me?"
"I am not going to videotape you." The statement was delivered in no uncertain terms.
Okay... So much for any vestige of happy. It just collapsed in the swell of rising anger.
I set the phone to record audio (Yes you cranky old bat, I have you on audio) and set it face down on the table beside me. Jeff is busy poking and prodding, presumably looking for the edges of the bone he is about to stab. He's chattering away, telling me what he's gonna be doing, etc. I said something about wanting the needle. In my head, I'm wanting to see what it looks like, because I dont have ANY patience with nurses and doctors who try to hide their tools from me. I am not a four year old child, and I dont give a good god damn about what they are used to dealing with.
I have yet to play the recording back to see what I said exactly, but the response I got back, from the first cranky old bat, was "You cant have it."
"Why not?"
"It's a biohazard. It's against the law."
"No no, not THE needle, A needle. I just want to see what it looks like. Gods!"
"Well, we can show you that."
"Thank you!"
Somewhere at this point, Jeff asks how I'm doing and I reply with my usual candor. "I'm pissed and getting madder by the second."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"Never mind!" Which I realize is not a response that will help the situation, so I clarify. "I'm getting fucking tired of being told no for everything I ask about, that's why." Rational or not (and I suspect the latter) there are a multitude of ways to say no; some more tolerable than others.
Mind you, half of this battle is based on my ignorance. I should have researched how the procedure was performed, what tools they would use, etc. and I didn't. Of course, it could be argued that I SHOULDN'T have to research ahead of time, that they'd explain and show me, but I understand that most people would balk at the size of the tool, or the idea itself if they gave out too many specifics.
I sure as hell dont LIKE it, but I get it. The juggernaut simply has no concept of someone like me who isnt afraid, and ironically enough, once I got pissed and started swearing, THEY were on familiar territory and they (Jeff not included here) became more responsive. Jeff was responsive from the start.
Jeff did his thing, and I suspect I startled him somewhat by the questions I asked. Or maybe not. I truly did want to know if he was using lidocaine or marcaine. After that whole dentist bit and my reaction to marcaine, it was a valid question.
I must admit, I sort of had the idea that he was being coached by that dark haired woman, who must have been the "Dianne" who put her back out and left early two days ago. Doesnt matter to me if he's new. Everybody learns sometime. But he carried himself confidently, telling me when he was poking through the bone to numb the inner lining, when he was drilling, etc. The only real sketch came when he said "You're going to feel a zing when I draw out the liquid."
Yikes! As soon as he pulled on the plunger (and remember, I am still visualizing the whole apparatus as a large bore needle hanging out of a large bore syringe since none of them would show it to me) I felt a jolt shoot down my butt toward my leg. I jumped and dang near tore off part of the cowling covering the articulated part of the bed. The part I had my fingers curled under dealing with the way my back was already screaming from being on my stomach.
"What the hell was that?" I asked, and realized I already knew the answer. Obviously there is a change in volumetric pressure if they are taking material out of a closed system. Something has to give somewhere.
"That's from the change in pressure, right?"
"Yes, exactly," Jeff says. "Get ready. I've got to get a little bit more."
Cranky Bat number one says something about taking deep breaths but I ignore her. I know far better how to handle my own pain than she ever will.
"Okay," I say to Jeff, and start laughing. Some people do that, according to a chiropractor I had once. They laugh in anticipation of getting their neck cracked, and I'm one of those. So I'm trying to hold still, laughing myself silly, and Bam! Another jolt, though nowhere near as intense because its no longer a surprise.
The rest of the procedure is uneventful, with Jeff telling me he has to go for the spongy part next, and I'm still chuckling off and on while he grinds and digs. Doesn't exactly hurt, but I was fascinated by how I could feel the vibrations along my spine. Yes, that stuff really does fascinate me. Call me odd.
They discuss whether or not they got enough to do whatever. I heard something about a slide, so I figured that meant like those old glass microscope slides or whatever the contemporary version was, and at the end, as Bat one and Bat two scurry off with pieces of me, the dark haired one calls out "You can show him that part."
"Oh, I have been granted a boon! Thank you!" and childish as it was, MY delivery left no doubt of the level of sarcasm.
Patient, considerate Jeff had me turn over after he taped me shut "To put pressure on the bandage." and I struggled to get turned around. My back was aching and wouldn't cooperate, but when I finally did get flipped over, Jeff started showing me his tools.
"Wait, wait. Start over." as I scramble to kick the phone out of audio record mode and shift to video. Bless his heart if he didnt start over, showed me how the auger thing works, and what all he did. Finally getting what I wanted from the start, I chill, and I have no doubt HE breathed a sigh of relief too.
The rest is just noise, but the point of all this remains. The medical system is a juggernaut, feeding itself by feeding on the people it's supposed to be helping. As I patient, I am required to act a certain way. to be frightened and in need of comfort, or angry and belligerent, or at the very least, cowed and unresponsive. I am not allowed to be curious, inquisitive, and worst of all, cheerful. So very few of the people in that profession can change gears and deal with me. That's been proven over and over, ad nauseum.
And while I may not be able to stop the juggernaut and make it acknowledge the fact that I am a real live person, I will, to the best of my ability, be a very large bump in the road so when the damn system runs me over, somebody will notice the jolt.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Showdown at the Oh Well Corral
I learned a new phrase. Or rather, I re-remembered an old one:
Without preamble.
Generally speaking, it mean dispensing with all the usual chatter about forgetting to update, being remiss, etc. Face it folks, if we don't already know I have the brains of a neutered jelly fish by now, my constant reminders ain't gonna help. :)
So, without preamble, the bone marrow biopsy test was negative.
As with everything else involved during this fun and frolic called "fighting cancer" I got a grand opportunity for more rough and tumble learning about a little thing I like to call "learned complacency."
Okay, let's see a show of hands. How many people read "the bone marrow biopsy test was negative." and felt a sharp stab of relief? Be honest now, because this will be part of the final exam.
Of the several people I told locally, (friends and family) every single one breathed a sigh of relief. I'm willing to bet everyone reading this blog for a specific reason did too.
Know why? Because we learned practically since birth, either by direct experience, or by interpretation as small children, or by indirect experience as we grew older, that medical tests were either positive or negative, with very few shades of gray.
You either have it or you don't. The procedure was successful or it wasn't. (Keep in mind here that I am making a very broad statement for a very specific reason.)
Doc called me today to deliver the results of my marrow biopsy and told me the results were negative. If I hadn't experienced all that I have thus far, I would have breathed a sigh of relief, just like you did. Guaranteed, because I learned the same way most of you did what a negative results means; by observing others, like parents, friends, and worst of all, watching TV.
In a show like ER for example, tension builds as the problem manifests, dedicated personnel scramble to solve a problem, find a cure, and test for efficacy. The test come back negative ("Your lungs are clean, Mr. Fribblehoff!") and the end credits roll. (Again, a broad statement.)
What you don't see is that yes, the test results show no sign of whatever ailed poor Mr. Fribblehoff, but only because the test could detect to a certain point.
Remember the old days of HIV testing? Comprehensive, detailed tests of drawn blood that took weeks of careful and considered examination by several specialists? Now-a-days, a swipe with a cotton swab on the inside of your mouth is all that's needed, because the tests improved over time, became more sensitive to the disease, and could show more. A million cells rather than the hundred million previously needed to prove or disprove the presence of the disease.
(Dont take that as fact. I have only the barest clue what they search for. Once again, a broad statement.)
Ditto the bone marrow biopsy test. Some poor schmuck gets to glue his or her eyeballs to a microscope all day and look for anomalies in slide after slide. Again, I don't know what they actively search for, but it can be presumed that cancer cells are readily identifiable, like picking a familiar face out of a crowd of strangers. Certain stains are used to make the ID more accurate. Certain stains that mark certain cells, or characteristics of cells. Shapes are taken into consideration, if I recall correctly, as well as sizes. I read about this way back in August, when all this mess started, and of course I didnt bother to note citations. Idiot me.
Point is, lets say a certain stain, designed to mark a full blown, ready to divide cancer cell, is used. The tech, (his official generic title is a hematopathologist, but we'll call him tech and respect his dedication regardless) peers through the microscope and sees nothing stained. No familiar face in the crowd. He signs off on the slide, and four days later, Doc tells me the test was negative.
Yay, right?
Nope. I know better. I understand the theory and practice behind these tests because I needed to learn about them. Just enough to be dangerous, an experienced tech might say. Enough so that exasperated, well meaning friends and family might call me a pessimist. (You know who you are. Dont deny it.) :)
What happens if the stain does NOT show a freshly divided cell because it hasnt yet grown certain characteristics the stain would show?
So when Doc delivered the news, I swear I could hear him hope that I'd be pleased, but deep down inside he already knew I wouldnt be. Or maybe that was just my imagination. I am paid to be imaginative, after all. :)
"I know that's not really the news you wanted to hear," he says.
"No, not really." I reply, hating myself for disappointing the guy. Seriously.
Now wait... Before you go wondering why I'd want a positive result, let me explain...
I want the transplant. Seriously want it, despite the known risks and the odds of success. In the short term, it's an automatic grant of disability, according to the woman who (already) made the decision against. (That alone would tell me just how hairy the procedure is, even if I hadn't researched "autologous transplants." Gah)
And yes, that grant would solve certain problems that weigh rather heavily on me, but I have a sneaky suspicion the government will have still more of "their rules" to hinder the process as long as possible. Long enough that whatever benefit I might get wont be immediate, or soon enough.
In that context, I probably am a pessimist.
Bless his heart, Doc thought that was why I was disappointed. Earlier, we had discussed... Okay, he listened patiently and I ranted... about the necessity, my getting depressed, my overblown sense of integrity, whatever.
"No Doc. That's only secondary. The main reason I wanted the test to be positive is because I can't think of any other way to convince you guys to do the transplant. I flat dont want to wait six months to see if this shit come back, finally start to feel like myself, and then turn around and do this crap all over again."
Once again, the poor man has to listen to me rant, or ramble. He has the patience of a saint, and I am a self proclaimed ass for abusing him.
There are several facts I considered before coming to terms with the transplant. Not the least of which are these:

1. There is a high rate of re-occurrence for my type of lymphoma. On the order of 65 to 70%


2. My body is breaking down as a result of the chemotherapy. meaning I dont recover to 100% between cycles, and if you will recall, that was one of the deciding factors in not doing the last two cycles.


3. A transplant is the last step, the last option available, to combat the disease.


4. I don't want to spend the last portion of my life (or a significant portion of that portion) feeling like crap.


5. I am tired of fighting a system I no longer believe in.


6. It's been a month since my last chemo and I feel "worse."


7. My flavor of lymphoma is rare enough that there is very little proven fact about how to treat it. By and large, it's being handled by averages, meaning "This is what we usually do for T-cell lymphoma."


8. I learned ages ago that averages dont often apply to me, meaning I cant help wonder if something is getting missed simply because "it's not usually done." Call that 'clutching at straws' if you want, but remember the last scan showed lumps of some kind present, although significantly reduced, and with the possibility of being only scar tissue.


9. There are several physical manifestations that tell me something is still wrong. (and of course, I may well only be seeing the worst of a situation that might otherwise resolve itself later)


10. The way I see it, a transplant is analogous to wiping the hard drive, reinstalling the OS, and starting over.


11. Summer is coming, and if it is to be my last, I want to be out in it. Not watching it pass by my window.

So, the way I see it, I have basically two options. I can take the defensive approach and accept the negative test results, start feeling better and better as the effects of chemo finally wear off (irrespective of #6 above) and just about the time I am me again, find out the shit came back.
Or...
I can go on the offensive, do the transplant while I am still physically strong enough to survive it, take the last shot, and accept whatever comes after. I will feel better, eventually. For how long depends on the odds.
I decided on the latter. Like playing Blackjack in Vegas, I want to play one more card.
The problem is, I'm in a casino where the House decides if I can have that last card or not.
Doc already said he talked with the specialists (prior to the CAT scan and biopsy) and they recommended not doing the transplant. Generally speaking, there was no significant proof it helped or harmed the odds of success.
Okay... That's foremost in my mind while I ramble on, telling him why I wanted positive results. I figured the continued presence of cancer was the only way I could get the House to give me my last card.
Once again, I didn't count the ace up my sleeve; Doc.
Stupid, stupid, stupid me.
"Well, I've got about twenty minutes before my next patient. How about if I give the specialists a call and present them with your case, and the results of the recent tests?"
ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshithopehopehopehopehope
"Sure. That'd work."
(That is obviously a heavily paraphrased, oversimplified account of the conversation. In point of fact, Doc did what he always did, listened to me rant, managed to find some kind of merit amidst the effluvium of my babbling, and acted on it. Gods, I love this guy.)
A few hours later his assistant calls me back, and (without preamble) says she is calling on Doc's behalf, that the specialists will "see the patient" and that she's started the formidable process of filling out paperwork, faxing referrals, and scheduling the requisite PET/CT scan. Trina and I barely get along, and we probably wont see any improvement on that score, but I do have faith in her ability to navigate the unbelievably complex system, and I start getting excited. Bonking my head on the ceiling, as it were.
I suppose, despite or because of the excitement, I am something of a pessimist after all. I wont really believe they'll do the transplant until I have the port installed. For now though, I am just as excited by the prospect as I was when my first story was published. If you need to talk to me, chances are high I'm still floating around somewhere near the ceiling. :)
Hopefully, you folks who are reading this because you were puzzled by why I was not thrilled with a negative test result, now have a better understanding of how, sometimes, good news isnt as good as it might sound on the surface.
In that light, I know my "learned complacency" is gone forever. Thank the gods.
I wonder what else I might take for granted that will one day bite me in the ass.
I hope I live long enough to find out. :)
Hugs y'all!
Patric
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's time to re-group, re-evaluate, and recenter myself.
That's best done when no one is around to get caught in the fall out.
I'll be back later. :)
Patric
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Yikes! So many changes since October. And I've been a total slouch at keeping tabs on them all.
Despite a couple of potholes in the road of Life, (Did you see Nascar lately?) The Santa Mug was released by Dreamspinner Press in December to good reviews, Jessewave set up an interview, (Wave is such a riot!) and Dreamspinner also accepted A Voice in the Darkness as part of their A Brush of Wings anthology. It will be released in March.
Alas, some things haven't changed much. Most notably updating my website. I'd love to say something encouraging like "I'll be updating it regularly." but let's face it. I'd rather be writing. :)
And to that end, keep an eye out for further mention of Requiem, a werewolf story with a twist, as well as a submission for Dreamspinner's June Daily Dose, and a couple of as yet untitled works in progress; one is Contemporary and for a change of pace, the other is a Sci-Fi about cloning. When I get the website updated (ahem) you'll find more details on the Boys page.
So, a bit of a bumpy road getting caught up again, but in looking on, things are also looking up.
Cheers!
Brian Holliday
"I know," I said, "but... mushrooms?"
"Just one mushroom, at the moment," Paul said, lugging his largest camera and smallest tripod out the back door. "Haven't you seen it, down by the wall? It's perfect."
There was always a damp spot out there, under the pines. I followed Paul, even volunteering to carry his equipment case and an old tarp he wanted. Sure enough, there was a little hollow where several volunteer fungi had grown. They were classics, nice thin stems with rounded caps in shades of brown and tan. The largest, the one with the fully opened cap, was about three inches high.
"What kind are they?" I asked, just for something to say.
"No idea," Paul said distractedly.
"But what if they're poisonous?"
He looked over and shook his head, giving me one of his patented You're an idiot, but I love you anyway smiles. "I don't plan to eat the thing, just photograph it."
Paul spread the tarp as close as possible to the mushrooms, without encroaching on the space he'd need for background and foreground in the image. Then he knelt, spread the tripod's legs, and found a fairly level spot for it before attaching the camera.
I looked up. The sun was still overhead but cast few hard shadows, the light filtered by branches and shrubs. "Need anything else?" I asked, not particularly anxious to go back to my own project.
Paul hummed to himself, bending to peer into the viewfinder. "What?"
"Nothing," I said, "I'll leave you to it."
But instead, I dragged over one of our lawn chairs and made myself comfortable. I loved watching Paul at any time, but he was particularly intriguing hunkered down on all fours, buns in the air as he checked the view through the lens of the camera. Oblivious to my presence, he turned and sat tailor fashion while he changed lenses, then reset the camera and tripod, and at last snapped a few frames.
These days, Paul wasn't a professional photographer, but like everything else he'd done in his many and varied careers, he gave every project his best. When I saw him reach for the reflective umbrellas he used to improve the lighting, I knew we were in for a long session. I hoped the mushrooms were up to it.
After a while, the sun was more than I needed without a hat, which would entail a trip into the house, so when I went in, I stayed. With Paul busy in the backyard, the least I could do was put in a little work myself.
It was probably an hour later when Paul came in for water and a bathroom break. "How's it going?" he said brightly.
"I'm going to sue," I said, irritation leaking into my voice.
"Yeah? What did I do now?" He grinned.
"Not you," I said, throwing my well-used eraser in his direction. "It's the maker of this dinnerware." I held up the saucer I'd been tracing around. It was just the right size for the circle I needed.
Paul raised his eyebrows.
"Look." I held up a half-dozen crumpled sheets of paper. When Paul just looked at me, I did my best to flatten one out and pointed. "You see, it's not a perfect circle. I've tried three different saucers, and none of them is perfectly round. Saucers should be perfectly round; everyone knows that. It's false advertising, I tell you!"
Paul put one hand over his mouth, but his eyes were dancing. I'll never know why my crises are always so funny to him.
"Why don't you generate a circle on the computer?" he asked, after I'd re-crumpled the offending sheet and gone to fetch yet another saucer and sharpen my pencil.
"Because I want it right here." I pointed to the logo already complete on the page, a lovely drawing of a tiger, if I do say so myself, which only needed the perfect circle to leap out of, one paw and both ears outside it, to be ready for color.
Paul placed an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. "Nice! Why don't you just scan the whole thing into the computer, and then you can easily add the circle? Problem solved."
I crossed my arms over my chest. That was easy for him to say. Paul had always been much more tech savvy than I was. Truth was, I just didn't trust computers. "It's not the same," I grumped.
"Well, go on then," he said, philosophically. He held up the last saucer I'd brought back, studying it against the light. "I'm sure this one is perfectly round."
Well, it wasn't, of course. But it did seem to be good enough...barely. Stretching, I went to the door and looked out toward the pines, but Paul had obviously slipped by me while I labored, and I found him in the office, one of his fungus photos on the computer screen.
"What do you think?"
It was a great pic, and I told him so. There was nothing center stage but the little mushroom, well displayed down to its last pore, or gill, or whatever, and cozily surrounded by artful bits of fern and flower. "Now what?" I asked.
"Now I get Eric over here to model for the elf who's going to be sitting on it," he said, continuing to compulsively tweak the photo here and there.
"Leave it," I said. "It's already perfect."
He turned to look at me over one shoulder. "Nothing is ever absolutely perfect," he said, seriously. Thinking of my struggle with the tiger drawing, I had to agree.
"Hey, why wait for Eric?" I said, trying to lighten the mood. Paul's nephew was in college, a couple hundred miles away, and wouldn't be in town until spring break, which was more than a week away. "I'd be glad to model for you." I struck my very best elf-sitting-on-mushroom pose---or was it just a fairy?
Paul laughed and pulled me into his lap, causing the chair to creak alarmingly. "This photo is meant to show early spring," he said, nibbling on my ear, "not late fall."
I did my best to smack him, but that worked about as well as it usually did, and before I knew it, he had me laughing along with him. All the kissing and the fact that he had one hand down the back of my pants may have had something to do with it. "I'll show you who's late to fall," I growled.
"Hey," he said, "I thought it was your turn to make dinner. A man needs food to keep up his strength!"
"Well," I said, standing and pulling him up next to me, "maybe I can arrange a high-protein appetizer to tide you over."
Needless to say, dinner was late that night.
Afterwards, we chose to sit on the porch swing, listening to the chirp of crickets and the sleepy night songs of birds, occasionally waving away an early mosquito. I was still feeling a bit of frustration over my drawing, but Paul's earlier comments had inspired in me a more philosophical turn of mind as well.
"Why do you suppose we can imagine perfection, but not achieve it?"
He smiled at me, then looked up over the trees where the first quarter moon was rising. "Because it exists, somewhere, and down inside ourselves, we know it. Perhaps not in this world, but somewhere..."
"Why not here?" I asked, caught by the pleasant vision of a perfect world.
"I don't know. Maybe if we did achieve the perfection we see in our minds, we'd become lazy, complacent...stop trying. And I think this world is all about trying."
I nodded, reminded, as I often was, of the physical imperfections that had been a part of my life from early adolescence. I wanted so much to be like everyone else, had spent so many years crying in secret, cursing the god my parents said loved his children and only punished those who were bad. What sins, I had asked myself, could I have committed to deserve this punishment---and, worse yet, the pitying looks I often received from friends and perfect strangers alike?
As though reading my mind, Paul reached under my shirt and stroked a hand over the scars on my back. A cascade of pleasant shivers followed his gentle touch.
Paul saw everything with the eye of an artist, but he never saw my body as anything but perfect. Or perhaps he turned on me that inner vision of perfection he spoke of, and saw me not as I was on the outside, but as the person I wished to be. Maybe, one day, if I kept listening to Paul, I'd learn not to turn away from the reflection I saw in the mirror.
Suddenly, he laughed. "Maybe, when people talk about heaven, they're remembering another life, one where that elusive perfection was not only imaginable, but achievable."
"Another life?" I asked, intrigued. "Do you really believe in such things?"
"Maybe. Why shouldn't heaven be where we came from as well as where we might go?"
"As little cherubs with wings?" I fluttered a hand in my fairy imitation.
Paul poked me in my ticklish spot. "No, idiot. Maybe there we'd be perfect too, not needing a physical body, able to create with nothing but thought, swimming in rivers of light and energy."
I sighed. I could almost share that lovely vision. "Then why would we ever leave it? Why come to Earth?"
"I don't know. Maybe because here, there are challenges." He sat quietly for a while and then asked: "Ever play tic-tac-toe?"
"Sure, when I was a kid. Didn't everybody?" I was puzzled by the non sequitur.
"Want to play it now? Would it be a fun way to spend a few hours?"
"God, no." I said. "Tic-tac-toe is boring."
"Oh? Why is that?" Paul sat up, smiling into my face.
I rolled my eyes. "Because once you figure it out, it's the same outcome every time. You know that as well as I do."
"Exactly!" He was delighted.
I wasn't. "So?"
"So, instead of the perfectly boring game of tic-tac-toe, we play a more complex game, one with enough possibilities that it's impossible to figure everything out ahead of time---such a complex and involved game that sometimes, you might forget it's a game at all."
"The game of life," I said slowly.
"Maybe. Yes, I think so."
"And after we finish this particular game, win or lose, we go back to the perfect place?"
"Could be."
I moved a little, easing the strain on my back. Right now, a perfect world sounded pretty good. "I still don't see why we would ever come back here."
"Maybe we come here to grow. No one grows in their comfort zone. Only when things get tough do we make an effort to learn something, to change ourselves. I don't suppose we have to come back."
I stroked a hand over Paul's cheek. "I guess I've learned there are a few good things in this world."
He turned his head to kiss my palm. "Indeed there are."
"If you're right, and we do go somewhere after this, maybe to that 'perfect' place, do you think you'd ever choose to come back here again?"
"I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "Are you planning to be here?"
I grinned. "I will if you will."
He grasped my hand, his smile traveling up until it lit his eyes from the inside. "It's a pact, then."
After a while, we went inside, still holding hands like children, undressed, and climbed into our bed. As often happened, Paul fell asleep first, his head on my shoulder, one arm across my chest. I lay quietly, listening to the soft sound of his breathing, and thought about perfection, and how precious it is when you find it.
Wherever Paul was, that was and always would be my perfect world.
Friday, February 19, 2010
So...
I had a PET/CT scan yesterday. It's a pre-cursor to the consultation with the transplant guy in March, and I had no clue in the world what it was.
After substantial digging, I now know how a PET scan works. Of course I'd be interested in liberated positrons traveling at near 180 degrees away from each other. I am so odd. :)
I also found out the CT part of the name is a plain old, less detailed, CAT scan. It's designed to be a reference image so the results of the PET part can be correlated, etc. The picture it produces is called a 'scout image'. Keep that in mind for later. :)
That morning, I woke up seriously pissed. I havent the least idea why. No drugs in particular to produce mood swings, no pissy schedulers or or government buggery to drag me into the pit. Whatever the reason, it wasnt a good day to be around me. Sigh.
At some point in the way to my appointment, my inside voice and my outside voice exchanged places. Just about the time I snarled, out loud, about sunshine making people "come crawling out of the f\*cking woodwork." and the lemmings parted like the Red Sea, my inside voice started worrying about the techs who were slated to perform the scan.
I'd confirmed my appointment with Jon. Something about his cheerful manner and candid conversational approach had me grinning a few days prior when there really wasnt any cheer in the day. I really didn't want to rain on this nice guy's parade, but damn, that newly liberated voice was vociferous. I was goofing with my phone when he called my name, and when he asked how I was doing, I told him I woke up cranky and showed him the little marquee app that had been playing with. The words scrolling by were "Back off f\*\*\*stick. I'm in a mood."
Jon burst out laughing, and of course I had to at least grin. The outside voice and the inside switched places again, and I met Erin. Turns out she'd be doing all the tech work, and she started with the usual litany of requisite nonsense. However, she gets full credit for turning the whole day around because instead of spouting some dribble when I asked her what that thing was on her finger (It looked like a thick ring) she asked me a question instead. "It's another radiation badge. Do you know why I have one on my hand?"
Bonk.
One simple question, asked in a conversational rather than patronizing tone, and the entire day flipped like a coin tossed into the air and landing heads up. (The answer is because while they wear lead shields around their torso, their hands are more likely to absorb radiation because they are always exposed, reaching for the vials, the instrumentation, and us.)
From that point, it was like a Disneyland ride. Much laughter on both sides, no grumping because I asked them to strap my arms so they didnt fall off the table (pretty sleepy, me) and when I halted the set-up to ask Jon to give me a minute so I could fluff before he took the scout image, he blanked for a second, got the joke, and then burst out laughing. Poor Erin blushed right down to her toes.
When the first scan, the scout image, was complete and I'm sticking out the back of the machine like a little kid sticking his tongue out, Jon pops up behind my head and tells me the fluffing worked; "that everything looked good."
My turn to laugh out loud, and it was totally heartfelt.
Dozens of people have peeked under my sheets, have seen the best and worst of me and my moods, and there will no doubt be dozens more before all this nonsense is done, but I guarantee you no one has made the experience more genuinely enjoyable than Erin and Jon.
Thanks guys. You rock out loud!
Muaah!
Patric
Friday, March 5, 2010
Just a short update because deadlines loom, and I'm still chemically stupid. :) (Meaning it takes longer to meet those deadlines.)
Met with the transplant guy, and his "posse." Meh. He sure as hell ain't Doc!
Whatever.
End result is that he requested another biopsy of my foot which makes perfect sense since the original was the clue Doc needed to make/confirm his original diagnosis.
If it comes back negative, then we proceed with the transplant, insurance willing.
If it comes back positive, then the transplant guy want to recommend a treatment alternative that I'll need to give very careful thought, because even if it works (and of course no guarantees) it can only minimize the cancer at best, and like chemo, it'll be a fine line between whatever side effects it presents and the side effects of the cancer itself.
Yadda.
At the end of everything, it's all just noise anyway. :)
(See why I gave this blog that title? And that was LONG before I even considered cancer as a possibility in my future. Laugh)
Biopsy is scheduled for March 9th, with results likely posted by the 15th.
Cheers!
Patric
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I had the second biopsy on my foot this morning. Rather a bit of confusion as to why I was there, though. Yes, I'm a new patient, but that does not mean I want a complete skin exam to cloud the issue.
Mutter.
There are definite disadvantages to treating everybody on the average scale.
Mutter some more.
After we got it sorted as to WHY I was there, ( a miscommunication caused by one specialist not using another specialists terminology, apparently)
I now have a hole in my foot the size of Cleveland, and four stitches to close it up. Laugh. I think that's the first time I've ever been stitched on the outside. :)
Give the new guy credit though; he had the presence of mind to anticipate what the pathologist would want, and asked for it ahead of time so I could call and make arrangements.
(Take note here that were it not for my habit of getting copies of my records, ALL records, there would have been that much more of a delay waiting for me to sign forms. Having asked earlier, the release forms were already in place. Woo hoo!)
Now we wait for the results, and if Doc is right, they'll be negative. If so, then we can start proceedings for the transplant.
If its approved, if insurance pays for it, and if I recover quick enough, I might actually have a wee bit of summer to play in this year.
The prospect of sunshine, and being on the other side of all this mess has me so excited I literally can't sit still.
Fingers crossed!
Patric
Thursday, March 18, 2010
... against the shore of indifference.
Catchy title, and yet in no way can it be considered inclusive of all the irritation and frustration I feel.
I got a call from the dermatology doctor who collected the second biopsy from my foot.
(Before I say anything more, let it be noted I am perfectly aware of the fact that I am already jaded, and somewhat reactionary regarding (most) doctors, and the medical industry.)
Seems the hematopathology department is still working on testing the sample, at least according to this guy:
"We're still testing the sample and we need to stain for additional markers."
Based on our initial meeting, where I got the distinct impression he had no idea why I was there, my first thought was "Don't cloud the issue!" especially in light of his subsequent comments.
"Right now, we don't find any obvious lymphoma, but we still want to make a comparison. I just got the slides from the previous test yesterday."
WHAT?
I called and arranged for those slides to be delivered more than a week ago, and they only had to travel 60 miles. (Okay, deep breath, Patric. Maybe they got delayed at the origin point. Call and check before you start shouting the house down.)
Good advice, and I listened to myself for a change. Instead of pouncing on him for such a delay, I asked if the preliminary results had been given to the transplant specialist, citing his actual name.
"Who?"
"The guy who ordered the biopsy in the first place."
"Oh, well I'm sure he'll get it."
"Not if you don't tell him."
Given my initial impression of the transplant guy, it's not particularly real to me that I'm high enough in his conscious awareness for him to even check.
This is a world class teaching hospital we're dealing with, and of the two doctors I've seen extant, both have student underlings flitting around. I'm making the assumption the almighty doctors rely on the peons to handle the day to day drudgery, like dealing with patients. But I could be wrong. Like I said, reactionary, me.
So, fine. The man tells me to be patient. Several times, in fact, and I'm thinking, "Geez, I only called once, a couple days ago." Then he tells me he'll be in touch.
Translation: I'll get to you in my time and timing.
Fine. I recognize there are far too many other patients to be accounted for in a single day so I bite my tongue, but I cant help think that if I were some rich, wrinkled old lady wanting a Botox injection, they'd pay far more attention. (Remember I said "jaded," too.) :)
Well... As usual, I'm not content to sit on my hands. I called the original biopsy clinic and left a message to call me back.
Then I sent an email to Doc. He logged into the system, found the partial results, and paraphrased the findings to that point. Seems there are indications of another type of cancer in the sample.
Aha! I knew that old fart Derm guy was waffling around something! And yes, THAT knowledge has far more of an adverse impact on me than the news of a possible other cancer. Call me weird.
Doc mentioned what they were leaning toward as a diagnosis, which I wont repeat here because the evidence is so superficial at this point. He did slip just a wee bit back into "doctor mode" and called the additional tests "complicated" and "very sophisticated." Buzz words all the "information for patients" pamphlets and such use to avoid explanations, but he gets to slide because he clarified parenthetically.
I'll say it again. I adore that guy!
If I were a cat, I'd have used up my nine lives in the pursuit of curiosity ages ago, but I'm not a cat, and I've got a little time left, regardless. So naturally I dug around to see what Doc was referring to, and I dont find myself particularly worried about it. While some minor symptoms do match up, most do not and besides, it just doesnt "feel" right. Not like the original idea of cancer felt "right" when it was still a question in everyone's mind but mine.
And even if I'm wrong and they do (eventually, moving at a cold snail's pace) find something else amiss, I still cant do anything about it except rely on people who clearly and consistently assume I'm the "dumb patient" and tell me nothing of real value. So no point in fretting over it.
The only real worry is being saddled by folks like the Derm guy who seem utterly incapable of giving me accurate, sometimes technical information with which I can make an informed logical decision on how best I wish to proceed.
So for all the doctors I've met, or will meet, (and of course Doc is exempt!) I don't particularly care anymore that 99.999% of your patients are best left slightly in the dark. I am that .001% that is not, and if you can't be flexible enough to deal with an unknown like me, then get out of the fucking business altogether and make room for the "fresh out of school" doctors and nurses who haven't yet become jaded from dealing with cranky people like me. Damn dinosaurs.
Simply saving my life earns only gratitude, not trust. For that, you have to open your mouth and share.
I'm not particularly worried about extending too much trust on that score anytime soon. (So says THIS cynical old jaded dinosaur.) laugh.
Oh, by the way. I got my call back and the original biopsy slides did indeed go out as promised. That suggests it took a week for that tiny little package to make it from one end of the sprawling campus to the other. A journey even I could make on foot in a few hours at most.
Idiocy, and he tells me to be patient? Not on your life, or mine.
Patric
Thursday, March 18, 2010
It must have been the title of the previous entry.
Many people have expressed sympathy at, as one dear soul put it, "my sucky news" referenced in the previous entry.
Yeah, I guess it is at that, but honestly folks, I paid it so little heed as to be largely forgettable. The whole point of the earlier post was to bitch (no surprise there!) about the recurring theme of clueless, obtuse, so-called medical professionals.
I mean, c'mon. These people make life and death decisions, and yet so very few have the capacity to think outside their own box and address me as anything other than an expectation?
Gah, there I go again. Sorry. We'll let it slide for now, no doubt under the proviso the subject will come up yet again because there is no way the entire system will change in my life time.
Oh, I should note that one of the transplant guy's flunkies called today to tell me "Doctor is keeping an eye on your case, and as soon as we get the results back, he'll call you."
What a lovely sentiment, knowing I've not fallen through the cracks, nor been forgotten.
Too bad the information couldnt have come as a result of some interest other than my calling and raising hell. It's the little touches that mean so much.
As for the rest, seriously. It's simply not that big a deal in my mind. It sounds rather flippant, even for me, but it really doesnt matter if there is one cancer or a dozen. It can only kill me once. :)
Please, please, dear people. Don't fret over it. I'm not, so neither should you.
Hugs!
Patric
Jambrea Jo Jones
Patric is always there for friends with questions and usually with a humorous response. There is no question too absurd or dirty for Patric to answer. Lol. I've spent many nights on the yahoo groups laughing so hard that I'm crying. And he always seems to have the answer. I've loved his lessons on the groups.
I had planned on doing a short story for Patric but thought that others were going to be doing that. I really just want to share how Patric has touched my heart. Who knew that someone that I've never met in person could have such an effect on my life. I certainly didn't.
I can't even remember the first time I 'met' Patric. I'm sure it was on Ethan Day's Yahoo Group one night. I just remember how nice he was. It's funny how some people's personalities can shine through the internet and Patric happens to be one of those individuals.
Patric is also a fabulous author. After months of talking with him online I finally picked up one of his stories. I think it was Timeless. I enjoyed every word and couldn't wait for the next story by him. I think my favorite is Santa Mug. I loved that one so much that I bought it as a Christmas gift for a friend. We had to give our favorite book as a gift and I immediately thought of Santa Mug. I even had to email Patric about it. That's just what I do. Lol I find an author I love and I tend to gush and tell everyone that they need to buy the story. I'll share the email I sent because I happened to keep it. Patric has his own folder in my inbox.
We've been talking about the Santa Mug on Ethan's.
I just wanted to send you a personal note because it was such a beautiful story. You grabbed a hold of my heart from the beginning and didn't let it go until the very last word. Like I said on Ethan's, it is heartbreakingly wonderful. You put so much into that short story and it really shows. I could FEEL the sadness weaved through. I love Max and his family is wonderful. I just wanted to hug Darren.
Wonderful story. Congrats Patric.
And he was so gracious when he emailed me back. If I could give that man a hug I would. When I found out he was ill, it about broke my heart. Here he is, such a wonderful and kind man going through something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy and I'm too far away to do anything about it. The only thing I could do was show my love on line. And I went about doing just that.
Patric, me and a few others were talking men. And really, when aren't we? lol. I wanted to know what kind of man Patric found hot and he just so happened to have a picture. He shared with the group and we decided to name him. That is when I got the idea to write a story with Patric in it. To give a little back as it were.
I then began to pester Patric with questions. He might not say it was pestering, but that is just Patric. He answered with grace even when the topic became 'top' or 'bottom'. Lol Like I said, there is nothing this man won't talk about and I love every bit of him.
Through the months Patric shared his experience with everyone through his blog. I would get the updates on google and at first I'd be happy that I was getting an update because that meant he was still around. Then I would go and read it and be in awe of Patric strength. Well...as in awe as I could be with tears streaming down my face.
Don't let Patric tell you any different. He is a strong man with a wonderful heart and I am honored and happy to call him friend.
love you, Patric
Xoxo
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Nor for consumption by rabid dogs with no morals, for that matter.
I'm offline until I'm alive again, or at least able to fake it. :)
Patric
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Well... Seems as though the universe hasnt had its fill of making mischief, yet.
Just about the time I declaimed myself unfit for human consumption, the pain began.
Oh dopey me. I actually thought I could be stoic enough to handle THAT??
Ha! How the mighty have fallen.
I did manage for three days though. Now I just have to decide if I was clever, or foolish to wait.
End result was a visit to the ER, where I was diagnosed with pancreatitis. Generally speaking, it's caused by either gall stones, or alcohol consumption, and of course I dont drink....
Really? One or two flavors of cancer isnt enough so we have to add pancreatitis and when thats stabilized sufficiently, we get to do surgery to remove the offending gall bladder entirely?
Do I sound bitter? I'm not, particularly. If anything, I'm rather amused that it takes this much to run me into the ground, and yet I'm still squirming.
Nyaaa! :)
Patric
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Fat guys with beer guts do it loudly.
Lace covered ladies do it demurely.
Little kids do it, and find it the height of hilarity.
Dogs do it. Cats do it.
Even fictional characters do it:
The wolf paused again, the tip of its tongue protruding from its black lips as though caught by surprise, and Marshall briefly wondered at the way it seemed to respond to his voice. The long pink tongue extended and the wolf swiped at the wound a few more times before settling back on its side, still regarding the man completely.
"You're an ugly fucking thing, do you know that?"
The wolf farted and Marshall laughed. The sound surprised man and animal in equal measure.
"I suppose I deserved that," Marshal said, "and I'm an idiot for talking to a beast."
In other words, everybody farts. Unless you have pancreatitis and all the plumbing has taken a holiday. :)
If anyone has said to me a week ago how good it felt to fart, I'd have accused them of being fetishists. Now I have a whole new perspective. An aromatic perspective, that is. :)
I shant bore you with the colorful details (brown is a color, after all) but breaking wind bodes well for the liklihood of doing the surgery laproscopically. Definitely the preferred method. :)
Oh, and I was finally approved for a clear liquid diet today. Joy! I found heaven in a cup of chicken broth. Tomorrow I'll go for beef, now that the kids brought me a bottle of Worcestershire. And the nutritionist didnt even flinch when I told her about it. How cool is that?
Things are looking up.
Surgery is tentatively scheduled for March 31. I'm tempted to beg they hold off until April 1st. Something about all this being a joke appeals to me. :)
Hugs all!
Patric
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I'm running out of titles, and time...
Once again, I am too far behind with my updates to escape beneath the cover of abject apology.
This time though, it's from too much rather than too little happening.
Put as succinctly as possible, I've become a hospital groupie. :)
Of itself, the surgery went fine, as expected. Unexpectedly however, the original symptoms continue, largely unchanged. I came home last week, rolled around with what I was told was "normal after surgery" pain, went in for my week after check up, and was promptly re-admitted the following day.
Seems there is something hinky with the blood test results that reflect liver activity.
Yeah, right about now I am envisioning honking geese. :)
Tomorrow, I get to experience a HIDA scan, and a procedure which has an acronym that sounds something like ERCP and actually means a camera down my throat.
I hope they let me shoot video. :)
In other news, Papa floated me the cost of a new laptop so I can continue editing the audio books, which is both a godsend and a curse. The former because that's my sole source of income (oh how the mighty have fallen. lol) and the latter because it'll never be enough to pay him back, and yet he still insists "I am good for it."
That is without a doubt his strongest expression of love for me he's ever uttered, and I am humbled to inconsequentiality by it, especially because we both know without doubt that the cancer is back with a vengeance.
With the latest biopsy results finally in, we don't exactly know what kind of lymphoma (the results cast doubt on the veracity of the original diagnosis) but at this point the flavor is little more than semantics. Doc and I can see it develop very nearly on a day to day basis. What to do about it remains a question until the whole stomach thing is resolved first.
I'll not be terribly surprised to find one is fueling the other, frankly. As Doc said, "stranger things have happened."
Ah well. Tomorrow, the sun rises.
If you don't see me on the lists, or answering email messages, or otherwise making my presence known, it's because I'm standing at the window staring out at it, or someone is taking pictures of my guts from the inside out. lol
Cheers folks! Thank you all for the considered, thoughtful comments!!
Patric
Mary Calmes
For Patric Michael
One
My mother could never just leave things alone; she had to do something. It was her way. The something normally translated into pushing when she should have backed off. So this was why she had called in the cavalry in the form of my sister Trish and her husband, Ethan. Because I hadn't done what my mother wanted, she'd sent them to intercede on her and my father's behalf. When that didn't work, they all got on a plane---my parents from Ocala, Florida, where they had retired, and my youngest sister, Deb and her husband, Alex, from Boston. I was the only one who had left the East Coast; the rest of them were all still there. I had gone west and stayed. College in San Diego had translated into a new home.
"Mark, you need to listen to me."
They were trying to triple-team me in the kitchen---my mother and my sisters. I turned my head and looked at my mother over the rim of one of the large café au lait mugs that the love of my life had brought back from Madrid the last time he was there.
"Your brother needs help," she told me.
I grunted.
She sucked in air through her nose. "He needs to talk to someone. He needs to be medicated." She ran down the list for me. "You don't just go through what he did and just set your life back on course. He needs to be committed."
Or not.
"Mark!"
"Mom." I tried not to chuckle as I put the mug down beside me on the counter by the sink. "I love you so much, and you're as cute as a button, and I'd love to shrink you down and carry you around in my pocket all day long." She was starting to smile, unable to resist her oldest child. "And I'm not trying to downplay your concern, but in this instance, I think you're still freaked out about what could have happened instead of what actually did, and that's coloring your perception."
All her emotions were sliding across her face because she'd sort of been rolling around in the catnip of my obvious adoration, but then I had smacked her with the truth.
"God, I'm starving." I yawned loudly before I turned to yell at my father over my shoulder. "Dad, where's T?"
He moved the paper away from his face to look at me. "He and Ethan should be back from the store soon."
My sister Trish's husband, who had started out his life in our family as a homophobic jerk, was now running errands, on purpose and without the buffering presence of his wife, with my partner of sixteen years. And I knew the reason. There was just no saying 'No' to Tai Yosuke. He roared into your life atop a steamroller of warmth and charm and followed it up with sincerity and a wicked sense of fun. No one ever stood a chance, and especially not Ethan. He was overwhelmed from the beginning as Tai had chosen to sit next to him at his first Christmas dinner with our family. I had warned Tai---told him the guy was an ass---and so, of course, my boyfriend took that as a personal challenge.
Ethan had done the slow pan to my boyfriend as my family (not me; I knew better) held their collective breath.
"Hi." Tai had smiled at him with his liquid black eyes. "You look like crap, man. Later on, you wanna take a run with me? Get out of here?"
Everyone but me was surprised when he nodded, but Tai was irresistible, and soon, he and Ethan were like twins separated at birth. And I knew people who saw them out and about---the six-foot-three, covered-in-muscle blond guy walking around with the six-foot black-haired, black-eyed manga character---wondered about their relationship. Friends? Lovers? They looked good together, but then, Tai made everyone look good, even my brother Frank, who was currently sleeping in my guest room for as long as he wanted.
When Frank had finally agreed to leave the house after a week, it was for Tai that he had moved, not me. And when they were at the store, Frankie shuffling along behind him, everyone was looking at my boyfriend instead of my obviously sleep-deprived little brother. If you wanted to stay in the shadows, Tai was the man to travel with.
"Mark!" My mother screeched at me.
"Oh," I chuckled, turning back to her. "Yes, dear?"
She growled at me, which I loved, and I leaned in and kissed her cheek.
"Darling, stop being adorable and listen to me. Your brother almost overdosed on drugs. He needs to see someone."
"Please. It was stupid, yes, but not premeditated. He doesn't want to kill himself; he succumbed to peer pressure because he's an idiot. But being resuscitated, having your stomach pumped, and then having to submit to a psych eval will help you get your priorities in order. His brain didn't get fried. It just got scrambled a little, and now he's fine."
"The psychiatrist at County Medical said he needs to be committed."
"Uh-huh."
"I want him in a hospital until I see the boy I know."
"Really?"
"Mark!"
I hopped up on the kitchen counter, glad that Tai wasn't there to see me do it, crossed my arms and looked at her. "Hey, remember when Nana had her stroke and you said," I pointed at her, "that she would never come back from it because your doctor told you so and that she should be put in a nursing home?"
Second growl.
"And I told you I would move her in here with me and T, and we fought and fought until you gave in, and like a month later, she called you on the phone and asked you for the recipe for Chicken Divine?"
"Mark, this is different."
I arched an eyebrow for her. "It's about unconditional support, and you know it. He doesn't need to be in some psychiatric facility; he needs to be here with me."
"Mark, you----"
"And Tai."
"Mark----"
"For a while," I told her.
"Will you please just lis----"
"And," I cut her off, "if I had listened to you about Nana, she would have gone from the hospital to a nursing home, and I would have missed out on all that time with her."
"Yes, honey, I know, and you were right and I was wrong, but this is a totally different situation."
"I disagree."
"You're being stupid," my sister Trish said, joining the conversation, stepping closer to my mother in solidarity. "Frank is sick, Mark, and he needs to be in a hospital."
"He's not sick. He just needs more sleep." I yawned. I needed more coffee. "And so do I."
"Mark!"
"He's just young," I assured Trish. "He still has time to straighten up and fly right."
"Dad!" She yelled over at my old man.
"I have no say, Trish," he called back, involved with both his newspaper and Sunday morning NFL games. "Ever since your brother talked me out of investing with Dan Sanders, I don't question him." He turned and looked at me. "You saved my ass, kid. You know that."
"I was just thinking of my inheritance." I smiled at him.
We shared a long look before he simply nodded and went back to reading the paper. It was enough. At one point in time, I had wanted a big gesture from him over the fact that my background in finance, that he had not helped me pay for, had saved his and my mother's life savings. It was Tai who had told me not to be a prick. This was my father we were talking about: I needed to get a life. In the end, Dad and I both acted as if nothing had happened, right up until he grabbed me at Thanksgiving the same year Dan Sanders, his army buddy, disappeared with the five million dollars all the rest of his friends had risked on an investment property that didn't exist. And at that moment, as my father spoke a litany of praise and appreciation into my ear, I was glad I had listened to my boyfriend because really, it was more than enough.
"Jack!" The sound of my mother yelling at my father brought me back sharply to the present.
"I think Mark's right," my father said, looking back at us. "I know Frankie looks bad, I know he does, but Sara, honey, he's going to be okay. He just needs a little time to----"
"It's already been two months!" She insisted. "He needs to feel better."
"He is feeling better," I told her. "He's running every morning with Tai now, and on the mornings that Tai is flying, I run with him. And yesterday, before you guys got here, I made him grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup just like you did when we were little, and we talked for like three hours. You just, you gotta let him deal with his stupidity, Mom, and when he's done, he'll get a job and go back to school and be himself again. He's young, he's only twenty-three, he'll do everything he should, but you have to let him...what, grieve, I guess, for the loss of his sense of immortality. He thought he was bulletproof because he's young and stupid, and he thought nothing could really hurt him, but now he knows better. Now he knows he's got to be careful. I think he'll be reinvested in school when he goes back. I think you'll see a lot of changes in him. I just...he needs time, and he's got that. Not everyone is so fortunate."
She squinted at me, and I looked over at Trish. My mother was smart and saw everything. Between Tai's sudden change in his flying schedule and me working from home, she knew something was up. She just wasn't sure what.
"Trish," I barked out.
"Oh, God, what?" She gasped, startled.
"Remember when you got shit-faced in Vegas for your twenty-first birthday and married Aaron Rayburn?"
"Mark!" She yelled at me. "We were never to speak of----"
"And you were so drunk that I had to fly to Vegas to bring you home, 'cause you got alcohol poisoning and they wouldn't let you get on a plane alone?"
"Mark, you shit!"
"What?" My mother shrieked, and I thought her head was going to explode.
"You married Aaron Rayburn?" Deb was giggling. "The guy with the weird eye that sort of rolled back in his head all the time?"
"Ohmygod, Mark, I can't believe you just----"
"People who live in glass houses," I reminded her.
"Mark," my sister Deb got my attention. "We were all at the hospital together, and Frank was----Frank looked so lost and small, and he needs professional help to----"
"He just needs to sleep. End of story."
"Listen," Deb said, and I heard her teacher voice kick in, the one she used on all the third-graders. "Frankie should be----"
"Hey," I cut her off, "remember when you shaved your head because you fell in love with that roadie from Red Alarm and decided that you were gonna drop out of school?"
"Mark!"
I crossed my legs because I didn't want to get a ball smack, and I shielded my face as she hit me in the bicep really hard. "But I never said you were crazy. I just came and bailed you out of jail in El Paso and brought you home."
"You were in jail?" My mother was turning a very lovely shade of crimson.
Deb smacked me really, really hard on the thigh before she pinched the same spot with every drop of strength she had.
"Owww," I laughed, as Trish interrogated her about her night in the slammer and my mother yelled for my father.
"Mark, you asshole!" Deb wailed, before suddenly moving between my knees and leaning her head against my stomach.
"Stop," I chuckled, holding up my hand at my mother and sister. "Deb's off limits now, all right?" I told them, lifting my little sister's face so I could look down into her eyes. "My point was only to say that Frank did something dumb, just like you. And at least he never went to jail with people named Big Mama."
She slapped my leg again.
"Shit," I laughed as she growled at me, moving away. I made all the women in my family insane.
"Mark," Trish said suddenly, her red-rimmed eyes swallowing me. "How can you think that Frank overdosing on drugs is okay, or normal, or anything else? How can you?"
"Because it was an accident," I told her pointedly. "He didn't mean to, and now, because of other considerations, he's thinking a little bit too much about the responsibilities that he has to other people."
She took a breath. "What considerations?"
I just looked at her.
"Mark?"
I was saved from speaking because I heard the garage door go up and scrambled off the counter before Tai made it inside.
Our garage was connected to the kitchen, and seconds later the door opened and I smiled too big.
"Why do you look guilty?"
I made my eyes round and smiled at the love of my life. "What?"
He squinted as he crossed the floor to plant one on me. Always, always, he kissed me when he left the house or came home. From what his mother had told me, it had been me, Mark Gabriel, who had brought that loving creature out in him. He was, as a rule, not demonstrative to anyone. He was warm, yes, charming, certainly, but the come here and kiss me, got to have my hands on you guy had been, for her---for sixteen years now---a new development.
People remembered Tai because he was witty and beautiful and smart, but as nice as he was, as much as he could make you laugh, as much as he put you at ease, he was definitely a look but don't touch kind of guy. His friends, other pilots at the airline, flight attendants, and just people he saw every day were all crazy about him, but they knew that touching him without an invitation was bad. I had never asked. He was the one who pulled me into his life.
I was at my friend Matt's birthday party, and I saw Tai come in. He lived upstairs, and when I asked my buddy who he was, he had exhaled his name. Matt had been surprised that he was even there. Tai was a pilot so he was always gone, and not on short hops, like from California to Texas or Hawaii, but to New York, where he was officially based, and from there to London or Paris or Rome. He was the long-haul guy, and so Matt had been shocked to see him. Even more shocked that the god he sometimes passed in the hall or stood beside in the elevator was taking him up on his party invitation.
"How do I look?" he asked me nervously.
And Matt normally would have never cared, much less asked the question, because he was, as a rule, always confident, but when I saw Tai Yosuke, I immediately understood. I was easily looking at the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life. The dark eyes, long lashes, the smirk, and the thick glossy black hair had me mesmerized. His face, coupled with his long, lean muscular body, had taken my breath away.
"Mark?"
"Sorry." I came out of my trance, "you look great."
"You sure?"
"Absolutely," I assured him, because he did, and I settled back against the bookshelf and watched.
All night long, I kept my eyes on Tai and saw him smile and laugh and be the life of the party with his stories from work, even while he hid behind a mask of impenetrable charm. He was engaging, and so everyone wanted to take him home. But one after another, every man who went near him was turned down with a quick, kind, shake of Tai's head. He wasn't mean about it, but his eyes left no room for argument. I wondered what he was looking for.
When it was time to present Matt with his many birthday gifts, everyone stood around him to watch as he opened up dive gear. He was going on a snorkeling trip for his thirtieth birthday and so that was the theme, and everyone had bought something in line with his wishes. It was smart, even though I could have never done it. I was just happy to have people show up to buy me drinks on my birthday.
So the size of my gift was strange. All the rest of the packages were large, and only mine was the size of a DVD, which is what it was.
"Open Water?" Matt said as he opened my present.
The room turned to me.
I did the lazy smile because it made sense in my head.
"A cautionary tale," Tai said from the other side of the room.
I looked over at him and saw his eyes narrow.
"Mark!" Matt's roommate Tim started laughing. "What the fuck, man? That movie is about people who go on a diving outing and get eaten by sharks!"
"Because they weren't careful," I explained. "I want Matt to be careful."
"That's disgusting," one of the girls closest to me said.
I shrugged.
"It's inspired," Tai told her, and I realized he had moved to a spot on my right. Close on my right. He must have moved pretty fast to get there.
My snort of laughter made him smile, as did the waggle of eyebrows. As Matt returned to opening gifts, I felt Tai's hand close on my bicep. I turned my head to look at him.
"Will you come upstairs to my place so I can talk to you a minute?"
"I'll go upstairs with you if you promise to have dinner with me tomorrow," I countered, turning to face him.
His scowl was endearing. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Because as much as I want to get in your bed, I want to talk to you too. So I figure this way, I get both things I want."
The startled expression was even cuter than the scowl.
"'Cause right now you're thinking I'm funny but not hot, so you're thinking you might screw me, but that'll be it. But just watch, you're gonna fall for me."
He shook his head. "I don't fall. I just fuck."
"So you say," I grunted, looking into his big, onyx eyes, sounding so much more confident than I felt.
He trembled, which I took as a very good sign, and laced his fingers into mine. "Dinner tomorrow's fine. Come with me."
I waved to Matt as I was tugged behind Tai, and he mouthed a word that had me flipping him off.
How? was mean. How? implied that I was completely lacking in pretty. And I wasn't. I was in good shape for twenty-six. I ran and swam and played soccer with a crappy team on the weekends. My sandy brown hair and blue eyes had gotten me laid more than a few times. I was taller than Tai, six-two to his six feet, but that was about all I had going for me. None of it mattered, however, because at least for the moment, for this man, whatever I looked like was enough.
His apartment was dark and cavernous with exposed pipes in the ceiling and wooden floors and those windows that push out to an angle but don't slide open. The place smelled like sandalwood, and I saw the incense holder above the mantle of his fireplace. I took a deep breath.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to remember the smell of your home."
He trembled, and I got it, because sometimes it takes me a minute. When I reached for him, I didn't tear his clothes off; instead, I wrapped him up tight in my arms.
"No, don't," he protested, wiggling in my embrace. The lust he could deal with; my desire to hold him was a whole other ball game.
"Baby," I breathed over his skin, kissing the side of his neck. "It's okay. I got you."
And he thawed and melted and was suddenly holding on for dear life. When I was making him an omelet half an hour later, he was quiet, just watching me as I moved around his kitchen and kept up a running monologue. When I got to the stealth mode on my car, he interrupted, laughing.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Sometimes," I explained, "I accidentally put my car into stealth mode when I'm driving, which is why no can see me and I nearly get killed."
His eyes were sparkling. "And how do you make your car invisible?"
"I think there's a button on the dash somewhere or by my gear shift, but the button's invisible too, so I can't actually vouch for its whereabouts."
The laughter that came out of him, husky and deep, was the sweetest thing I had ever heard. He was magic, and I was thoroughly enchanted.
"God, you're cute," he said as he wiped his eyes,
"And I'm housebroken," I assured him gamely.
"Come here and gimme a kiss."
I shook my head and fed him instead. After our impromptu breakfast for dinner, he washed the dishes while he told me all about being a pilot and how proud his folks were, even though he rarely got to see them. His family lived in Japan, and Tai had dual citizenship, which he enjoyed. When he was almost done with the cleaning up, he ordered me to the couch to wait for him. It was still early, not quite eleven, and I asked him if he wanted to go catch a movie.
He wasn't talking; instead, he turned off the lights in the kitchen, filled the room with John Coltrane from his very impressive-looking sound system and took a seat beside me. In his bare feet and jeans, tousled hair, and heavy-lidded eyes, he was the picture of heat. When he lunged at me, pushing me down under him on the couch, I didn't offer any resistance.
"Please." His breath caught. "Fuck me."
The pleading tone, the look I was getting...I was done. Sort of. "How 'bout I kiss you first?"
I reached up for his face and gently, tenderly drew him down to me. When our lips met, I felt him jolt against me. Apparently, he was not treated to slow very often. My tongue pushing for entrance was greedily accepted, and as I tasted him, I felt his swollen groin shoved hard against mine.
Normally, I would have been all hands, but he tasted so good, and my kiss was returned with such ravenous need that I couldn't wrap my brain around any other desire but the devouring play of tangling my tongue with his. He tasted so good, like beer and salt, and my fingers sank into his hair and held him tight so he couldn't move.
I kissed him until I could feel my head pounding and had to lift my mouth from his to drag in air.
"You," he gasped, licking his lips, "come get in my bed and----"
"Can't I just kiss you some more?" I almost whimpered with desire.
His melting eyes got huge. "You don't want to fuck me?"
"Oh, God, yes." My breath hitched. "But can you just let me kiss you some more? Please?"
I felt the shudder run through him as he was basically draped over me between my spread legs, pressed so tight that I could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
My fingers massaged his skull, and I leaned him forward.
"Why are you waiting?" he whispered, his lips hovering over mine as we shared breath.
"Because you're worth it, and why do I have to rush? If I rush, you can make me like everybody else, and that's not what I want to be."
"So it's a game you're playing."
"It's not a game, T. It's just me showing you that you might be the one, and if you are, I don't want to mess it up by putting you over the back of this couch."
"T?" He smiled down at me.
"Shut up," I sighed, and when he sealed his mouth over mine, I let him feel the whole of what I could provide---the heat, the safety, and the hope. I kissed him with everything I had because my heart had fluttered when I first laid eyes on him and not, I realized, just because he was pretty. I could see plainly that he was what I needed---the movement that I wasn't capable of alone because I was far too grounded. I was solid and constant; he was like a breath of fresh air. I could be the guy he counted on; he could show me how to truly live. We could balance each other out perfectly, and I wanted him to know it, believe it.
We kissed for hours, and when his lips were swollen and his eyes were flooded with the desire to submit, I got up and walked painfully to the door. I was hard and aching, but I would not screw up my chance for a happily ever after just because I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anyone in my entire life.
"If you leave," he snarled at me, "I will go downstairs and pick up someone, anyone, to bring back up here and fuck me. Is that what you want?"
Oh, he was mad, and I felt the wave of anticipation roll through me.
"If you think that's best," I said, opening the door to leave.
The whimper was good, and he was at the door before I could turn away. My hand was grabbed and then held flat against his heart. His eyes were there when I raised mine to meet them.
I swallowed my worry. "Can I come here tomorrow and pick you up at seven to----"
"Yes," he cut me off. "I'll be ready at six-thirty, so you better be here."
"Of course I'll be here," I promised him, hand on his cheek as I leaned in and kissed his forehead. "I can barely wait."
And when I left, I took great satisfaction in hearing the door close and lock and the sound of the deadbolt being turned. He wasn't going out. He was waiting for me.
I never went back to Matt's party, even though it was still raging on when I left. Instead, I walked straight passed his apartment and outside to the sidewalk. I was surprised when my phone rang as I started walking home.
"I could drive you," Tai said, on the other end.
"That'd be dangerous," I told him.
"Afraid you'll succumb to temptation?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Let me get my keys."
I laughed at him and heard him sigh, long and loud.
"I like it when you call me 'T' and 'baby.'"
"That's lucky, because I don't plan to stop."
"Promise?"
"I swear."
I talked to him all the way home.
Two
I was there the following night, and the night after that, and the night after that. We dated for a month, and I made certain that I always took him out, treated him right, wined and dined him, and got him home at a decent hour. I kissed him breathless in the car, walked him to his door, and left him panting---and me, barely able to think straight. I wanted to ravish him, but I courted him instead. There was romance instead of fucking, and even though it was killing me to wait, the long unhurried conversations, the laughter, and the slow build of trust were worth it. He liked me; he looked forward to spending time with me; and he enjoyed our talks as much as I did. I listened to him, which was apparently an anomaly, and a quality of mine that moved me to the front of the line. I saw his phone, saw all the missed calls, and watched him delete voicemails without even checking. I really liked his sense of loyalty.
The week before Christmas, I went to pick him up on Friday, and he wasn't downstairs waiting on the front stoop like he normally did. I called, but there was no answer, so I decided to park and go upstairs. I saw Matt on his way into the building and caught up with him.
"Are you here to see Tai again?" he asked, amazement in his voice.
"Yeah, why?"
"I just don't----I just don't get it."
And again, it was my plainness, so I understood his confusion. I was the extra, the guy in the background; there was no way I could get the star. But as I climbed the stairs to Tai's door, the usual butterflies in my stomach told another story. After I knocked, I heard the yell to come in.
Inside, it was warm, and that was nice because outside, it was December, cold and crisp. I locked the door behind me and found him sitting on the couch in jeans and nothing else. Billie Holiday was crooning softly in the background and my heart hurt just looking at him.
"Are you ready to go?"
He didn't answer, just stared at me.
"Why didn't you answer your phone?"
"Because I wanted you to come up."
"Why?"
He cleared his throat. "Come over here, and we'll decide what we're gonna eat."
I shed my leather jacket and scarf and started toward what I had already come to think of as our couch. We made out on it a lot. First base was achieved nightly.
When I was close, he slid off the somehow erotic piece of furniture to the floor, spread his legs and patted the space between them.
I gave him a look. "What're you up to, T?"
"Just get your ass over here," he said as he graced me with a wicked smile.
"I thought we were gonna eat?"
"Fuck food. Come here."
The heat in his gaze should have melted me to the floor, as hot as it was. I felt my knees go weak as I moved, momentarily staggering before I sank down onto the area rug in front of him, facing away.
"Lean back," he said gently, and as I reclined against his bare chest I felt his groin pressed against the base of my spine. "Tell me how your day was."
I tried to think, but he smoothed fingers into my hair, tipped my head back, and pressed his lips to my jaw. "T..."
His left hand combed through my hair over and over, and his right first pulled my dress shirt from my corduroys before going to work on the buttons. He moved deliberately, all the time kissing a line down from my jaw to my shoulder and back. When his tongue traced my earlobe, I jerked in his arms.
"Oh, he likes that," he said, and his breath down the side of my neck made me shiver with delicious anticipation. "What else can I do to you to get what I want?"
My head fell back on his shoulder, and he bent to lick my throat before he bit me. It felt incredible. "What do you want?"
Instead of an answer, I heard the jingle of my belt buckle, the snap of my pants, and the clicking sound of the zipper as it was lowered. He didn't bother groping me through my briefs; instead, he slid his hand under the elastic waistband and took hold of my already hardened shaft.
"Mark," he whispered, sucking my earlobe into his hot, wet mouth as he started to stroke up and down the length. "I want you. Let me have you."
He turned my head right and kissed me hard, his teeth cutting my lip with the ferocity of the motion. I opened for him, and he moaned into my mouth as he used the precome leaking from my cock to increase the rhythm of his stroking. I bucked up against him, wanting more of his mouth, more of his hand, more of the heat that was rolling off of his smooth skin.
"Please," he murmured, shifting around, suddenly straddling my thighs, still stroking me. "Let me have you. I want you so fucking bad."
I had no words. Faced with my fantasy, I was at a loss.
He leaned forward and from under the couch pulled a condom. "I stashed this here a while ago because I wanted to be ready."
The man had been planning to seduce me. How hot was that?
"Mark. Please."
"I could suck you off," I offered, just to make sure.
His whine made me smile.
"T----"
"I want you buried to your fuzzy balls in my ass."
"Fuzzy?" I teased him.
The moan came up out of his chest and was possibly the sexiest thing I had ever heard. When I felt his fingers slide over my testicles, I almost swallowed my tongue.
"No more foreplay. You understand?"
I did.
I saw the predator for a moment as he shucked me out of my pants and underwear, at the same time wriggling out of his, until all I was still wearing was my open shirt. The condom was rolled on with practiced ease, and even though it was lubed, I was still surprised when he lifted up and lowered himself down over me, inch by clenching inch. It felt incredible for me, but I was worried about him.
"What?" He gasped as I fisted his dripping cock in my hand.
"Go slow, baby," I pleaded, my other hand smoothing over his cheek. "Please."
"Slow?"
"Yes," I managed to get out, and my voice sounded strangled, guttural, as he took me inside until he was impaled on the long, hard length of me.
He was so tight and so hot, and when he rose up only to push back down onto me, I felt the slow sizzling heat start in my balls.
"Ride me," I ordered him.
He sucked in a hissing breath as I tightened my grip on his leaking cock and began to jerk him off.
"Mark," he whimpered, "I need hard...and deep. I need----I want..."
I knew what he needed. And when I lifted him off me, strong enough to move him, and shoved him face down on the couch, his firm round ass in the air, he cried out in ecstasy.
"Where's your goddamn lube?"
Beyond words, he pointed at the end table. The top opened up, and I found the tube and had squirted out a generous amount before I returned to him. I slid first one finger and then another into his quivering, greedy hole to loud, lusty cries of pleasure.
"Mark!"
I spread his cheeks and plunged to the hilt in one powerful, hard thrust.
My name had never sounded so good. The man himself felt incredible. Just looking at my dick sliding in and out of him, seeing the perfect ass swallow me, suck me in deep, I was mute. I had an overwhelming urge to bite down in the tender flesh of his shoulder just to leave a mark for everyone to see. I wanted him to be mine.
I held onto his hip with a hold that was certain to leave bruises and bent forward and took the length of him in hand. I felt his clenching channel tighten and massage the length of me, and then felt the muscles clamp down as he rode the wave of a roaring orgasm.
I was seconds behind him, pumping him though the aftershocks as I filled the condom. When I collapsed on top of him, driving him down onto the couch, I heard him grunt with my weight.
"Sorry," I apologized, lifting up.
"Wait," he sighed with a sound I thought was maybe, possibly, contentment. "Don't move."
"I'm crushing you."
"No, and I can feel your heart beating in your cock inside me. I like it."
"T----"
"I love it," his voice broke. "Okay, are you happy? I fuckin' love it."
I was thrilled, but not because I had won in some way. His confession was what pleased me. I was happy because I had just made love to the only man I ever would again. He belonged to me already, whether he knew it or not.
I eased gently from his body and watched as he hid his face from me, covering his eyes with his arm. I got up and went to the bathroom. I ditched the condom, grabbed a washcloth and a hand towel and cleaned myself up before heading back out to Tai.
He was quiet through my ministrations, and when I didn't return after several minutes, he came looking for me. I was in his bed under the covers flipping channels on his TV. His expression was priceless.
"Order in, Chinese or pizza, but do it from bed," I said, flipping back the covers so he could join me.
He stood there, staring, and then suddenly, he was beside me, cell phone in hand, as he wrapped around me, head on my chest. I think I heard him order pepperoni pizza---I wasn't really paying attention---but when his leg slipped over my thigh and he snuggled in tight, I put an arm around him to anchor him to my side.
"Stay here, okay?"
"I was planning on it," I assured him.
"No, I mean stay all weekend."
"If you insist," I chuckled, bending to kiss the top of his head.
He lifted his face at the same time so my lips met his instead. The kiss was lush with promise and slow with meaning, and when I pulled back I saw it for the first time---his eyes, filled with me.
"I like you in my bed," he told me.
"That's good, 'cause I ain't goin' nowhere."
And my words soothed him in ways I didn't know about at the time.
People disappointed Tai and left Tai, and because I didn't---because I stuck around and never, ever threatened to leave him and never got bored and laughed at his jokes---I became the one. I became the guy, his guy, and I loved it.
"Mark?"
I was brought from my daydream to face a scowling Tai.
"Sorry."
"What's wrong?"
I smiled at him. "Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me?"
"No," he told me, as his eyes filled.
"Stop," I said, reaching out to draw him in close to me. "I was just thinking about you is all."
I heard his breath catch right before he turned in my arms and grabbed me hard. His face was buried in my shoulder.
"Mark?" My mother said slowly. "What's going on?"
Three
"I can't do it," my brother Frank had said as he walked beside me back from the basketball court at dusk three days before.
I turned my head to look at him. "What can't you do?"
"I can't be you for them, Mark, I just can't."
"What are you talking about?"
"You saw what happened. I made a mistake and almost died, and everyone is on their way out here now to try and talk you into letting them commit me."
"Dramatic much?" I asked him.
"It's true, and we both know it."
I walked silently beside him.
"I just----I feel like shit that I put everyone through that, ya know?"
"I do."
"And now I'm the crazy guy you have to hide the razor blades from."
When I was quiet again, he turned to look at me and found me with my eyebrow raised, staring at him.
He laughed in spite of himself. "Shit, you know what I mean."
"I guess," I shrugged pointing the way home for him even though he probably knew. It was engrained in me to lead; I was his older brother, after all.
"I just," he grabbed me suddenly, making me stop and look at him. "Are you sure?"
"Sure about what?"
"Fuck you, Mark," he snapped, pushing me back. "Are you sure you're gonna fuckin' die?"
"Yes, honey," I soothed him. "I'm sick, and I've been sick for awhile, and now it's time to tell everyone so they can wrap their brains around it, because I'm gonna stop being this pretty fairly soon."
He sucked in his breath. "Does Tai know?"
"Yes, he does."
"Then why is he still flying?"
"He's actually taking an extended leave of absence in the next two weeks. He just needed to clock a few more miles to make him eligible. You notice he's not flying out of the country anymore, though."
Frank was on the verge of tears. "It's not----it shouldn't be you, Mark. You're the guy who holds everything together. You're the one everyone will come see when they're pissed at everyone else. You're the one who...I mean, if you're not here, everything will fall apart."
I shook my head, pulling him forward, sweat and all, into my arms. "You don't have to be me, Frankie; you just need to be you. You just need to stick around and take care of Mom, and back Dad up when he gets buried in estrogen and give the girls shit, so they don't forget to laugh. Trish and Ethan are having a rough time right now, and Deb and Alex are trying to have a baby. You need to check in with everyone, and help if you can. You need to be a part of team Gabriel. The family needs you."
He grabbed me tight. "What about Tai?"
"It's not your place to worry about Tai; you have your own life to live."
"But he----"
"I'm putting Dad in charge of watching over him."
"Dad?" He was shocked.
"Yes, Dad," I sighed. "Dad will make sure he's okay, and because Dad is Dad, Tai won't be able to say no when the old man asks him to come visit. He can say no to all the rest of you, but not him. It's engrained too deep."
He nodded as he eased out of my arms. "All that good Japanese upbringing, huh?"
"That's right," I said turning for home.
Frank rushed around in front of me, and I saw, for the millionth time, a younger, more handsome, version of myself. Same blue eyes, same brown hair, but where my features were broad and plain, his were fine and chiseled. My parents' genes had been mixed up great in him.
"You really dug me out of a shithole this time, Mark."
"Yeah, I know."
"I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate it---you believing that I'll be okay."
I tousled his sweat-dampened hair. "Of course you'll be okay. You're gonna be great."
He pulled in air and was suddenly there, back in my arms, having lunged at me.
I knew I would have to get used to it.
I was sitting in the living room looking around at the faces of my family. My father had his jaw clenched tight, and he was squinting so he wouldn't cry. My mother was weeping and holding Tai's hand tight. Trish was leaning into Ethan's arms, and Deb was wrapped around Alex. I rolled my eyes.
"Don't you dare do that!" My mother snapped at me. "It's not fair, Mark. We get to be sad, goddamnit. It's our fuckin' right!"
The room was still and silent, and I knew why. My mother swearing was an event that happened maybe once a decade. It just wasn't her way.
Tai shot me a look, and I deflated. "Sorry."
"How long have you had it?"
"Three years," I told her, sinking down into the chair.
"And when did Tai know?"
"Last year," I told her.
She turned to look at him. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry he made you keep it from us. To have to carry the burden alone must have been exhausting."
My mother was amazing. She didn't attack him for not telling her; she went right to what it meant for him instead. When he leaned sideways into her arms, I saw how pleased she was. The woman had wanted to mother him since the moment they met, and it looked like now she was finally going to get her chance, sixteen years later.
It took hours to get it all out, the diagnosis and the chemo and the remission that had not lasted and the more chemo I now needed. I had to explain about the first doctor, and the second, and the godsend I had finally found who insisted on meeting Tai immediately, no matter what kind of hurt locker that put me in.
There was the grief to explain, and anger, and how I had almost pushed Tai away before I decided on being selfish and pulled him back to me with a ravenous hunger. I had to have him; he was necessary. I had not wanted him to suffer, but it turned out that me trying to put distance between us had nearly carved out his heart.
I told my family everything, explained what had happened and what would, and about the trip I was taking to Paris with the man I loved. We would be back for the holidays, and we had rented a cabin in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I wanted a white Christmas, but I wanted it away from any of our homes. I would not have any last memories of me cluttering up the places where they lived. I especially didn't want that for Tai, even though for him, really, there was no getting around it.
There was crying and hugging, and my father just holding my hand nearly did me in. When I finally got up and stumbled into the bedroom, I fell face-first down on the bed.
"Yeah, I remember."
I rolled my head to the side to look at Tai's knees, as he had moved over beside the nightstand. "What are we talking about?"
"The first time I told you I loved you." He took a breath, and I rolled over on my back so I could see his face. I saw immediately how red-rimmed those beautiful eyes of his were. "I remember."
I could not control my grin. "Yeah?"
He nodded, moving closer to the bed until he touched it. "I came back early from a trip, and since I already had keys to your place, I went there first and found you asleep on the couch."
"I can't sleep in bed when you're not home."
"Yes, I know," he said, his voice deep, husky. "And I was standing there, looking down at you, all rumpled with your glasses on your forehead and drooling----"
"Really? Drooling?"
He grunted. "But the point was, you were there, you were always going to be there, and the fact that even after a minute of us being together, you couldn't even bear to be in your own bed without me...I just knew."
"You knew because I had told you I loved you a million times by then."
"And that's your way; when you feel it, you say it, and you shout it from the rooftops, but for me----you know that isn't me."
"Yes, I know," I teased him, reaching out to take hold of his hand.
"But I was there, and you opened your eyes and looked at me..." He trailed off and then slowly, gently, climbed onto the bed and lay down on top of me, pinning me under him.
"You love me," I whispered into his hair, my hands siding down his back, fisting the worn grey T-shirt in my hand so I could yank it up and touch his skin.
"I want you inside me."
But I was a smart man and knew that how he said it was only half of how he meant it. He was hiding again, but it was too late for that. "I'll always be inside you, Tai; you never have to worry."
He exhaled sharply, and I was suddenly clutched very tight.
"My family, my friends---when it's time, think about it, Tai, it'll be so nice. They'll all come together, and that'll be good."
"'Cause you're the glue, Mark. Everyone loves you."
It was nice of him to say, but there were more important things for us to talk about. "Do you know what the big moment in my life is?"
He shook his head.
"When I woke up from my nap and there you were, standing over me, and you said, 'Oh.'"
He pinched my side, and I laughed because he felt so good---his weight, the heat from his body, and the feel of his sleek skin. I wanted to lie beneath him for the rest of the time I had left.
"And I looked at you," I couldn't stop laughing. "And you said 'Holy shit, Mark, I think I love you.'"
"Fucker," he growled, shifting over me so his groin slid over mine.
I arched up into him, and he moaned.
"I've never loved anyone like I love you, Mark Gabriel."
"And it's been the joy of my life to be loved so hard and so completely," I said, trying to concentrate as he started to rub his hardening cock over mine, back and forth. I grabbed a handful of his hair to still him, and he froze there, staring down into my eyes. "We're not gonna do this bullshit where I make you swear to live without me and all that crap. You know what you need, but whatever happens, wherever you end up, just know that you're the first thing I think of when I wake up every morning and the last thing I think of before I go to bed. I love you, period."
He collapsed on top of me, arms and legs wrapped so tight, lips open on my collarbone, sucking and licking.
"Sorry," I chuckled, "way to kill a mood, huh?"
"Mark," he gasped, lifting up, legs still tangled with mine as he rose up on his elbow to look down at my face. "I love you back."
"I know," I told him, with all the conviction I felt. "I do."
"I'm so scared. I don't think I'll still be me without you."
"Yes, you will," I promised him.
"Do I belong to you?"
"Yes," I said gruffly, his words making me breathless.
"Show me."
And while I still could, I would.
I closed my eyes when his lips sealed over mine. His mouth devoured me, and his hands were rough as he tugged off my clothes, as if he was starving, ravenous, and I was everything he needed. He wanted me there, body and soul, to show him my love and make him feel it.
"Get on your knees."
That I could make demands caused instant trembling, and I knew that even though he wanted to be submissive to me, I had to be strong enough to demand it, to force him if I needed to. There was the promise of power in my tone, and his heave of breath told me that my voice alone, ordering and coaxing, could bring him to climax.
"Please," he begged me, "put your hands everywhere. Touch me."
When I bent over him, bit down into his shoulder, he shuddered under me.
"I can't get close enough to you. I feel like I'm going to float away."
But as the hours rolled by and I rode out the throbbing, pounding need with him, I anchored him to me and to the life I still had, and the one we still shared.
When he was spent and panting in my arms, fighting sleep, his eyes fluttering to stay open, I began stroking his hair.
"It's okay, baby, go to sleep."
"I don't want to miss anything."
"You won't, I promise. We've got plans to make, and my family to take care of. It's gonna be a busy week. You need to go to sleep."
"You always worry about everybody else instead of yourself."
"I think that's how it's supposed to be. You take care of the people you love. You just do. It works for me. I think I've done okay," I said, lifting my bicep so he rolled sideways into my waiting arms.
"You've done great," he whispered, wrapping around me as I tucked the blankets up around him.
As I notched his head under my chin, I had to smile. I certainly had.
Another post from Patric to Ethan Day's Yahoo Group -- Part II
First off, thank you all for your participation. I wish to hell I had the steam to thank you individually, or even be sure I got all the names without forgetting anyone, but my head is deluged with chemicals, which is a piss poor excuse, but a fact nevertheless. :)
I promise I will answer when I can with what I can, but for now a general shout of gratitude will have to serve.
For those who asked, and because I am right pleased with them, here are my copies of the Prostate and Sounding Stories. Funny how they seem to have taken on such mythic proportions. :)
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
Tap, tap, tap...
"Ladies... If I may draw your attention to the screen behind me. As most of you have surmised, this is a penis."
The speaker looks at his assembled audience and sees a few ladies who seem just a bit green around the edges. "If you arent sure why you are here, or heaven forbid, havent seen one of these things, may I suggest you re-enroll for basic anatomy?" He waits patiently for the small flurry of giggles to subside, followed by three of his would-be students all but running for the exit to make their escape.
"Now, I assume I have everyone elses attention? My name is Michael. I've been an RN for the last six years, and this class is an adjunct to Sexual Behaviors 201. Also known as 'Stupid Human Sex Tricks'." Michael holds up a hand to forestall the already burgeoning hue and cry. "No. Dont bother. I am neither condemning nor condoning the practice we'll discuss today. I simply repeat what some students say." He taps his keyboard and the image, several times life size, changes to show the same member, now fully erect, and supported by it's presumed owner.
"Ladies, meet Terry," he says, and waits for the inevitable sighs to subside.
"Oh mah gawd, he's gorgeous!"
Laughter greets this sally, and Michael grins. "Yes he is. Arent you baby?"
The man, dark haired and dashing, steps out from behind a partition wearing a robe, and a great big smile. "Ladies. meet my husband."
Both men smile and wait for the groans to subside.
"Ah don' care! He's still gorgeous!" The southern accented speaker, whose name probably isnt Sally, says fervently.
"Yes, well," Michael says, and steps from the podium to address a table. The image behind the podium switches to view the contents of the table. "Lets get started, shall we? Today's subject is sounding."
Terry moves to stand in front of the table.
"Sounding was originally a medical practice used to aid chronic sufferers of syphills and other STDs, primarily as a means to enlarge or in some cases debride scar tissue within the urethra. As you can see, there were a variety of instruments used to perform the task."
A scatter of giggles catches Michael's attention, and he looks up to see Terry 'hand waving' like a greek Vanna white at the various instruments on display. He scowls and Terry subsides, his eyes rolling skyward.
"We wont concern ourselves with the various names, but as you can see, the shapes suggest probable usage." Michael selects a thin rod with a small tapered bulb on the end and holds it up to the camera. "A rosebud for short term enlargement as the instrument passes through the urethra." He sets it aside and picks up a long metal rod curved at one end. "Van Buren," he says. "This one is designed to reach all the way to to the bladder."
"Wait, Michael. Why would any guy want to do that in the first place?" A woman wearing a tag which proclaims her to be Alyce asks.
Michael smiles. "First off, dont be mistaken that these things are only used on guys." He picks up a shorter rod, slightly bent, and holds it up. "A Hegar, designed for uterine applications. As to why, well, why do you masturbate?"
Another woman, Jo by name, calls out. "Because it feels good, baby, and most guys are lousy at making me scream!"
Michael smiles. "There you go. It feels good. Exploring some of those ways we go about making ourselves feel good is why this class exists." He addressed the audience in general. "How many of you know what a catheter is?"
Most of the audience raises their hands.
"Okay, how many of you have been catheterized?"
Many hands fall back into laps.
"Who werent giving birth..."
Only three hands remain. Michael points to a young man with his hand raised. "Why?"
The young man grins. "I like it."
Michael laughs. "Never mind," he says. "You'll be fine." To the two women who still have their hands raised, he says, "What you are about to see will be something like a male version of what you experienced. I promise, it wont feel as uncomfortable as it may look."
The two women nod and Michael turns to Terry. "Ready?"
Terry grins and drops his robe. "Anytime you are, my lovely boy," he says coyly.
Michael exaggerates his wince for the benefit of his audience, who laughs as expected. He dons a pair of rubber gloves, and picks up a syringe package. He peels the sterile paper back and extracts the syringe. "No, no needles for this stuff," he says, knowing more than one member of his audience is already cringing.
Michael pops open a fresh tube of KY and deftly sucks several CCs into the syringe. "Fresh tube of water based lube, not the jelly kind," he says and approaches Terry who is already holding his penis pointing upward, foreskin retracted. Michael swabs the head of Terry's dick, and a ways down the shaft, with a cotton ball dipped in betadine solution, then inserts the tip of the syringe into Terry's slit. He depresses the plunger and every eye in the audience rivets on the oversized view screen, abhorred and fascinated as they can see the lubricant fill the urethra at the underside of Terry's penis.
Michael smooths the liquid further down toward the base of Terry's dick and sets the syringe aside in favor of an unopened alcohol swipe. He chooses one of the Hagar sounds and deftly sterilizes it.
"We want to make sure the alcohol evaporates completely before we play."
"Is it play? Doesnt it hurt?"
Michael scans his audience as he waves the sound, air drying it. "I suppose you should ask Terry that."
"Anything we do to a living body has the potential for pain," Terry says. "Just as there is potential for pleasure. The entire body is a sensory organ, after all, and frankly, my dick is about as sensory as it gets. Lots of potential for pleasure there."
Women laugh, and the young man who likes catheters actually hoots.
Michael catches Terry's attention and sets the end of the sound to the tip of Terry's dick, which is already swelling with anticipation. The camera faithfully captures the moment the sound enters the slit, and Michael waits for the gasps as the device slides easily inside. About half way in, he lets go and stands back, fascinated as ever by how the heavy, highly polished metal slips in, caught by gravity until the upright bend of Terry's penis halts its progress.
"Holy shit! Where did it go?"
Another man's voice, and Michael doesnt need to see to know it's not Cath-Boy.
"The sound stops at the point where the urethra makes too sharp a bend for further travel, of course. Terry?"
Terry points his erection downward, and in a moment the sound begins to slide out of his dick. He tips it up again, and the metal rod snuggles back into its resting position.
"Remember, the Hager was designed for the much shorter uterine travel. Longer sounds like the Van Buren take the greater length into account. Because of the turns, and the prostate which we've discussed in an earlier class, there is a fair bit of manipulation involved in placing one. Van Buren sounds were designed to lock into place within the bladder\* and remain for a time, allowing the stretched urethra time to adjust, and hopefully remain open."
Terry lets the sound slip from his dick, and anyone watching can clearly see the activity holds some kind of pleasure, judging by the look on his face. Michael sterilizes one of the long, curved rods and lubricates it. The audience watches, fascinated as more and more of the metal disappears into the man's body. Michael lifts and lowers Terry's partially flaccid dick, working the curved end through the delicate channel until Terry touches his hand.
"Terry tells me we're almost there. Remember the prostate is a valve, and we have to encourage it to let us pass." He pushes the rod, so slowly, watching Terry's face for discomfort. After a moment, he feels the end of the rod win through and he deftly rotates the flat end of the sound and pushes down at the same time.
"Bulls eye." A few drops of urine drip off the end of the sound to be collected by a towel placed on the floor.
"Take note, ladies. If Terry were a patient lying quietly in a bed, the sound could remain for any length of time without danger of falling out and doing damage on the way." Michael give an experimental tug and it is obvious the device is locked firmly into place. "The weight of the sound keeps it from inadvertently rotating out."
"How does it feel, Terry?" Cath-Boy pipes up and Terry grins. Indescribable. First, there is a something sticking out of my dick, which is just plain exciting. Then there is the weight. It pulls on things and feels different from anything I've experienced before I started sounding. And last, my husband put it there."
Michael blushes furiously, but his smile is all for Terry.
"Yes, well. The point is, we as humans are forever looking for new and exciting. Sounding, done properly, can stimulate the nerve endings from the inside out and sometimes produce an orgasm. As Terry said, the weight provides a pleasing sensation, and like all new things, novelty is a factor. Some men find stretching with increasingly larger sounds, over time, to be pleasurable. Some men find their orgasms are more intense with a sound inserted, presumably because of the pressure of the sperm trying to get around the obstruction."
Michael nods to Terry and begins the process of twisting and removing the Van Buren sound. In seconds, the device is out, and Terry is grinning.
"Thanks baby." Terry picks up his robe and moves to stand behind the table. Michael's eye follow him for a moment before he turns to his audience.
"Any questions?"
(Editors note: \*I'm not sure the curve was designed solely to keep the sound in place. It IS necessary to make it all the way up into the bladder though. Patric)
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I don't recall the exact phrase, but it has something to do with even the poorest person is rich if he has friends.
I've been thinking about that ever since the last post, where it became embarrassingly apparent just how rich I truly am.
I couldn't understand at first why this silly little blog all of a sudden got so much attention, and to be perfectly frank, it startled me. Then I discovered my post had been mentioned in a "public" place and voila'! Lot's of comments, new followers, and one rather disconcerted guy in the middle. :)
Honestly, such scrutiny makes me feel... exposed. Very much like the proverbial earthworm's wriggling protest against the sunlight when his stone is overturned. Yet, balanced against the genuine concern folks have expressed, this kind of exposure becomes something of a blanket. A wrap around my shoulders when I am sitting by myself in a hospital room at 3:00 in the morning.
Simply because of how I am hard-wired, I'll likely always grumble about anyone else disbursing information about myself, even while I am busy appreciating the gesture in the long run. :)
Having said all that, I suppose updates are in order.
I'm still in the hospital. I thought I would be released yesterday, but the GI specialist wanted to take a look at my stomach with an endoscope, and like a dummy, I said yes. That affirmative gave him the confidence a few hours later to suggest an ERCP as well, "since we're already there."
Again, like a dummy, I said yes. :)
Which turned out for the better, I guess. He didn't find any gallstones, which their collective thinking had as the reason for the various symptoms (Yeah, even after they took out my gallbladder. lol) but he did find a narrowing in the duct, what he calls an ulcer well beyond the stomach, and something else I cant recall offhand, that required an incision.
So, consequently, it is the morning of my sixth day and I'm waiting for labs to come and take blood. It's sort of like a produce market; the earlier in the morning the better. :)
Doc is slated to come by this morning and we'll begin the discussion of what to do about the cancer coming back so fast. I cant exactly say I'm looking forward to the conversation, but I'm glad it's him and not someone else.
Doc's wisdom is often expressed in silence, as opposed to the sheer volume of the other folks.
You've no idea how much I value that. Thanks Doc!
Cheers...
Patric
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Yeah, yeah... For all you doomsday prophets, two posts in three days does not mean the world is coming to an end. Yet. :)
I spoke to Doc yesterday morning regarding a plan for the relapsed cancer. As a recap, we're talking about a lymphoma that took an 18 week chemo cycle to knock down, and showed up again in tests a mere six weeks later. That's the definition of aggressive. :/ And of course a transplant is out of the question because of the presence of lymphoma in the latest biopsy.
So, with all this in mind, Doc gave me a stack of paperwork the other day, written in the language I prefer, and offers me to look it over, which I did.
By the time he returned, I had only one real question: Is it a viable notion to do a few more rounds of chemo, knock the cancer back, and then \*jump\* on a transplant before it comes back, again?
In a single word, his answer was 'Yes' and I got excited.
We both know as fact there is no cure. Foolish to even hope for one. What I can do however, is 'add more quarters to the parking meter' and thereby get more time before my meter expires. A transplant will do that, to one degree or another.
Or so I believe.
Apparently however, others do not hold the same conviction. Doc just left my room. He spoke to the transplant specialist earlier and was told that a transplant probably wouldn't have any benefit. Crap.
In a nutshell, it's back to square one. Sigh. Silly me. I should have known better than to get excited. lol.
Oh well... Onward and upward. (Or in this case, 'Inward and downward'.)
Tomorrow morning I get a different camera down my throat. This one has an ultrasound on the end of the wand thingy. It is a way to look at organs near the stomach, like the pancreas. Think of it as a little elf guy leaning against the wall with a cup against his ear so he can listen to what's going on in the next room.
Kind of a cool concept, and one that will hopefully shed some light on what-all has been going on.
Cheers folks. Nap time for me. Thank you for all the wonderful comments and wishes. Y'all rock. :)
Patric
Jan Irving
Some people catch your attention the way an iridescent dragonfly does when it suddenly whizzes by you on a warm day. I remember last fall seeing one in the height of its summer growth, green-blue wings stilled for a moment as it clung to my balcony roof before it disappeared. That was how it was with Patric.
I first became aware of him when I was a new author. I remember him interacting with other people and he seemed so funny---he's actually incredibly funny---and so confident. A man who had done many jobs and possesses a lot of experience and a down to earth quality.
I am not a very verbal person. I tend to interact with close friends better than I do in crowds. I admire people who possess the qualities I see in Patric. I think that anyone who has met him online probably has had that impression of warm regard, warm interest in the people around him.
I will confess that when I learned he was sick, it was not through reading his blog. It was more like snatches of overheard conversation, bits and pieces that I put together over some time. Then a close friend of mine told me she'd dedicated one of her stories to him and I knew it had to be serious.
I mulled over it on my own, on the sidelines. I was working on one of those stories that just energizes you and makes you feel good to work on it. They are not all alike, some are like carrying heavy chains on your back. But remember that dragonfly I mentioned? This is how the story felt, and this is how Patric felt so when I was suddenly confronted with putting all those pieces together and realizing this funny, humane and beautiful person was sick, was maybe not going to be around, I needed to do something. What could I do? Writing him an email, no. So I decided I wanted to dedicate a story to him.
I wrote him and he was delighted. For me, I wanted him to know something I enjoyed doing made me think of him. After I'd finished it, I remember joking with him online and he said that a straight cowboy was a waste. That was Patric. He made me laugh.
When I was asked to take part in this collection it was a difficult time in my own life. I remember getting the email from Kris and thinking 'I don't want this---Patric being sick, Patric being gone, Patric having cancer---on top of the rest. I don't want to write anything for this reason. Damn it!'
All through this time, I saw him joking around with others online, not as much as before since he was in treatment and sometimes days would pass and then he'd be around again and I'd always feel relief and delight that he was around again. One time we exchanged some letters so I know he went out for a drive with a friend and I imagined him out doing that. I actually pictured him with the wind in his hair, enjoying a day out (and I imagined it was a sunny day).
I've been mulling since then and what I think I've learned from Patric is that life is that quicksilver moment of the dragonfly. Each moment, each person is not to be repeated. We have what we have and if we are lucky, we have people we love, who love us. We have friends and we have things we are passionate about.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Home again, home again. Jiggity-something.
I got home yesterday. Left the hospital in a flurry of "I dont want to see you again" type comments from the nurses and the CNAs which was sort of sweet.
I also left about as stoned as it was possible to be without overdosing, which was sort of bizarre. After stopping long enough to fill prescriptions, and getting a hamburger (real food!) I was more than halfway home when it hit me: I'm outside, and it's Spring!
No one ever accused me of being quick on the draw when my brain is fried on chemicals. :)
Today, I feel like a junkie going through withdrawal. Apt enough, considering the drugs I was given. (And oh, how I wanted that "getting hit by a freight train" effect that comes with IV pushed Dilaudid. Wham!)
Oblivion in any form is more than merely desirable just now.
The end result of my stint in the hospital is that I am now short one gall bladder, I have a stent in my common bile duct to span a stricture, I had a sphincterotomy that maybe wasnt necessary (like taking out my gall bladder maybe wasnt necessary) and things still hurt like before. Plus a borderline affinity for IV based opoid drugs. Sigh.
Several days have passed since I started this entry. I got out of the hospital four days ago. I've been scheduled for more blood tests to see if "the numbers" are increasing again. If they are, and I'll be very surprised if they are not, based on what I feel, I'm likely headed back to the hospital again. I can't help wonder if they arent looking in the wrong place, or at the wrong thing, because all the usual treatments dont seem to have any effect. Meh. Give me an open, festering abscess any day over this unknown shit. :)
On the cancer front, (yeah, you'd think one front was enough) I'll be starting the "FDA approved" experimental drug called Vorinostat fairly soon. Doc's office has already started the process of procurement. It will be the first time he's ever prescribed the drug, so we both get to go on a journey. Personally, I'm glad I can finally provides SOME sort of benefit to the guy, even if its just an opportunity to learn something new. Gods know he's done enough for me.
I just realized there are no charming or witty anecdotes, or cheerfully phrased silliness to defray the onerousness of the information these posts contain, like there was in the early days.
Sorry about that, folks.
Patric
Friday, April 23, 2010
Do you remember when you were a little kid, when you had a best friend with whom you always spent your time? He went everywhere with you, right? You took naps together in Kindergarten, knocked heads together wrestling on the front lawn, got matching Band-Aids from your moms whenever you got a scrape, and even when you had to pee, he was right there aiming for your Cheerio. :)
Friends that close are so very rare nowadays, it seems. We get older, get busier, and we keep in touch of course, but it's just not the same. (Never mind the fact you've long since given up taking target practice with cereal in the toilet bowl.)
Well, I'm here to say I have a new best friend, as close to me as that fabled lad from early childhood, only this time the association is a bit more strained.
My new friend is something of a pain in the ass, but I just call him Pain for short.
In the hospital, nurses constantly ask you to rate your pain on a scale from one to ten. Most nurses also roll their eyes, because they know far better than most doctors how ludicrous such a scale is. Even the simplest ouch or owie can take on epic proportions if it goes on long enough.
Generally speaking, they are looking for some sort of indicator as to how well their pain management regimen is working. If the number goes down, then things must be improving. Dopey me, I thought the same thing.
Saturday morning after I was released, most of the wonderful drugs I was given via direct charge through the IV had worn off, and I met my new best friend for the first time. He was rather quiet at first, and not too pushy. After all, I was sent home with several nifty little scripts that I could trade for almost as lovely drugs, right?
In the wee small hours of the morning, however, my pal came back, more insistent than ever, and while I originally thought he had just moved in, I discovered he was there the whole time, muffled by chemicals and circumstance.
Do you remember when you were a little kid, and you got into an argument with your best friend? The war was as legendary as the relationship was close, and you both rocked in the aftermath.
Same thing nowadays, trust me. My new buddy was incensed that I tried to muzzle his caterwauling, and he's not about to let me forget it! He pitched a fit of legendary proportions that lasted an entire week, and oh how soft and weak I've become in my old age. My new best friend pretty much had me cowed and quivering, and at his mercy until yesterday, when dear sweet Liz, and Doc came up with a solution. Something about a patch that lasts for three days, delivering a constant dose of what I hope will be a lovely drug to keep my new best friend quiet long enough that I can get some work done, if not actually sleep.
While I wait for insurance to approve it, Doc altered the dosage for oral Dilaudid to the point where, for the first time since I got out of the hospital, I could think of something other than my pal and his persistence.
Those who follow regularly will have seen the signs. I could play in the lists for a little while last night, and behind the scenes, I could actually work on edits!
I know for a fact that my buddy and I will be just as close as any other best friend I've ever had, and likely for the rest of my life. He's taught me a great deal already, too. Not the least of which is a clear understanding of how persistence throws that damnable 1 to 10 scale right out the window, and how soft and squishy I've become.
I can deal with that, now that I understand, and with Doc's help, I can even shut the guy up once in a while, because sometimes, when you argue with your best friend, it's good to actually have the last word. :)
Cheers!
Patric
Jean Lorrah
The first time I met Patric Michael in person we had already been friends and colleagues for several years---but the day he met Jacqueline Lichtenberg and me in Seattle (where we were teaching a writing workshop at a science fiction convention) was the first time I had any idea what he looked like. Don't believe that's possible? Try to find a picture of Patric online. He has to be the only person in the world who is both active online and imageless! If you Google for images under his name you will find his book covers and lots of photos of people with names similar to his---but not one photo of Patric himself. Even in the Facebook photos open only to his friends, his photos are partial, hidden, ambiguous, or of other people. That's Patric---a paradox of openness and privacy.
Jacqueline has told you how we met Patric through our online writing school, and how he slowly but surely became an integral part of simegen.com. He's a curmudgeon, but that's fine, as we are pretty curmudgeonly ourselves. But at first it was difficult to determine how far we could trust this person we knew so little about, and who thought in such a different way.
If you know Patric only through his most recent blogging (or, as many people tend to do, conflate the author with characters in his books), you may think he is a very open and emotionally sharing person by nature. If you have known Patric for more than a year, though, you know how protective he is of his private self, so giving the keys to our domain server to someone we didn't "know" in the conventional sense was quite an act of trust. The strangest part, though, was that Patric wasn't sure if he could trust us!
Patric did not come out of the background Jacqueline and I did. She and I met through Star Trek fandom, a huge group of mostly women from all over the world, who first joined together in the letter writing campaign of 1967-68 to save The Original Series, and then kept up connections through letters and fanzines in those long-ago days before email. Jacqueline and I got to know one another through exchanging snail mail well before we met---one of thousands of friendships and partnerships that grew out of Trekfandom. So we already had the experience of forming strong ties over long distances with people we came to trust with everything we cared most about. Patric felt like "one of us."
Of course it is now commonplace for people to build relationships online, but before Trekfandom deep long-distance friendships were rare unless the people knew one another before circumstances separated them. So I think Patric was rather unsure of why we were so open to trusting him. It didn't help that Jacqueline and I think in words and Patric thinks in images---there were quite a few times when we were all saying the same thing and didn't realize it because we were using different vocabularies! It took a while, but eventually we reached a state in which we were completely comfortable working together.
When it came to tech matters, Patric was a godsend---neither Jacqueline nor I have the knowledge, training, or experience to be a sysadmin. Fortunately for us, Patric soon became as strongly involved in the Sime~Gen universe and our intentions for simegen.com as we were. He added a perspective completely different from ours, and influenced our world forever.
Over time we became as much friends as colleagues---and you must understand that all three of us are the kind of people who have a very few extremely close friends, not a host of acquaintances. What Jacqueline, Patric, and I have had is a weird sort of three-way intellectual marriage.
Patric's work is embedded in simegen.com. His artwork and various other graphics give visual life to our domain, and now to reprints of our books. We could never have done the work he has done for us---we don't have his vision.
I am so glad to have had Patric in my life, and in my life's work.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Sometimes I get lucky. And sometimes I forget how lucky I truly am.
Today I was reminded, in the form of a simply nice day.
I was supposed to be working on a story, and I'll apologize in advance for my lack, but I needed Papa, my resident chauffeur, to take me in to get prescriptions filled.
We did that, and on the way back home, we stopped off at a parts store so Papa could pick up a tool he needed for one of his projects. Nothing fancy there, except that we were both somewhat playful. Rare enough for a man who saw his wife dwindle away over many years, and has to watch me do almost exactly the same thing. And rare enough for me just lately. Yesterday's drug solution gave me the opportunity.
We stopped for lunch, and generally goofed around, dawdling on our way home. As I said, rare. No appointments, no particular worries, etc.
The sun was shining when we finally got back, and I got the silly notion of burning the burn pile. He got the silly notion of weed whacking. (Remember this is the man who hates yard work with a passion.)
We generally cleaned up around our property, me pruning a few branches here and there and him helping me drag debris to be burned.
By the end of the day we were somewhat tired. He's no spring chicken, but he can still move faster than me. :)
What would have been onerous labor at any other time was actually fun, simply because we each did what we could, taking our time and resting a lot, and neither of us doing anything beyond our means.
The end result was a thoroughly enjoyable day, which we capped by taking advantage of the last few coals of the burn pile. More than enough to cook a few hot dogs on a stick. :)
Keep in mind that my being sick has given him a purpose again. He never hesitates if I ask him to take me to the store, or if I need him to open a jar or bottle, etc. And keep in mind too that until recently, we sort of existed singularly within each others company.
All of that seems to have changed now. For example, I used to like doing yard work by myself, and never thought about asking him for help. Now, having him outside with me seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and as we talked (while singeing our fingers off cooking dinner) I realized he was simply keeping me company in his gentle, unobtrusive, "let me do what I think I can, and quietly lend a hand when I go too far" way.
There are any number of people who are healthy, wealthy, and have a bazillion friends, but none of them has a Papa like mine. :)
I will be eternally grateful that I "discovered" him before it was too late.
Thanks Papa. I love you.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Wow. So much has happened since I last posted, I scarcely know where to begin.
Lets see... The lymphoma is back, and after only six weeks out of chemo. That means a self donor transplant is out of the question. A donor transplant is still viable, but it's not an option because once disability kicks in (and I am now told its assured) I will lose all my insurance because I will basically "earn" too much. A donor transplant will mean anti-rejection drugs for the rest of my life (and no real guarantee it'd be any longer at that) which I wont be able to afford because I wont be "earning" enough to cover them without insurance.
I now fully grasp the meaning of a "Catch 22." :)
So... One alternative left; a drug called Vorinostat, which has yet to be proved against my type of lymphoma. If it works at all, then the best I can hope for is to slow things down (add a few more quarters to the meter) and if it doesn't work, no harm no foul. It's a milder form of chemotherapy, taken as a pill, and has side effects of its own, but with the exception of one concern, they should be generally easier to handle.
I had a painful opportunity to contrast and compare doctors yet again last week. As a consequence of my insurance, I am compelled to retain a primary care physician, (PCP) and if I didn't have one, I would be assigned to a general practitioner. Mine turned out to be a fellow with whom, on the two times I met him, I bumped heads. The first time was our initial meeting, and he pretty much gave up on the full physical because either the chemo, or the cancer, affected his observations.
Fine, I understand that easy enough. What I didnt get was telling him how hard it was to find meaningful, relevant information with Google because of all the personal pages being indexed on a given subject; that I had to discard the first fifty hits or so as useless until I wound my way down to the professional papers. He then told me to take anything I find with a grain of salt because "anyone can get on a computer and post something."
Um, didnt I just say that to him?
I took it as an indication that he wasnt really listening to me. Whatever. It's not the first time that's ever happened.
I discovered that all the pre-authorizations Doc has to submit for drugs and tests and such all have to first be approved by my PCP-the guy who doesnt listen-so I got it in my head that I'd make an appointment so he can see and document what all has declined since our first visit. The rashes on my skin, the weight loss, etc. I figured he'd have a better understanding of why so much was coming to him for approval all of a sudden.
Apparently I couldnt have been any more stupid.
During the recent scramble to find a medication that would last longer than the dilaudid, and be pre-approved, (The 3 day patches were denied, presumably due to cost) the PCP prescribed methadone. Fine by me, as long as it worked.
I'd been taking it for a couple of days when it came time for my appointment, and his first comments were about dosages, and how he would let me adjust accordingly, and so on. Again, reasonable discourse. But then he hits me up with something called a pain contract, telling me no doctor would prescribe narcotics without the patient signing one.
As he's telling me about it, I found myself getting annoyed, and I told him I resented the concept. I certainly have no intention of selling the stuff, and by the way the contract was worded, I was very much concerned that it would preclude Doc from administering his treatments for the cancer. When I asked him what would happen if I didnt sign the contract, I was told "Well, I dont have to prescribe the medication."
I admit my tact failed me at that point. Something in his tone bothered me.
"Wait. Wait a minute. Was that a threat? Because that's how it came across," I said. "I want to be sure I heard you correctly."
He folded his hands, took a few deep breaths, then gathered up his notes and excused himself to leave. "I'll be right back," he said. "Stay here and I'll be back in a few minutes."
I'm thinking I pissed him off or something and he's gonna go collect himself. Figures. I have that effect on people sometimes. Too blunt, me.
He comes back an hour later with a clinic administrator in tow. That man leaned against the wall and stared at me the whole time.
"I brought him to answer any questions you have," the PCP said. While he was gone, I had read the contract and it literally said that while under the PCP's care, I wouldnt seek out prescriptions from any other doctor, nor make appointments with any other doctor, etc. and to do so would terminate my association with his clinic.
Pretty much exactly what I was afraid of, in other words.
So I told the PCP I only had one question. "If I decline the contract, you dont write any prescriptions at all, right?"
"Well, yes."
"Okay. Then I decline the contract."
"Oh, um, okay." he said.
"Do you know why I made this appointment in the first place?" I asked.
"For the dizziness?"
"No," I said, slowly. "It was so you could document how much I've declined so you'd have a better understanding why so many pre-authorizations were suddenly being submitted."
"Yeah. Alright. That's fine," he said, and gathered up his notes.
I watched him do that and I asked, "So, are we done then?"
He said yes, and I picked up my shit and left. So much for documentation.
Worse yet, I found out after the fact that he never checked with Doc to see if methadone would interfere with anything Doc had given me, or with the chemo, etc. WFT?!
I get that the PCP sees a lot of people, and that a significant majority of those people are low income and thus possibly more likely to abuse the drugs, (sorry for the profiling, but it's statistically true) either by selling them or by taking them, so yeah, a contract like that would be important, but what I dont get is why the rest of my "care" isn't important, apparently.
According to my conversation with the insurance company directly, I'll likely be "termed" meaning they will dump my ass entirely. I cant say as I care too much, but I feel sorry for whomever takes my place. Hopefully they only have a boil that needs to be lanced, or something equally easy.
The bright note is that when all is said and done, when the insurance is gone and I'm left to my own devices, I won't mind so much. It'll be worth it to not have to deal with corporations, industries, and governments all who promise aid and turn out instead to offer it at such a high cost that even basic dignity is squashed.
I don't think I'll mind closing that last door forever. Let 'em knock elsewhere. I aint buying anymore.
Patric
Addendum: I just got a call from Doc's office and the experimental drug Vorinostat, has been approved. Now I wait for the specialty pharmacy in Pittsburgh to call me and set up delivery. Whoo Hoo!
Also, based on the comments I've received, let me clarify: The insurance company has been helping me find another PCP who will work more closely with myself, and Doc, regarding the cancer treatment. It's probably standard for them, but they make me feel like they are going out of their way to expedite this, and that is a GOOD thing. :)
Thank you all for your concern and support!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Men blanched, women wept, and babies cried out in fear and confusion!
Two posts in less than a week? Holy Heaping Horrors, Batman? What's next?
What's next is to make things even worse by letting this one be good news for a change.
Grab your pacemakers and pray to you local deities. :)
I called to confirm it today, so tomorrow should see delivery of the Vorinostat, and by the sound of it, four months worth. Plenty of time to see if the stuff will work, and I don't have to beg some clueless goomer to get it.
Which is ironic since I met my new PCP today.
I now understand why the folks at my insurance company thinks this new place, and the new PCP, would be a better "fit." It seems they deal almost exclusively with chronic pain sufferers. Makes sense, considering that was the particular problem we were dealing with at the time, and serendipitous in that aside from pain management, there is very little a general practitioner can actually do for my situation.
Anyway, the new PCP is named Ruth. As always, I leave out specifics to protect the innocent. I was given to understand I was meeting her in lieu of the doctor who only works 8 hours a week at the clinic, ostensibly to get things rolling until he had an open appointment.
Turns out I was mistaken, and I freely admit I was happy to be in error. Ruth is a doll, plain and simple. As with all first consultations, I went through the litany of why I was there, what the problems were, what concerned me, yadda, and by the time we got to the end of the checklist, Ruth looks at me and asks, "So what can I do for you? It looks as though your oncologist pretty much has everything covered."
"Honestly, I don't know. I'm not going to mess around with any pain contracts since I want Doc to have exclusive control over that stuff, and everything else is a consequence of the cancer that hopefully the vorinostat will handle." I went on to add, "As I understand it, you'll be the one who has first crack at approving or declining whatever pre-authorizations Doc might request. I guess if you could keep track of how I am and balance need against cost, rather than arbitrarily saying no to anything expensive, that'd help a lot."
Ruth thought for a moment and replied. "Well, I'll want to make sure we open a line of contact between him and I so I can go to bat for you if the need arises. In the meantime, I can be your cheerleader."
Bonk.
In that one single sentence, all the vibes I was getting from her gelled, and I fell in love. Yeah, I know. I have a tendency to make snap judgments and this time is no exception, but jeez. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out this lady has a whole different take on what she cares about first. Me.
And yeah, I started sniffling. Today was incredibly bad as far as pain goes, for reasons I dont need to detail, (suffice to say I understand why, at least) and I didn't have such a great hold on my emotions. Regardless. Ruth took it in stride by patting my arm and telling me not to worry about it. "With the size of the monster you're fighting, anyone would be affected."
Bonk again.
In less than an hour, she made me feel miles better than the other guy, and with a lot less effort. Tomorrow, while I'm waiting for the drug to arrive, I'll call the lady at my insurance and gush all over her for her insight and her choice. I wont be able to stop myself. :)
I can foresee only two small points of contention between Ruth and I, and neither is a deal breaker so far as I'm concerned. One, she has a marked preference for letting drugs handle whatever situation (and I'm the guy who hates to take anything at all) but she did qualify herself by saying "If you'll take it." meaning she already knows she can suggest whatever and it'll do no good unless I actually swallow it. She also didn't bat an eyelash when I told her I was leery of introducing any new variables before I had a solid grasp on how the vorinostat would affect me. She was scoring brownie points like crazy. :) More so because she apparently doesn't have a problem suggesting a more natural alternative when it's an option.
The other point, and this is strictly a personality thing that will likely actually work to my advantage, is a definite hint that she like to have her fingers in ALL the pies around her. I can live with that, because it means she wants Doc to keep her apprised of whatever he is thinking, planning, etc. and quite frankly, I may even live because of it. :)
Thank you all for the various and varied comments to the previous post. I see now that I wasn't very clear on the role my insurance company played in that whole mess, and I apologize for that. The vehemence that was pretty much a constant theme for many of the remarks shows that the problem of insurance and PCPs and whatnot is awfully widespread. I rather wish that weren't the case, but maybe it means change will come soon.
I'll keep my fingers crossed for all of us.
And Tame, it's probably a good thing you aren't my PCP. We'd never get anything done from all the laughing and having a good time. lol
Hugs to you, darling! Muaah!
Patric
Friday, May 7, 2010
Back in the joint again. Third try to solve the mystery of my broken guts.
More details when I have something definite to share.
In the meantime, better drugs means I can finally sleep for a while lon... zzzzzzz
Chrissy Munder
When I first got to know Patric, he immediately associated me with a short story I wrote around the construction of the Mackinac Bridge. The bridge is an amazing testament to will and determination, hammered into place by men of a different age and temperament. In appearance, the structure is fragile, delicate, and breathtaking. Underneath those initial impressions is the solid steel core, weathered by time and elements yet still refusing to give way. Every time I visit the bridge, my thoughts now turn to Patric, and during a trip to the Straits earlier this summer, I realized that for me, the two will always be joined together.
"Mark, will you wait up?" Jason Lomax glared after the swiftly disappearing back of his boyfriend. He tilted his head skyward and squeezed his water bottle, gulping the lukewarm liquid before pressing the cap down and shoving the plastic container into its clip. He didn't care what any newscaster had to say about El Niño weather patterns or global warming. The end of September in landscape scant miles away from Michigan's Upper Peninsula shouldn't be this warm.
Jason lowered the zipper at the neck of his breathable, wicking, supposedly temperature-controlling shirt and tightened the strap of his helmet. With a muttered exclamation, he shoved his feet back into the toe clips on his rented bike and pushed off, weaving for a second or two before he reacquired his balance and started off.
"This will be something we can do together," he mimicked Mark's words. The same ones used to cajole him into the trip. "A chance for us to get away and reconnect." Jason snorted. So far, the only thing to connect had been his sore ass to this bicycle seat while they pedaled around Mackinaw City and the surrounding area.
A car passed him, dirt and gravel kicked up in its wake. Jason lowered his head and listened to the pinging of the small stones against the fiberglass of his helmet. Thank God for sunglasses. And for the comfortable amenities of the hotel room, especially the Jacuzzi tub patiently waiting for their return.
Mark had wanted to try camping, tent and all. Jason shuddered at the thought. He could do rustic with the best of them, and build a mean campfire, thank you very much. But sometimes, he and Mark differed on levels of necessary comfort, and in his mind, the hot tub came high on the "necessary" list. The trip might have been a complete rainout instead of the unexpected heat wave, and a wet tent wasn't Jason's idea of a good time.
He'd admit the changing colors gave a spectacular show. Jason admired the vast array of red, gold, and fading green foliage surrounding him, fallen leaves covering the ground and crushed beneath his wheels. No wonder this area proudly displayed signs staking claim to being part of the designated Official State Color Tour in the fall.
Jason groaned, his thighs flexing as he painfully powered his way up the hill to the end of the street and the actual end of the road he traveled. Once stopped, he pushed escaping strands of sweat-soaked hair back under his helmet. God only knew the horrific display of hat head he'd sport when he removed the offending item of protection; his dark mop resembled a Brillo pad on the best of days. He stared at the two directions available to him; both were dirt and gravel that promised nothing but effort he didn't want to expend before he read the sign. McGulpin Lighthouse was to his right, and the Headlands to his left. Jason wondered just what the heck a headlands was. Mark would know. This entire trip was a feast for his history and obscure-fact-loving soul, but Mark had taken off ahead of him.
A spray of gravel interrupted his directional debate as Mark's bike skidded to a stop beside him. Jason pushed again at his misbehaving hair and took a small measure of satisfaction in the gasping breaths his boyfriend needed to suck in before he spoke.
"The lighthouse is a little further up the road." Mark beamed a smile toward Jason. A wide, happy grin lit his face with excitement as he rocked his body, the wheels of his bicycle carving out a narrow trail in the dirt. "Cars are in the lot, so I think we can walk through."
"Great," Jason muttered under his breath. "Just what I wanted to do." He frowned, Mark's smile dimmed, and Jason knew the whole unhappy cycle of their relationship for the last several months had started once again. He couldn't blame Mark. If anything, Jason was the one who had failed to speak up when Mark first laid out his plans for the trip. Yes, he wished Mark had included him in the planning, but other than the tent, Jason had gone along with every suggestion, eager to make amends for the overtime hours he had spent on his last case. Definitely too little and too late to complain now.
Mark took off ahead of him, and Jason let his eyes focus on the sparse frame accented by the close-fitting material of his gear. Jason appreciated Mark's long lanky body: a natural athlete perched on the small bicycle seat. Totally unlike Jason, who was thick and blocky atop the vinyl saddle, unstable and unable to control the two wheels beneath him.
He liked cycling in theory. He and Mark made a point of watching the Tour de France every year. He just never felt comfortable on a bike once he put theory into practice. Mark assured him the ease would come with time, but Jason wondered how much longer he had to wait.
Jason glanced ahead of Mark and realized they had ridden up to another electrical power station in the middle of their nowhere. He couldn't help but be fascinated by the assortment of metal twisted into strange shapes and curves no one ever seemed to understand the purpose of. He accepted the principles of electricity, the movement of the unseen current along copper wire, and the way the condensers and coils worked to step down the voltage for safe usage in the modern world. But he never got past the how. Who had been the first to figure this out? How had they put it into practice? His inner pragmatist didn't buy Ben Franklin with his key and homemade kite in the middle of a storm.
"We're almost there." Mark paused by the power station and grinned when Jason caught up to him. Mark held his sunglasses in his hand, face reddened from the influx of oxygenated blood. Jason couldn't help the little zing that ran through him. Mark shrugged off Jason's compliments, swearing his dark brown hair and matching eyes were average in appearance, but something about him had caught Jason's attention their first meeting and hadn't let go of him since.
This time, they pedaled off in tandem, Mark naming the wildflowers fighting for life in the cracked asphalt of the shoulder: chicory with blue, daisy-like blossoms and the everpresent Queen Anne's lace. Jason relaxed, enjoying Mark's unexpected attention. The brush framing the road grew taller, trees and weeds combining to form a thick barrier. They passed a dirt side street on the left and Mark slowed his pace, Jason instinctively following suit.
A large sign loomed on the right, announcing their destination as the brush became less dense, and Jason caught his first glimpse of a faded, yellow brick building and attached tower set back from the road. Three cars and a RV sat parked in the gravel lot. Jason came to a stop beside them. He shifted off his seat as his legs stretched thankfully down to the ground to secure his balance, mindful as always of the solid bar some sadistic soul had decided was a necessity on a man's bicycle.
"Look at that," Mark said excitedly as he hopped off and secured his bike in the waiting rack before taking off his helmet. Jason gingerly swung his leg over his own, and wheeled it to rest beside Mark's, uncomfortable as always as his first, few movements shifted the padding in his shorts. Oh, yeah. Fun times.
"Wasn't the building set too far back from the water to do any good?" Jason couldn't help but question. Every picture he had always seen of lighthouses showed them perched on some rocky coast.
"This place is amazing." Ignoring Jason, Mark rested his hands on hips as he surveyed the aged exterior, his eyes shining with excitement. "So full of history. Built in 1868, the lantern was first lit in 1869 and burned every night until deactivated in 1906."
"What happened then?" Jason asked, intrigued despite himself by Mark's excited recitation. His initial impression of the old lighthouse grounds proved disappointing. The grass, dried and browned by heat and lack of moisture. Someone had tried planting petunias along the side, but the plants had grown leggy, the blossoms small.
"The building was used as a private residence," Mark responded as Jason pulled off his helmet and shoved his hair off his face. "Then, in 2008, Emmet County purchased the lighthouse and started the restoration."
"Pretty cool," Jason conceded. "It must have been fun to grow up here as a kid." He followed Mark's example, dangling his helmet from the bike's handlebars, and walked across the gravel toward the side entrance.
"I know, right?" Mark's face brightened at Jason's contribution. He slid his arm around Jason's waist and pulled him close.
"So, the county turned the structure into a museum?" Jason asked as they reached the building. A small placard announced the hours of operation, and Jason couldn't resist petting the ginger-striped cat curled up in a large planting pot beside the step.
"Kind of." Mark opened the wooden, screened door for Jason. "Nothing here right now but photographic displays. Brian told me the full restoration would take years, but we shouldn't miss the chance to climb to the top of the tower."
Jason's good humor quickly evaporated. "Brian?" he questioned, as his body stiffened. He heard the stilted tone of his voice but couldn't help it. The two of them had met Brian on the second night of their stay while strolling a portion of the three-mile Historical Pathway laid out around the city. Mark insisted on stopping and reading every display marker they passed, and when Jason had taken advantage of Mark's distraction to use the restroom, Brian had walked up and introduced himself.
Brian had acknowledged Jason's reappearance with a rueful smile, but continued to direct his attention and historical tidbits toward Mark. Turned out the two of them were both history teachers, and they eagerly compared classroom notes and teaching techniques while Jason, a transactional lawyer by trade, trailed along behind, his unhappiness increasing with every step.
"Didn't I tell you?" Mark said, apparently oblivious to Jason's change in mood. "He's staying in our hotel. I ran across him when you were in the shower and I went to get us some bagels. He told me about the lighthouse and gave me directions."
"Great." Jason bit his lip to keep from saying any more and walked through the doorway. Worn wooden floors, stained with age, creaked under his step. The first room doubled as a gift shop. Shelves prominently displayed books and DVDs full of history of the Straits area and coffee mugs bearing images of the Mackinac Bridge were available in a variety of colors. To the left was a small counter, manned by a woman currently deep in discussion with an elderly man in plaid shorts and black dress socks who had to be the owner of the RV.
Happy to avoid any conversation, Jason quickly took the stairs to the next level. He peeked into the open rooms, frozen tableaus of how the lighthouse keepers and families lived their lives. Photographs were displayed on the walls of the corridor, detailing the construction of the lighthouse and scenic views. Mark poked along behind him, humming happily at each new discovery, and Jason's shoulders tensed even as he told himself not to be such an ass.
At the back of the building, they paused outside the entrance to the round tower housing the powerful lamp. Grated steps of black metal wound to the top in an upward spiral. Jason grew dizzy just looking at the narrowing brickwork, and he rested his hand against the cool stone of the outer wall. The difference in temperature between the two parts of the building was immediately noticeable.
"We going up?" Mark leaned across Jason's shoulder, looking past him.
"You go first." Jason shifted to the side and let Mark pass. He stared at the sign posted on the wall beside the door, warning persons with heart conditions or fear of enclosed spaces not to enter. Reluctantly, he walked through the doorway. Mark had already disappeared from sight, the sound of his footsteps echoing overhead. Jason swallowed as he placed his foot on the lower step, his pulse hammering by the time he slowly made his way to the third. If only the steps were solid instead of being open and letting him see how far back down to Mother Earth he could fall.
Jason crept his way up to the fifth riser, gritting his teeth and fighting against his instinctive desire to squat low and hover close to the ground. He hated his vertigo. Despite his knowledge the stairway wasn't moving, each step seemed to sway beneath his feet, and while Jason thought he might force himself to the top of the narrow tower, he didn't know how he'd manage the return journey.
"You coming?" Mark's voice floated down toward him.
"Maybe I'll pass." It took two tries for Jason to get his dry mouth to croak out the words, and he pressed himself close against the stone wall as he sat on the step. His fingers tightly gripped the metal in an effort to regain control. "You go ahead."
"You sure?"
Jason squeezed his eyes shut and kept one hand on the wall as he bumped his butt down to the next step without answering. Thank God there was no one watching. Mark knew he had a fear of heights, but had never seen Jason in full, irrational action.
"I can't believe how narrow this tower gets."
Accompanied by Mark's excited commentary, Jason slowly inched his way back to the bottom of the staircase and stood up. He tugged at the collar of his tight-fitting shirt. A side exit led to the outside, and Jason opened the door, grateful for the rush of fresh air.
"I'm going to look around," Jason yelled up to Mark, and without waiting for a reply, he stepped out. The sun warmed his face, and Jason let the combination of light and air dissipate the unease he had felt in the tower.
A small, dirt path next to an abandoned doghouse led away from the grounds and down a wooded hill; without thinking, Jason started following it. The trail quickly grew steeper and more difficult, forcing him to grab at branches and brush to stay on his feet. He glanced behind himself. He could see the metal walkway around the top of the tower, the shape of the lantern in the middle visible through the glass, and just maybe that small figure was Mark, looking out toward him. Jason stumbled over a rock and reached out to catch himself.
"Wow," he breathed. The path ended abruptly, brush giving way to an enormous expanse of water as land stopped and the Great Lake began. Jason picked his way across the coastline covered in layers of rock, surprised at the lack of sand. There were huge boulders closer to the edge and a few farther out in the lake. He listened to the rhythmic pulse of the surf, a steady heartbeat against the shore, and bent down to pick up a small chunk of limestone before taking a seat on one of the larger blocks, his heels dangling along the side.
Jason rubbed the stone between his fingers, fascinated by the smooth texture. He traced the spiral outline of some ancient creature, compressed and fossilized by the passage of time, before he coiled his arm back and threw the rock into the water with a loud splash. His seat gave him an uninterrupted view of the Mackinac Bridge, the suspension wires giving the steel structure a deceptively airy appearance.
At this distance, the top of the bridge's twin towers were covered by a cloudy mist despite the unseasonable warmth of the day, and Jason remembered the movie chronicling the bridge's construction he and Mark had viewed their first night in town. To their surprise, the entire upper level of the local pizza parlor had been converted into a museum commemorating the achievements of the ironworkers. Mementos of the era shared space alongside a gift shop and small theater. Jason sat fascinated in the dark, Mark's hand in his, and watched as men battled the elements to conquer the Straits and build the bridge before him.
Given his fear of heights, Jason couldn't imagine the courage the endeavor had taken. He wondered what those men would think of him, sitting here pouting like a child, jealous because he had to share his favorite toy. But Mark was more than a toy, and they weren't children. Brian should have known better than to continue his pursuit, Mark shouldn't have let his natural friendliness be misconstrued, and Jason was at fault for not speaking up once again. So, now what?
He understood the intricacies needed for titles of ownership and corporate battles. Relationships baffled him. Jason sat on his rock, the elemental force of the lake calming his jagged nerves. The water seemed alive, inhaling and exhaling in a constant, unceasing pattern, and the longer he watched, the more at peace Jason became. His silly fears and insecurities meant nothing to the great entity. It had existed for ages before him, and would go on long after.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?" Jason didn't even start at the unexpected sound of Mark's voice behind him.
"I'm not sure, but I know I should apologize for something." Mark shrugged and took a seat beside Jason. "I saw you from the tower," he said, when Jason continued to sit in silence. "Are we going to talk?"
Jason inched closer to Mark. He hadn't realized how cool the breeze blowing in off the lake to shore really was. "I'm sorry too," he said. He was happy Mark had made an effort to find him, but it was still easier staring out at the bridge than at Mark.
"For what?" Mark asked. He rested his palm on Jason's thigh, warm even through the material of Jason's shorts and squeezed the muscle gently.
"For not speaking up." Jason reached for Mark's hand and twined their fingers together. "For being so afraid of losing you that I stopped being honest about things when they matter."
"We all do that." Mark tightened his grasp and leaned closer into Jason's side. "Somewhere along the line, it just gets easier not to."
"Like how?" Jason asked, interested in Mark's take on their situation.
"I should ask you to work less overtime instead of convincing myself you don't want to come home. I shouldn't have used Brian what's-his-name in an attempt to make you jealous."
Jason laughed. "It worked."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Jason finally let himself look at Mark, visually tracing the familiar smile and faint crinkles by the corners of his eyes. "I wanted to rip his spindly little head right off."
"The view here is amazing," Mark murmured. "We wouldn't have found this without his suggestion. But he was never a threat to my feelings for you."
"Remind me to thank him next time we don't see him." Jason poked Mark in the side. "You were right. We needed to get away."
Mark smiled and relaxed against Jason's shoulder, his arm wrapped tightly around Jason's waist. "I'm glad you think so."
"But for the record, this bicycling thing?" Jason shook his head. "I'm not so sure it's me."
"I keep telling you, just give it time." Mark trailed his fingers down the inside of Jason's elbow, gently stroking the soft skin.
"And my butt is numb from this rock." Jason pointed out, determinedly ignoring Mark's tender seduction.
"Our rock."
"You think?" Jason shifted, distracted by the tingling from Mark's light caress.
"Sure," Mark mumbled, the words muffled against the soft skin of Jason's neck. "When we forget what's important again, we'll come sit on this rock until our butts go numb."
"I'm all for a return trip," Jason said. "But I'd rather we didn't let things get to this point again."
Sun broke through the mists shrouding the top of the towers, highlighting the bridge against the clear blue sky. They sat cuddled together in unspoken agreement, and watched a catamaran with its rooster tail plume of water skim across the lake.
"That will be us, tomorrow." Mark pointed to the tourists on the boat. "You know what makes Mackinac Island so unique?"
"No idea." Jason said.
"Bicycles, horses, and carriages are the only transportation allowed."
Jason groaned. "I knew there was a reason I wanted a hotel with a Jacuzzi."
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The first order of business after I've been out of touch for a while is to come here and give y'all an update on what went wrong. Yet, something the weekend doctor said sort of put it all in perspective for me.
Doc wasn't on duty last weekend when I was admitted, and I got his "weekend warrior" replacement instead. By all accounts he's good, and people like him a lot, but I admit my first impression of him the last time we met wasn't all that great.
This time however, after a brief Q and A session to get him up to speed, he made that one cardinal mistake that makes me like these guys; he was honest.
"Well, it's like this," he says. "You're broken, and we don't know why which means we don't know how to fix you, so we might as well make you feel better."
For once, no translation is necessary. For the first time, someone other than Doc told me something straight out. And for the rest of the week, we worked on exactly that; making me not feel what-all was wrong by burying me in drugs. :)
By the end of the week, I had a cocktail, and a regimen to disburse it, that worked well enough to (gasp) eat.
Given that, it was time to bail, with assurances that insurance could be cajoled to approve the cocktail ingredients. (A list of drugs that'd let me start my own pharmacy.)
I got discharged just in time for Reality to assert itself.
Merinol: Denied.
Zofram: Denied.
MS Contin @ 100mg: Denied.
MS Contin @ 30mg: Approved.
Dilaudid @ 4mg: Approved.
WTF? Apparently those assurances weren't such a sure thing after all. Laugh.
I sort of felt sorry for the lady that gave them to me. Apparently she was the only one surprised, the poor dear.
So, since I got out, I've spent the time rocking and reeling, and working with what I did get, trying to find a semblance of efficacy. (Which is why it took me so long to update this blog. I've not been 100% successful as yet.)
In the long run, it's just as well because by all reports, I will lose the insurance sooner or later. (Refer back to that bizarre Disability thing a few weeks back) and when I do, all my medications will be out of pocket, unless we find some other program. There are some, at least. The trick will be to find one that applied to a drug that works, AND be accepted. Not exactly an impossibility, given I have a small army of folks looking into the situation from their various standpoints.
I may not have faith in the medical industry, but I have all kinds of faith in those few people who struggle against it from the inside. Between them, and me, and whatever sort of cosmic intervention that might apply, I may yet finally be able to see if the experimental drug works. I can't take that until the stomach thing stabilizes, and between you, me, and the fencepost, there seems to be improvement on that score.
Fingers crossed!
Patric
Thursday, May 20, 2010
You may recall that Papa, aka chauffeur, aka caregiver, aka awesome guy was diagnosed with esophageal cancer last week. The day before yesterday he went in to have his esophagus scraped.
The procedure is as simple as it is gruesome: Surgeons remove the affected portions of the lining in his esophagus with the hope of removing all the cancerous tissue. Since they caught it so early, his prognosis is good, and while they wont know for a while (more of that wait and see business) they've a good idea that his cancer had not yet reached the muscle layer which means his chances for a cure are high.
He came home this afternoon in good spirits, looking as good as ever, armed with a plethora of painkiller cocktails (lidocaine mixed with milk of magnesia for example) and grumbling that he has to puree his food for a while. (This is a guy who likes to eat, so that's the worst of it for him at this point.) :)
As I listened to him rattle off the list of prescriptions he was given for after care, it dawned on me that I had at least one valid, valuable reason for my situation: I've already been where he's at.
Papa is not the sort of fellow to explore his condition, nor is he likely to puzzle out the "doctor-speak" of the medication inserts, but I am. Armed with the education I now have from dealing with my own medications, hospitalization, and whatnot, I can pave the way for what he'll face and best of all, explain things to him in a language he can grasp, without being overwhelmed or intimidated. Plus I can help him navigate the pitfalls of the so-called health care as his treatment continues.
It's easy for me to wonder and lament at why all this has to happen to me, but I now have at least one answer that serves as all the reason I need. He doesn't have to go it alone. Right now, there are no unknowns for him because I've already been there, and with that understanding, I can easily accept my situation as a way to ease his.
Looking at it that way, we're both damned lucky.
Welcome home, Papa. :)
Saturday, May 22, 2010
I went to Doc's office today to pick up a prescription. His place is in the Hospital campus and as I walked past the Admittance building, I was overcome by a surety that I was done with the place.
Not because I ate dinner last night and didn't lose it, nor because breakfast and lunch stayed down today. And not because I've become fatalistic and given up, either. In actual fact, the reverse is true.
I am about a month shy of my one-year anniversary, the day I limped into a clinic for the first time with a lump on my leg and retaining way too much water because of it. Two dear friends quite literally strong-armed me into the place, each holding an arm so I wouldn't bolt and run.
From that auspicious beginning, I've run a gamut (or a gauntlet, depending on your point of view) of doctors, clinics, specialists, free medical assistance, insurance companies, helpful and not so helpful state and government agencies, and ended up pretty much where I started from. I have a lump on both legs, and both are holding tens of pounds of water again.
I don't think I'm being too dramatic by saying without that gauntlet, I wouldn't be here now. Certainly not well enough to blog, at least. If nothing else, they've given me a year more. Perhaps with what I've learned so far, I'll get still a few more. :)
In that year, I've learned that I am terminal. (We all are, actually, just with differing expirations on our respective meters.) Gallows humor aside, I learned to live with that. Surprisingly easy, that. At least when there is no other choice. I also learned a great deal about the medical industry; how it works, what it can and cannot do, and most importantly, who really makes the biggest difference in how my life goes:
Me.
I discovered that tests are specious at best for my situation, and I learned that many specialists are literally incapable of thinking outside the box. I also learned that if I am to have any time at all, any quality time that is, it's gonna be up to me to find it and make it my own.
Don't get me wrong here. Doc is aces, golden, an angel to a guy who doesn't hear heavenly choirs when he sleeps at night. Doc always will be, regardless, and I cannot think of a soul I'd rather have at my back than him. It's just that his hands are tied, by variables and constraints neither he nor I can control. There is too little information on my condition to make anything more than educated guesses, and too much likelihood that whatever he might want to try isn't covered by insurance because it costs too much, isn't in their formulary, or hasn't been proved successful to a majority. No fault whatsoever attaches to him. Ever.
As I mentioned before, I'm about to lose the insurance given to me by the state for being disabled, BECAUSE I'll be classified as disabled. (There is an irony there I will leave for others to ponder.) When that happens, I'll fall back to the free programs and hate myself for it because they are limited resources that might be better spent on someone with a longer future. Yet I'll be grateful too because it means I won't lose contact with Doc. He generously lets me sound board with him sometimes, corrects my ignorant thinking and steers me to more salient answers, and doesn't get paid for it. To a guy who has lived his entire life knowing that nothing is ever free, that's huge. I can only hope that his experience will be a learning one for his future patients, and tht he can get something half as valuable out of it as I do.
I realized the other day that I've become exactly what I didn't want to be; someone who lives by dint of the drugs he'll take for the rest of his life. Setting aside morality and integrity, that means how long I live will depend solely on whether or not I can afford the cost of the drugs, and for how long. Since no one will hire the "walking dead guy" there is another irony in the fact that by being granted disability, the thing that will cost my insurance, I'll be able to buy some of those drugs, and I'll live yet a while longer.
That's great, right? Anyone who knows me (and quite a few who don't) will unequivocally say yes, but they are not totting up the real cost.
Quality versus quantity.
I've been adamant since day one (literally) that I refuse to live longer if life is only a subsistence. I'm simply not me if all I can do all day is lay in bed and drool because I am so loaded with painkillers, and I can't see me changing my mind on that score.
I was thinking about this as I rode the elevator to Doc's floor to get that precious little slip of paper that tells some pharmacy I have legitimacy in begging for pricey, not-always-effective narcotics. Those little blue and white and gray and orange pills that keep me functional from day to day. What would happen if I stopped taking them? What if I just chucked the bottles down the drain and said "screw it." and walked away?
I'd go back to the condition I was in a year ago, have maybe six or eight months to get my affairs in order, and spend the rest of the time in hospice, laying in bed and drooling, loaded up on more white and blue and gray and orange pills until my body finally gave up and gave out. Plus I'd have the added benefit of watching people I care about become increasingly agitated as my condition declined. My niece, she's pretty much my daughter, would collapse long before I did, Papa would get to watch his wife die all over again, my sister would be eaten away by guilt because she wasn't around when Mom died, and people I never met would mourn a loss they probably couldn't clearly articulate. I've touched too many lives with my writing, my email, my time online all these years, and with myself. Just being me.
Thinking about that pisses me off.
It's far too late, even if it were possible, to roll back time and quietly expire as I could have done a year ago. I'd have the advantage of surprise on my side at least. No one knew I was sick back then, and there were far fewer to care.
So... Since I can't go back, and I refuse to stand still, that leaves only one option to go forward.
Me.
The doctors have admitted outright that they cannot fix what's wrong with my stomach. Doc has admitted there is no cure for my cancer. (And bless the poor man, I have a strong idea it hurt him a great deal to say that.) While I have it, insurance won't cover the cost of the drugs that do work, sort of, and what I have now will run out sooner or later. And since I am the one living in this skin, there is no one better qualified to analyze, sift, sort, and extrapolate how best to resolve the problem(s). It short, it has to be up to me to fix myself, or failing that, figure out how best to deal with the situation for as long as I can.
I know the patterns of pain and fatigue from last year. I can monitor how much liquid goes in and out, and I can handle the inevitable fever spikes that will come soon. I planned ahead for which painkiller works best, and have held it in reserve by throwing away (use them first until my body grows too tolerant of them) all the expensive ones first.
What I have to do now is learn how much pain I can endure, how to endure it, and how to get past it. I'll prevail upon Doc to help me understand various bodily functions, triggers, enzymes, and hormones when I can't find the answers for myself, and I'll create a situation with the tools I have at hand to manage the things I can't change. Programs for assistance in buying painkillers, adjusting myself to whatever I can find that'll be within my price range when assistance is unavailable, and even keeping my fingers crossed if that's what it takes to live, and not just subsist.
People have said I'm smart, intelligent, call it what you will. I know I have a brain and I have relied on it heavily for all the years of my life. I like solving puzzles, and when you get right down to it, all this is just another kind of puzzle.
One I'll either solve, or die trying. (Okay, that was gallows humor, I admit. Sorry!) :)
The point is, I've come to a crossroads and I've chosen my path. If I am to stick a few more quarters in the meter, if I am to live a few more years, it'll be because I took the steps, I made the effort, I did what needed to be done, rather than sit around and wait for someone else to save me.
And you know what? I'm good with that. I've always, always done for myself for as long as I can remember. No reason at all why that should change now. :)
Patric
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
I notice that Blogspot doesn't have one of those little icon thingies to indicate mood like LiveJournal does, unless it's an add-on widget, so I'll just have to do it (gasp) manually.
Mood: Pensive, and a little melancholy.
Lately, I find myself resentful of people, in general. Not because they have done anything wrong or egregious, but because they are so unaware of what they have at hand.
Waiting at a stop light the other day, I saw a family eating hot dogs from a corner cart and I thought, "Damn, I wanna be able to do that." Not the hot dog, necessarily, but just open my mouth, bite something, and not have to either force it down or wonder if I'll see it again in a half hour. Eating is such a simple thing that we take it for granted.
Or the kids crossing the sidewalk at the same time. One of them tagged his buddy in the back of the head and bolted the rest of the way across the street, laughing as his pal chased him. Such a simple thing, to run a few feet, and yet, that's beyond me right now.
I see stuff like this and I can't help be annoyed with myself for all the times I've ever done something similar and took it for granted.
On a more intellectual note, I got a communication from a dear friend that was so far out of the norm for his usual messages that I was startled to silence. It was a rant over some truly minuscule subject and I couldn't help think (to myself alone) that he needed a serious change of perspective. Or as my father might once have put it, "What does that matter to the price of eggs in China?"
But the thing is, to him it did matter, a great deal. His horizons are so vast that he can no more contemplate 'the whole picture' any more than I can sprout wings and fly. And because he is my friend, it had to matter to me, but only so far, and I felt bad that I couldn't commiserate with him. Nor could I slap him upside the head and say "You aren't going to care about this a year from now, Bud. I don't even know if I will be here a year from now."
In other words, I can't dump my perspective on him. Beyond the simple courtesy of not making him feel bad for forgetting the now very real differences between us, it's simply not fair to ask anyone to change themselves to accommodate me.
Conversely, there are any number of people who do remember, and when they indulge in the time honored tradition of "can you top this," they always say something like "I know it doesn't compare to what you are dealing with, but my old football injury is acting up today and my knee hurts."
I'm honestly not sure which is worse; When folks remember, or when they forget. Both wrench my guts for very different reasons. The former for the knowing that by my very existence I've put them in a position to contemplate their own mortality, and the latter for knowing that they will take too much for granted and regret it later on, as I have.
Yesterday, I was answering messages, typing away as usual and when I stopped to pick up a bottle of water, my arm laying across the desk was wet with sweat. Ah, I remember now. I had to drape the chair and parts of my desk with towels at about this time last year because of the fever cycles and the constant sweating as each fever broke.
It was a very clear indication of just how far along the cancer has progressed. At a guess, I'd put myself about a month shy of where I was last year, before that first round of high dose chemo. Left unchecked, in about a month the fevers will spike to around 102 degrees and I'll be changing clothes three times a day. The problem is, I hadn't realized I was that far gone, and it'll take roughly twice that to determine if the experimental drug is having any effect. Talk about a race to the finish line! :)
Adding that together with the stuff I mentioned earlier, and I'm left with a deep sense of melancholy today. It wont last, of course. It never does, because something always comes along to distract me. but in the interim I find it hard to be enthusiastic or even interested in anything. Classic signs of depression.
Fortunately, unlike the PCP, Doc doesn't seem to be bent on stuffing me full of anti-depressants. Perhaps he already knows as I surmise that still more drugs would interfere with an already delicate balancing act. I know for a fact that I don't want to risk it, at least. There are already too many other unaccounted variables to contend with.
Doc is on a morethan-well-deserved vacation all next week, and I am startled to discover an irrational sense of panic. Irrational because I'm quite capable of fending for myself at this point, and yet panic because my "safety net" is gone, I suppose. When did I start relying on a net in the first place? I've always been well suited to walking the tightrope without a pole,much less a harness and cushions to land on.
It's a sobering thought, and one I best contemplate beneath the solace of my rock, carefully shielding myself from the rest of the world lest I start resenting my friends and family for having something I do not; A definite future.
Thank you for all the wonderful comments you've been posting. I don't always have the energy to answer them as I'd like, but I can and do read each and every one. Beyond making me feel good, they also serve to remind me that it's still worth striving for a future, however long it may be.
Cheers!
Patric
Moria McCain
Dedicated to my Hermit Man, who was more than my inspiration and cheerleader, but became my big brother and dearest friend rolled into one.
The wind swirled a handful of gold and brown leaves around the small group by the coffin at the cemetery. The leaves danced about the people as the minister continued to offer words of comfort. Mitch snorted softly to himself. The minister, his dad, was good at offering words of comfort to strangers, but to his own son, he could think of nothing to say most of the time. He admitted to being surprised to see his father officiating over the funeral, as Aldo's mom had never liked him. Maybe Reverend Tony was ill. He turned his gaze back to his former best friend and had to smile.
Only Aldo would wear a bright yellow suit to his mother's funeral. Aldo's father, Steve, had come to the funeral, and if Mitch hadn't known that yellow was Lorraine's favorite color, he might have thought that Aldo was mocking the man. Steve hadn't cared about Lorraine while she was sick, so to come now seemed wrong.
Mitch studied Aldo and noted the rigid shoulders and clenched fists. Aldo was barely holding on, and if he'd thought it would do any good at all, Mitch would have walked over to him and consoled him. Unfortunately, after the way they had parted at the end of their senior year, he doubted Aldo would want anything to do with him, short of punching him even nearly ten years later.
Mitch closed his eyes. God, he had been such a weak-assed jerk. He had caved under the pressure from his parents, and the things, the stupid things he had told Aldo made sure that the young man would hate him forever and with good reason. Mitch opened his eyes to see his father looking at him. Mitch straightened and turned away.
He had come to Lorraine's funeral as he had promised her he would. They had spoken often, and when she had told him that she was done fighting the cancer, he had broken down and cried. She had been his rock while he had gone through so many changes in his life. It had been Lorraine who had encouraged him to become a paralegal, who had held him when his mother had died in that car accident last year. He had owed her this. Now it was time to leave, before Aldo knew he was there. Walking to his car, he thought back to that day he had broken Aldo's heart and his own.
"What do you mean you aren't going to State? I thought we agreed on this. We'd get an apartment and be together, screw family." Aldo's voice rose until he was nearly yelling, his long dark hair tangled from where he had run his hands through it. "Damn it, Mitch. What are you saying here?"
"I'm going to The Gospel Ministry College. I've been called to be a minister by God. Please, Aldo, understand this. I---I was wrong in what we did. I understand that now."
"Understand what? That we are wrong for loving one another? How is that wrong? Mitch---"
"No, we misunderstood. What we feel for each other is a friendship love, not a romantic love."
"Bullshit! Tell me that it was friendship when you sucked my cock!"
Mitch felt his stomach tighten, and his head felt like it was going to explode. Why wouldn't Aldo just accept this? He tried again.
"Stop it. We committed a sin; I have to atone for that. My dad says that if I go to this place, I can be fixed so I won't get tempted anymore. Then I can be a minister."
Aldo turned away from him. "Fuck you, Mitch, and fuck your father too. He'll never be happy with you, never. You keep thinking you can live up to what he wants, and you can't. We have something real, something good, but you want...you want...I don't know what you want. To be the perfect son? To not be gay?"
Mitch protested, "I'm not gay, just confused."
Aldo's eyes flashed as he spun around. "You are gay, Mitch. You're gay, gay, gay, and nothing your dad says will change that." His face softened as he stroked Mitch's face. "Please, you love me, I know you do. Stand up to them."
Mitch froze. His dad would never accept him as being gay, all of his expectations would go down the drain, and Mitch would be cast out like yesterday's food. He would never see his family again, and he would never be able to have a normal life. Most importantly, there was someone else to consider, and a secret he had to hide. He straightened up and sneered at Aldo.
"I never loved you. I just said that so we could mess around. I could never love another guy, and certainly not one as gay as you. Look at you. You have hair like a girl, and you dress like a faggot. Why would anyone want to be with you?" He strode over to the door, trying hard to ignore the hurt on his best friend's face. Just before he opened it, he turned back for the coup de grace.
"The only reason I was ever friends with you was to have you suck my cock. My buddies and I would laugh about it at football practice."
Mitch managed to run all the way home before he lost the contents of his stomach by the bushes in front of his house. He staggered into the house where his parents waited for him. His dad spoke first.
"Well, Mitch? Have you taken care of everything? Bishop Montrose has said that if you do this and complete the Crossroad program, he can overturn your expulsion from the church."
Mitch nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet. Inside, he felt as if something had died. Traitorously, his mind whispered that he had killed something, something that was good.
"Good, good." His father nodded with approval. Mitch's mother pointed to a suitcase on the floor, her face still puffy from crying.
"I packed for you, honey. The bishop is coming by tonight to take you to the facility." She hesitated, glancing at her husband. "We just want what's best for you, you see that, right?"
Mitch nodded again and was pathetically thankful when they didn't press him further.
Mitch stared at his car door handle with disgust. Even now, he was weak. Instead of facing Aldo, he was running away again. His dad won again. He jerked open the door and got in. It only took him a few minutes to get to his hotel room, where he was left with his memories and the mini bar. He sat on the bed and cracked open the first bottle he found. Staring at the bland walls, he swilled it down, making a face as the booze hit his throat. Or maybe it was the memory of the second most terrible day of his life.
The day he was supposed to graduate from college, his family had been so proud. He had stood facing himself in the mirror and wondered who this person was. On the outside, he looked like the all-American guy, short blond hair, a strong square jaw, and blue eyes. He looked like the type of guy who had it all, a great family, a wonderful girlfriend (soon to be a fiancé) and a career that made everyone proud. He said the words out loud.
"Minister. Pastor Reynolds."
He stopped when the words made him want to vomit. He couldn't do this. Mitch turned to his bathroom and made his way to the medicine cabinet. Looking inside, he stared at the bottle of sleeping pills. If he took several of those and used the X-acto knife, he doubted it would take long to kill himself. How long before they noticed he was missing? Would his mother come looking for him, or his father? Maybe his sister would come in first.
Mitch stared for a moment more and then closed the cabinet door. He started to shake, and it hit him that he needed help. Not from here though, not from the college. He grabbed his keys and his cell phone.
After driving randomly for several hours and ignoring the multiple phone calls from family, he pulled over along a street and dialed a number he had memorized.
"Thank you for calling the suicide hotline. How can I help you tonight?"
It had been the hardest thing he had ever done, calling that number. Thank God for the man who answered. Cary Dixon was a retired minister and a gay man. He had known exactly what Mitch was going through and had offered him sincere hope. It still had taken him almost two years of therapy before he could face his demons and be strong about the fact that he was indeed gay. Aldo would have laughed at that.
That had been the worst part, missing Aldo. They had been best friends before they became more. Mitch had written a letter to him after his therapist had encouraged him to do so. He never got a response, and he wasn't surprised. Mitch closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard. They shot back open when a knock sounded at the door. He knew who it was---his father coming by to berate him for being there.
With a sigh, he got off the bed and opened the door. Every thought he had flew out of his head as he gazed at the man in front of him: Aldo McKay in his bright yellow suit and a scowl on his face. He shoved his way past Mitch into the room and spun around.
"Close the door." Aldo's voice had deepened, and Mitch wasn't sure if it was from anger or from maturing. He shut the door quietly.
"How the hell could you come to her funeral? You, of all people!"
"She asked me to." Mitch could hardly bear to look at Aldo.
"She asked you?" Aldo's voice rose, and he moved closer to Mitch. "There is no way in hell my mother would have asked you to come!"
Mitch nodded to him. "She did. Lorraine and I often talked on the phone. She made me promise to be here today. I didn't want to disturb you, so I stayed back. How did you know I was there?"
"Your beloved father told me. He seems to be under the impression that you and I are seeing each other again. He wasn't happy about that, told me that I was screwing you up again."
"My father is an asshole, and he just wanted to make my life hell. Ignore him." Mitch felt weary and walked over to the chair at the desk. He sat with a thud and gazed at Aldo. "I know even if my father doesn't that I made sure there could never be anything between us." He hesitated. "I am sorry for all of that. I know it's too little, too late, but I wanted to say it to you."
Aldo sneered at him. "What? Writing the letter wasn't enough? Do you know how that affected me?"
"Yes." Mitch spoke very quietly. "Lorraine made sure I understood the consequences of my actions all the way around. I know my words mean nothing to you and that you could never forgive me for what I said and did." He didn't expect what happened next, although in retrospect he should have known Aldo's temper would get the best of him.
Aldo punched him in the face hard, rocking his head back. Tears filled Mitch's eyes, but he didn't try to defend himself. Both of them were breathing heavily, and Aldo looked shocked, staring at his hands.
Mitch got up slowly, head spinning a little, and reached out a hand to touch Aldo. "It's okay, Aldo. It's okay, I deserved that."
Aldo shook his head and backed away. "Don't touch me. I don't want you to touch me."
"All right, I won't. I just want you to know that I know I deserved that."
"Fuck! Don't say that, either. Don't be nice and understanding, damn it." Aldo ran his hands through his shorter dark hair in a familiar motion.
Mitch shook his head at him. "No, I'm not being understanding and nice. I'm being as honest as I can. It took me a long time to be honest about you and everything I put you through. I don't want to be anything less now."
"I can't be here, can't do this with you, don't you understand? I can't. You destroyed me. It took me a long time to trust anyone again."
Mitch felt that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach and had to take a couple of deep breaths.
"I do understand, Aldo. I came because Lorraine asked me to, not because I thought I could get you to forgive me. I thought I could go to the funeral and leave before you ever found out I was in town. I won't be back, and you'll never have to see me again."
Green eyes stared at him with suspicion. Mitch tried to look back as honestly as he could. His face hurt and his heart hurt, even though he had told himself that things would be this way. If Aldo saw all of that, then he was welcome to his pain.
Whatever the other man saw in his face must have satisfied him because he nodded slightly. Aldo moved stiffly to the door and paused.
"I don't want to see you again. Don't come back here."
The door shut quietly after him and Mitch sat there, tears filling his eyes. There had been no doubt in Aldo's voice, and all he could think of was the leaves falling off the trees at the cemetery. Everything was dead. He did the only thing he could do. He called Cary.
Cary had barely answered the phone before there was another knock on the door. This time Mitch guessed right, as his dad stood on the other side when he opened it. Mitch quietly told Cary he'd call him back and braced himself for what was to come.
His dad got straight to the point and never even noticed Mitch's bruised cheek.
"You shouldn't have come to the funeral. That made me look bad to all those people. You weren't welcome, and they all knew it."
As usual, all his dad cared about was himself. Mitch took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.
"Dad, I came for Lorraine, not for you. I'll be leaving in the morning."
"I told your little friend to stay away from you, that he had already done enough to you."
"Dad..." Mitch stopped and ran a hand wearily over his face. This conversation would go nowhere, because his dad wouldn't even hear what he had to say. He looked at his dad and shook his head. "Dad, there is nothing between Aldo and me. You made sure of that years ago when you blackmailed me into breaking up with him."
"Blackmailed you! You were the one who blackmailed me. I wanted to revoke his scholarship, but you told me you'd stop seeing him if I didn't." His voice rose and he gestured wildly with his hands.
Mitch closed his eyes. Even now, after years of therapy, he still found it hard to believe that his father couldn't recognize the truth when he heard it. His therapist had told him his dad had a personality disorder, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with the man. He still had a hard time reconciling the fact that his dad could be so different with his parishioners than he had been with his family. Opening his eyes, he looked straight at his dad.
"Go home, Dad. There's nothing here for you to do, and I'm tired. I'm going to bed, and in the morning, I'll be gone and back out of your life."
While his dad sputtered, Mitch guided him through the hotel door and out into the hallway. He shut the door in his father's face and ignored the knocking at the door. After a minute or so, it grew quiet, and Mitch lowered himself onto the bed. The side of his face hurt, and a headache lurked in the background. He curled into a ball and blinked back tears. It had gone no differently than he had expected, no matter what hope had been in his heart. Aldo hated him, his father still wanted to mold him into something he wasn't, and a woman he adored was gone. He felt as if he had nothing left. Had he ever been happy? The only time happiness had been in his life had been when Aldo had been part of it.
The impact of another body drove the air out of his lungs with an audible gasp, and Mitch struggled to stay upright. He untangled himself from the other guy to see Rich and his buddies sneering at him. What was up with that? Then he got a good look at the new kid. At least he assumed he was new, since he'd never seen him before. Long dark hair and green eyes tinged with fear gazed back at him. Dressed in a purple shirt and wearing a rainbow bracelet, he darted around Mitch as they got closer. Mitch silently groaned, just what he needed, a confrontation with Rich and his buddies.
"Get out of the way, holy boy. We need to teach the little faggot a lesson."
The new kid piped up. "No way could you teach anyone a lesson. You have to have a brain to do that."
Mitch felt his eyes widen at the guy's wisecrack and saw Rich's face flush red. The kids standing around laughed.
"Listen, you little prick, I'm smarter than you are any day!"
"Right, that's why you and your friends were talking about how to light your farts on fire. Definitely smart."
Everyone burst out laughing again, and one of the jocks said, "Good one."
Mitch laughed and mimed using a lighter. The new kid giggled.
Rich growled and then snapped out, "At least I'm not a fudge packer."
The new kid laughed. "I'm not sure if you could get a job packing fudge. They may not take someone who's not that smart."
The crowd howled, and the kid grinned. Rich glared at the kid and then spewed out the worst he could think of.
"You're nothing but a homo, and you're going to hell, and so is anyone who defends you." There was a manic tone to his voice as he gazed at the other kids.
A snort came from the new kid. "Please...I'd be careful, dude, or people might think you have something to hide."
"What?" Rich sputtered.
"Well, they say that the biggest homophobes are almost always hiding the fact that they have homosexual feelings."
Rich's mouth dropped open and then he stuttered as he backed away from the new kid with his friends giving him funny looks. Mitch laughed out loud and high fived the kid.
"Nice comeback. I'm Mitch, by the way."
"Aldo, and thanks."
The other kids started to wander off until just Mitch and Aldo remained. Aldo grinned up at him.
"So, you want to grab some pizza, or are you afraid of being seen with a homo?"
They had both laughed and that had been the beginning of their friendship, but it had taken until the summer between their junior and senior year before they discovered they wanted, no...needed more from each other.
Three months later:
Mitch fought the urge to hit his computer screen. He rubbed his eyes and tried not to yawn. At the rate he was going, it looked like he would be here all night. A cough had him looking up to see his boss, Peggy standing there.
"Sorry, Peggy. I'll have the paperwork done for you soon. I have almost everything typed up except the brief for the Hiller case. I'm still working on that."
"Is that Jonathon's case? He won't need it until the end of next month. They moved his court date. So if that's it, you should go home and get some sleep. You look tired."
He laughed at that. Tired? He was so far beyond tired that he could barely function. "Yeah, okay. I think I will go get some sleep. It's been a long week."
She mock frowned at him. "You will. That's an order. I need my best paralegal to be in top shape next week."
"Aye-aye, ma'am." Mitch saluted her. He shut his computer down and gathered up his things. With a final check, he headed to the parking lot. His cell phone rang as he went out the front door. It was probably Cary calling to check up on him. With a growl he pulled it out and answered it.
"Yes?"
There was silence at first, but then a male voice come over the line. "Mitch?"
Mitch nearly dropped the phone in surprise. "Aldo?"
"Mitch..." There was silence again. "Fuck, I need some help with a legal matter. My dad is trying to take my inheritance from my mom. He claims that they never finalized their divorce, which gives him the right to the money."
"I...you want my help?" Mitch got into his car so he could sit down. He wanted to believe that Aldo had forgiven him, but he knew that couldn't be. He couldn't let himself believe that. "Why would you come to me for help? I'm only a paralegal."
"Your sister told me you work for a great law firm. She told me some other things too. Like the fact that you almost killed yourself after becoming a minister and that you date guys." His voice grew accusing. "You didn't tell me any of that in that stupid letter you wrote."
Mitch sighed. "I didn't want you to feel sorry for me or to think I wanted you to think I was trying to get you back. Wait, you talked to Melissa?"
"She caught up with me at my show at Deloraz in New York. So you don't want to get back with me? Is that how little I meant to you?"
The beginnings of a headache started behind Mitch's forehead. "Aldo...I...shit! No matter what I say, you're going to take it the wrong way, aren't you? I wrote the letter to apologize, nothing more, because I don't deserve anything more. Okay?"
"Fine."
"Fine." Mitch rubbed his forehead. "Look, let me talk to my boss and see if she can tell me anything. Fax me any documents your dad has given you on this to my office and detail what exactly he wants. I'll see what we can do for you. And Melissa shouldn't have told you anything. We had already said all that needed to be said."
"I'm in town. I could bring everything over to you, and obviously we haven't finished hashing it out if I didn't know these things."
Mitch's heart leapt and he nearly dropped the phone. He fumbled it and then caught it. "I...that is, well, yeah, okay, maybe you're right about that. You need my address, or did Melissa give it to you already?" His headache disappeared as he gave his address out.
Pulling up to his apartment building, Mitch spotted Aldo standing at the front doors. He wasn't sure if he should be excited or dread seeing him. Dressed in his usual flamboyant way, Aldo lifted a hand to wave at Mitch. His face was neutral, and he carried a briefcase with him. Mitch walked up and greeted him with a wave. He tried for casual as he invited him up.
"So you want to come up, or do you just want to hand everything over now so you can go?"
"Are you going to be sarcastic, or do you treat all the guys you have over this way?" Aldo said nastily.
The words hit Mitch hard, and he had had enough.
"I don't have guys tripping in and out of my apartment, Aldo. I rarely date, and when I do, it usually ends up being a one-off. So knock it off. It's not like you care anymore, so don't begrudge me some happiness."
His voice had gotten loud, and a couple walking up to the building shot him a disgruntled look. He sighed again and rubbed his forehead. He couldn't believe he'd just started arguing with Aldo right after seeing him.
"Look, I'm sorry. Give me the paperwork and I'll have Peggy look over it and call you. Okay?" His headache was back with a vengeance.
"Fine." Aldo bit out the word. He handed Mitch the briefcase and started to walk away before coming to a halt. With his back to Mitch, he turned his head and said quietly, "I do still care. I don't know why, because you hurt me badly, but I do. I just don't know what I want to do about it."
Mitch laughed quietly. "Welcome to my world. I never got over you, and my therapist told me that I use that to hide from any other relationship." He waited for Aldo to turn back toward him. "Look, come up with me. Let's at least talk. Maybe if nothing else, we can be friends again. I've missed that."
He waited for Aldo to make up his mind, but finally, Aldo nodded and stepped back toward him.
Upstairs in his apartment, Mitch set the briefcase down on the table.
"Would you like some coffee?"
"No, I better not. Caffeine makes me even more hyper than I normally am."
"I have wine, water, soda as well. Ummm, beer too."
Aldo laughed as he moved into the living room. "Beer...remember when we were fifteen and you stole that beer from your dad's garage? Man, we were so hung over the next day when your dad chewed us out. Hey, that's my print. You have my print in your living room."
"Shit." Mitch muttered. He had actually forgotten about that. He moved into the living room and saw Aldo standing in front of his couch, gazing at the framed print.
"Um, yeah, I bought it a couple years ago. I couldn't afford an actual painting, but I wanted something of yours to put up in here. This one is so cheerful. It made me smile when I saw it, and I knew it was what I wanted for my place."
Aldo turned around with a quizzical look. Mitch smiled at him. "You were always so cheerful and made me feel happy when I was around you. After I almost did something stupid, I wanted something to remind me of what it felt like again."
"You mean wanting to kill yourself?" Aldo sat on the couch. "Why, Mitch? Why did you get to that point? I really don't understand why you didn't just walk away."
"At the time, I thought I had no options. My therapist said I was overwhelmed by guilt and pressure from my family. I guess I'm a weak person." Mitch shrugged. "The only smart thing I did at that time was calling the hotline. That's why I volunteer there now."
He looked up to find Aldo studying him. He looked away and found himself gazing at the print, a whirlwind of leaves in a rainbow of colors. It lifted his mood, just as it always did.
"I wish you would have let me be there for you."
Mitch sat on the couch with a tired laugh. "I made sure you wouldn't be there, Aldo. Remember? I had to drive you away. At least that worked, and you got to keep your scholarship." He stopped, horrified. He couldn't believe he had let that secret slip out. Glancing at Aldo, he saw the moment it dawned on him what he had said.
"What do you mean...I got to keep my scholarship?" Aldo spoke very quietly.
Mitch got up from the couch and started to pace.
"I shouldn't have said anything. It was over a long time ago. Everything worked out. You got to go to State and get your art degree. I got a good education at...at...at..."
Fuck, he couldn't even say the name of the college. Hands gripped his arms, and he realized that Aldo stood in front of him with an iron grip on his upper arms. Mitch inhaled the spicy scent of the other man and fought to keep a clear head.
"Why did you think you had to drive me away or I would lose my scholarship, Mitch?" Aldo stopped, and then it was as if he read Mitch's mind. "Your dad was on the scholarship board, wasn't he? He threatened you. Told you he'd revoke my scholarship if you didn't end things with me. How did he find out about us? Oh shit, you came out to him, didn't you?"
Mitch nodded and tried to back away. Aldo wouldn't let go. Mitch gave up and stood still while he talked.
"I told him I was going to go to State. I told him that I was in love and that I didn't want to be a minister. He insisted I did and that no little bimbo was going distract me from my duty to the Lord." Mitch snorted. "You should have seen his face when I told him it was a guy, not a girl. He guessed it was you."
Aldo let his arms go and stepped back. His face was blank, and Mitch cringed inside. He knew that look. It meant that Aldo was shutting him out. Aldo turned toward the door.
"I have to go."
"Please don't. I never wanted you to know." He reached out a hand toward Aldo.
"That's why I need to go. You wouldn't have ever told me. You don't want to share anything with me."
"I was seventeen. I believed my father. I also knew you, and you would have tried to confront him. You would have screwed up your scholarship for what? Me? I didn't want that."
"That's just it. It wasn't just your decision to make. You should have allowed me to make that decision with you. I thought we were a team, but it turned out that when it came down to it, you only thought of yourself."
Mitch dropped his hand, and a feeling of disbelief came over him.
"What? I did this for you. I wanted to protect you. Why was that wrong?"
"Because I'm not some damsel in distress, and I would have come up with another way to go to school! Fuck this...I'll call you."
Mitch watched him walk out his door and sat back on the couch. Once again, he had managed to screw everything up with Aldo.
He picked up the phone and called the one person who could get him straightened out. Luckily, Cary picked up right away, and Mitch breathed a sigh of relief.
"Cary, I think I messed up bad tonight. Do you have time to talk?"
"Of course. What happened?"
Mitch poured everything out to Cary. Everything that had happened in the past, everything that had been said now, and his biggest fear, that Aldo had turned away from him again. Cary listened, only interrupting him to clarify certain points, but for the most part just letting him talk.
Finally, Mitch wound down and grew quiet. He stared at the cream-colored wall as he waited for Cary to process things.
Cary cleared his throat and then asked him a question.
"Mitch, do you love him? Not like a friend or a brother, but as a lover. Do you love him like that?"
"I don't know. I feel like I do, but I don't really know him anymore. The boy he was is who I fell in love with, but we both have changed so much over the years. I just know that the thought of losing him in my life again makes me sick to my stomach. When we are together, however, I feel like I can do nothing right. I just don't know."
"I think both of you are so focused on what happened in the past that neither of you is paying attention to now. He said he would call you, right?"
"Yes, but I don't see what that has to do with anything?"
"Ask him out."
"What? No, I can't do that! He'd never go out with me on a date. I mean he has to have all sorts of guys after him. He's gorgeous and a pretty famous artist. No, I couldn't...he hates me."
There was a burst of laughter from the other end of the phone. "He's practically begging you to ask him out. Not to mention, the line between love and hate is a thin one. Would you say he's a proud man?"
"Yes. Too proud sometimes." Mitch muttered, thinking of the recent conversation.
"Well, there you go then. A proud man that you admit that you hurt badly isn't going to tell you he wants to see you for more than friendship right now. He's been hurt, and he wants you to want him."
"What if he says 'no,' or worse?"
"What could be worse than 'no'?"
"I don't know. I guess I'm nervous about this."
Cary sigh sounded through the phone. "Mitch, you're a good man. I think you forget or don't want to think that you are because of something you did when you were a seventeen-year-old boy. You need to forgive yourself. We make mistakes, and we learn and move on. You and Aldo need to move on. Maybe if you two can live in today, you can get past what happened. If not, then I suggest you let him go and move on without him."
After Mitch hung up, he thought about what Cary had said. Could they somehow get past their mistakes, or would Aldo even want to?
The first time they kissed happened at a party at the lake. Mitch had gone with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, and they had broken up again in a huge fight. Mitch had stormed off, and Aldo had followed him. Mitch had calmed by the time Aldo had caught up with him.
"Man, when are you going to ditch her for good?"
"My dad likes her."
Aldo looked down and shuffled his feet. "I don't," he muttered.
"I know. Aldo, I...I want to..." Mitch stopped, frustrated.
Aldo looked up, puzzled. "What?"
"I think I've fallen for someone else. Someone I'm not supposed to feel that way for, and I don't know what to do."
A shadow crossed Aldo's face, but he rallied and smiled at Mitch.
"So who is this young lady who caught your attention?" he teased.
Mitch didn't say anything at first. Fear tightened his chest, and he tried to take a deep breath to clear his head. He stared mutely at Aldo. Apparently, the pleading in his eyes was enough to make everything crystal clear to his friend.
Aldo stepped in close and cupped a hand around Mitch's neck. He leaned in slowly, giving Mitch plenty of time to step back. Mitch leaned forward instead. Their lips met in a soft kiss. Mitch gave a little sigh and brought his hands up to grasp Aldo's shoulders. They moved closer, arms twining around and the kiss deepening. By the time they parted and pulled back, both were breathing hard.
Mitch trembled, and Aldo soothed him with a hand rubbing his back.
"I think I love you, and I don't know what to do. My dad..." He didn't say any more, and he didn't have to. Aldo understood. He nodded and smiled at Mitch.
"We'll keep it a secret for now, just between us."
Mitch could feel the relief that Aldo understood radiate through his entire body.
God, Mitch wanted to vomit. That had been the start of the lies, and he had made Aldo lie too. He had pushed Aldo back into the closet with him. He looked around his comfortable living room and felt a rage grip him. He had no right to anything nice. He had no right to even ask Aldo out again, to ask him to forgive him.
Depression settled in, and Mitch knew he had to get out of his apartment. He quickly changed into his running clothes and jammed his feet into his sneakers and went for a long run. By the time he had gotten back, he had made up his mind. Cary was right. He spent too much time in the past. He was a different person now, and so was Aldo. He would try and remember that.
The days passed by slowly, and Mitch threw himself into his work. He handed everything from Aldo over to his boss and tried not to worry about it. He and Cary met for dinner to take his mind off of things, but it didn't work very well since all he could think of was Aldo. Peggy told him that it was good news when it came to Aldo's dad, Steve, and not to worry about things. Time marched on, and as he stared out the window at the bare trees, he realized that he needed to stop waiting and start doing.
The first thing he sent to Aldo was a long-stemmed red rose. He had often picked roses from his parents' yard and left them for Aldo. He hoped it would bring back good memories. He waited a couple of days and then sent a small figurine of a male fairy, dressed in vines and sitting on a leaf. He and Aldo had read a story by Henry O called "The Last Leaf." It had made an impression on Mitch about not giving up, and he hoped that Aldo would understand what he was trying to say with the figure.
Mitch had hoped that Aldo would call him after that but wasn't surprised by the silence. He had tried to do what he thought was best for Aldo but Aldo didn't see it that way. He needed something that would show that he understood that they should have been and would be partners. This wasn't easy and it took him several days to come up with just the right gift. He finally found a silver chain with a charm of the justice scales on it. It was as close as he could come to equality, not to mention it would hopefully remind Aldo of him. Mitch was disappointed when no response came.
The silence remained, but Mitch kept sending small gifts and cards with notes every couple of days. He found himself telling Aldo in the notes things that he had gone through over the years, small snapshots of his life. He didn't know if Aldo was even reading them, but they were cleansing to write. It helped him to put things in a better perspective. It was in writing these notes that Mitch understood that he still loved Aldo, that he had always loved him. It didn't come as a revelation but more of a confirmation of what Mitch had known inside of himself. He thought of sending a card telling Aldo that he still loved him, but he wasn't a coward. He wanted to face him when he told him. Mitch needed to see his eyes to know if there was any hope or if they were truly over and Aldo felt nothing for him anymore.
The holidays came and went. He spent them with Cary and his partner, as he always did. The only hope he had was a card from Aldo that wished him a joyous season with a tiny painting inside of a brightly colored Christmas tree. Other than that, he had gotten no response at all, and he wondered if he should keep trying.
He brought it up to Cary, who studied him carefully.
"Do you want to give up?"
"No, but when does not wanting to give up slide into simply avoiding other relationships?"
"Is that what you're doing?" Cary's tone was mild.
"No, I'm not right now but..."
Cary laughed. "You'll know when that happens. You need to give Aldo some time to absorb things. Remember, you've been working on things for a long time about yourself and your relationship with him. He'll let you know when he's ready for more."
Mitch couldn't look at Cary when he asked the next question.
"What if he decides he's ready to be done?"
"Then you'll survive and move on. You're a strong man, Mitch, and you will get over him."
What could he say to that? Except he wasn't sure he was that strong. He looked up to see Cary watching him. He smiled wanly and thanked Cary for listening to him whine again.
It was nearly a month later that Aldo called him. At first, the conversation was stilted, but gradually, as they talked, it became easier.
"Thank you for the gifts. At first I didn't know if I wanted to be reminded of our teen romance, but it was good then. It was only the end that got messed up."
"That was my fault."
"No, it was your dad's fault. I've thought long and hard about this. We were kids. You never should have been put in that position of having to make a decision about that. I shouldn't have blamed you for not coming to me with it, either."
Mitch could feel tears rolling down his cheeks. "Does this mean...you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive, unless we both forgive each other. I should have realized that it wasn't you talking that last day. It was your dad, and instead of listening to my heart, I let my anger and hurt get the best of me. You did what you thought was the right thing."
"No, I should have stood up to my father, and I should have told you what was going on. I thought of you as someone who needed to be protected, but it was me trying to protect myself."
Aldo started to argue, and then he laughed. "Some pair we are, fighting over whose fault it was. Maybe it's time to let it go. We both messed up, so now what?"
Mitch took a deep breath and asked Aldo the question he had wanted to for a long time.
"Aldo, would you consider going out with me? Maybe to dinner or a movie? I don't...whatever you wanted to do."
The silence on the other end made his heart sink, but then a hesitant voice asked, "You mean, like a date?"
Mitch thought about prevaricating but couldn't bring himself to. "Yes, a date. I want to date you."
"Not as friends."
It was a statement, not a question, and Mitch understood the risk he took in answering. "I want to be friends with you, but I want more than that. I want to see if what we had before could be better now that we have matured."
"Okay."
"Okay?" Mitch had to admit he was a little surprised.
Laughter came over the phone. "Yes, okay. I want to go out on a date with you. So what about this weekend?"
"Dinner, Saturday? We could go to that new place on Main Street here in town."
It seemed like a dream, and by the time Saturday had arrived, Mitch had run the full range of emotions from excitement to despair, from nervousness to fear, and back to excitement again. He waited outside the restaurant they had agreed to meet at and checked his watch. He had been early, but now it was thirty minutes past the time. The tree he leaned on while waiting had a few leaves that rustled as he shoved away from it.
Mitch had to face facts: he had been stood up. Aldo must have changed his mind. He didn't want to believe it after the phone calls they'd had, but facts were clear. Aldo wasn't going to show. He tried to call, but the phone went straight to voicemail. With a heavy feeling in his heart, he started to walk away. A voice called his name, and when he turned, he saw Aldo coming toward him. His hair was disheveled, and he looked worried. He burst out talking as soon as he got close enough.
"I'm so sorry I'm late. My car broke down, the cab ran late, and to top everything off, my dad called me to chew me out for hiring an attorney. I got here as fast as I could."
"Whoa, slow down. It's all right, you're here now." Mitch couldn't stop grinning at him.
Aldo's body visibly relaxed, and he admitted in a low voice, "I wasn't sure you'd still be here. I couldn't remember where I put your number, and then my dad called. I was afraid you'd think that I stood you up."
"I did actually, but you got here in time to stop me from leaving. I thought you were having second thoughts about us dating," Mitch confessed.
Aldo flushed and looked at his feet. "I did at first. Things between us seemed so ugly. So many mistakes we both made came back to haunt us. But someone said something to me about living in the moment, and that was when I realized that I've been letting the past control me. This time, it's been me running away. No more running for either of us. I want to find out where we are now and if this means something now." He gestured between them with his hand and looked pleadingly at Mitch.
The night breeze whispered through the leaves on the tree next to the restaurant, and they seemed to be trying to say something to Mitch. He thought he knew what that they said.
Mitch smiled, reached out, and took Aldo's hand. "Let's find out."
Friday, June 4, 2010
For the last three nights, I cycled around the 10:00 pm hour, which tells me that what once happened early in the morning when no one could see is now wide open for Papa and whoever else to witness first hand.
I'm no kind of martyr to dutifully suffer in hidden silence, believe me. I just know firsthand how horribly useless one can feel when confronted with a situation like that. No words or touch can make the pain go away, no suggestions of going to the ER will keep my stomach from doing its level best to exit my body, and no amount of crying with frustration will give me the strength to withstand another cycle. Better for everyone concerned to keep that hidden away when it happens, if I possibly can.
If there is anything good to be found in the unfortunate timing, its that those around me can see firsthand the relief when its finally over. It ain't much, but like I said, it's the little things. :)
Which, happily, I got a handful of last night when I didn't cycle on schedule. Add to that the receipt of a missing paragraph in an audio book I am editing, plus finding and installing a truly nifty offline back up and sync program (my inner geek is over the moon!) and I felt, for the first time in a very long time, actually human. Especially when you consider that I managed to eat an early morning snack, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, (albeit in small quantities) and kept it all right where it belonged! That last bit was the best news of all, until about 12:30 am last night...
... when another cycle started up.
Mind you, these things happen in a very specific, very consistent pattern and the trick is to catch them before they get a foot hold. If I can do that, if I can get enough drugs in and working before the pain gets out of hand, then I end up with a wholly manageable, "news from a distant country" thing that leaves me feeling twice as relieved. And I cannot begin to express how good that feels. :)
I'm always going to cycle, and if the experimental drug fails they will increase in frequency, but knowing I can arrest them at least sometimes, is an immeasurable load off my mind.
Enough so that I might once again feel like a real live human boy, and not a puppet cast about on the strings of cancer.
Whoo hoo!
Patric
Thursday, June 10, 2010
I got a call this morning from the assistant at Doc's office telling me to stop taking the vorinostat. As a recap, that's the experimental drug he's chosen as a last ditch effort to combat my cancer.
One of it's known side effects is the possibility in some patients for the drug to screw up the body's electrical timing, for lack of better words.
In my case, according to the EKG I had a couple of days ago, and comparing it to the base reference we took before I started the drug, my QT Intervals are too long now.
A brief cursory search reveals that "QT Interval" refers to the time between the start of heart beat and the end. As I understand it, as the heart contracts (pumps) it dumps its electrical charge. Then there is an amount of time necessary for the muscle to recharge so it can contract again. If sufficient time hasn't passed, or the time is too long, and the heart tries to contract again even though it isnt ready, you end up with ventricular arrhythmia.
In a nutshell, I run the risk of "sudden heart attack" if I continue the drug.
Trouble is, if I don't take the drug (and it actually works for me) then I run the near certain risk of dying from the cancer.
Which as I see it (unless Doc can find an alternate solution) pretty much means I can either die fast, or die slow.
Which would you choose? :)
Patric
Monday, June 14, 2010
As I sat down to write this post, I was suddenly stuck by which part to start with; my good news, or the generosity that prompted me to write in the first place. It took barely a moment's thought to realize the gift was far more important because it represents how good others, even strangers sometimes, can be. And damn me for being too cynical, but that sort of thing never fails to impress me. :)
Several days ago, Papa and I were headed home from yet another "fill the prescription" excursion. Because these are narcotics, they cannot be refilled over the phone. Instead, a new scrip must be written each time. That means a trip to Doc's office to get them, a detour to fill them, and whatever else we can squeeze into a trip to town.
As we sat a few cars back from a busy intersection, watching lights change, a pickup started forward when his side turned green, and Papa starts shouting.
"Hey! Whoa! Watch it mister! You're gonna... Too late."
I surface from my usual internal fog to see what he's hollering about, sort of tickled that he's actually yelling at all because there is no way the driver can hear him. The pickup in question apparently dropped it's load just as it started forward, leaving some kind of heavy siding splayed out behind him.
In an earlier day I'd have been one of the first to pull to the side and go help the guy re-load. Now-a-days that's wholly out of the question of course, and the knowledge immediately made me sad because the driver was an older fellow with his elderly wife (presumably) and he's already starting to yell at her as he gets out of his vehicle.
It's easy to presume he's embarrassed and cognizant of the impatience of the traffic behind him, most of which will simply swerve around him (and more often than not dangerously) to put his problems as far away from themselves as they can.
It's a more or less recent development in human nature, this "me first" attitude, that makes my skin crawl and sometimes makes me glad I'm not long slated for this world.
So of course the driver yells at his wife, right? Meh. The poor thing is maybe five feet tall, and her hair is as white as snow. No way my heart couldn't go out to her, and oh gods above, is that a grandson getting out of the cab into traffic as well? Shit!
As I sit, trapped by the failure of my own body, unable to help and too able to imagine what might happen, I am startled to see two hulking bruisers running through the oncoming traffic to get to the helpless driver and his predicament. Two twenty-something guys had pulled over and got out to help, and all I could think, beyond the sheer surprise that anyone would stop is that they are gonna get clobbered.
Instead, they make it to the driver and one immediately take charge, tossing the material back into the truck while the driver and his wife get out of the way. I hope to hell Grandma had the little boy tucked safe. I couldn't see because still others stopped to help, all while the cross traffic, including a city bus, squeaked by within inches to get around and go their course.
I noticed the panhandler on the corner, mere feet from the event, did nothing except wave to his cronies (they rotate working that corner) and point to the problem. That right there is all the reason I'll ever need not to give those bastards a nickle. (Remember my aforementioned cynicism here.) Yes, he had a cane which he use to do the pointing, but at the very least he could have stood and redirected incoming traffic with it. If he can stand on a corner all day and beg, I should think that wouldn't have been beyond him.
Papa and I were in the far left lane, so we had to wait for our oncoming traffic to clear and as it did and we turned and drove away, I was left with the real regret that I'm literally physically unable to help as I once could, but that feeling was overshadowed by the fact that someone else did help, against all hope or expectation. Several someones, in fact, and it made me think there might yet be some reason to hang around a while longer on this dusty mudball full of greedy, insensitive people.
Case in point:
I got a call this morning from a friend of mine, asking if I had any problems or reservations about someone else utilizing their cash and resources to send take down notices to a few pirate sites on behalf of my books. Piracy is theft, no matter how one tries to justify the futility of fighting it, and I hate it despite my inability to send the notices myself when they come to my attention. It doesn't take much time to do, individually, but it can literally become a full time job if you are energetic enough, and I flat don't have the steam anymore.
Anyway, it seems an author I know but have never read is incensed that my books are being pirated, in light of my situation. No doubt they are as adamant about any piracy, but they asked my friend to contact me, not wanting to "bother" me themselves, and see if I was okay with their efforts.
Wow! First off, I had no idea they even knew I existed beyond the occasional message in an authors group, much less them keeping an eye on my titles, and you could have knocked me over with a feather.
"Yes, of course I'm fine with it, though I admit them spending money on my behalf makes me a bit uncomfortable," I say. I also add, "I had no idea they even knew who I am."
My friend laughs and says "They said the same thing. They figured you didn't even know who they are."
There is a lesson in there, somewhere, that speaks of how small our great big world really is, and how too often we wrap ourselves in our own little piece of it, unaware of how we might overlap or influence others wrapped in theirs. It's a lesson I knew only peripherally, which has now been brought fully home due to the regard of strangers, who aren't so unknown to me after all.
So let me take this moment to thank the strangers who read these words, comment on them or not as their proclivities demand, and those who are not so unknown to me, for your unexpected generosity, kindness, and regard. It is a reminder to me that there is yet reason to fight and squabble and rail against the unstoppable while I sit in my quiet little corner and reach for another day.
And on that note, recall that I stopped taking the vorinostat. Remember too that it takes several days for anything like that to leave your system, and if it caused any damage, still longer to recover from it. This last week was evil. I have no better word to describe how I felt, and if anyone were bold enough to ask, I would have said at the end of them when things were at their absolute worst that I wouldn't live to see August.
Since then, the vorinostat is gone and I am recovering from the originally very subtle and increasingly debilitating side effects of the drug. With today's improvement I am now all but certain it was the drug causing the latest round of problems, and for the first time in ages I am hopeful that I can at least gain enough weight and resolve the dehydration issues to once again find quality, rather than mere subsistence in my days. Already I've been able to drink more than a liter of fluids yesterday, and even eat a little bit, and keep it all down. That alone is a huge win.
Naturally, without the experimental drug, and until poor Doc find another last ditch effort ( if he even can) I can look forward to my original year longer instead of just a few weeks, and that's something I am quite happy about because I'll have all the strangers, and not so strangers, friends and family, to live with . :)
Patric
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Bottom of the Barrel Hides a Gem
Caution: Pure, unmitigated sniveling ahead. Proceed at your own risk.
Yesterday, I got a taste of what it's going to be like near the end, and it was all the worse because it was so unexpected.
For some strange reason, sleeping almost always heralds a transition; from bad days to good, from good to bad, and all points in between.
And of course, sleeping is unavoidable.
I woke up, still fatigued as usual and didn't think much of it. Aside from the mental clouds caused by the narcotics, fatigue is the single most debilitating thing I have to deal with on a daily basis, so its not all that odd to fall asleep shortly after I wake up in the morning.
Only yesterday, each time I dozed off or formally went to sleep, I'd wake up even worse than I was before. I haven't a clue why, unless it's because I missed taking my morning dose of morphine. Whatever...
By the time ten p.m. rolled around, I'd been awake maybe four hours out of the whole day, and I was flat exhausted. I took the nightly round of morphine, tried to get back to my bed, and ended up on the floor.
Laugh if you will, but it is impossible to describe what its like to not have enough juice to stand up out of a chair. As I sat there, wondering how in the hell I was going to either get back in my chair, or get all the way over to my bed (a whopping ten feet away) I realized that this is what I have to look forward to in the final months.
People are forever telling me I have a great attitude, that I'm an inspiration, whatever, and I suppose to a degree there is truth there, but like anyone, I too can be caught up in that most unanswerable of questions: Why me?
I have spent my life actively trying to be nice to others. I don't hurt animals, I don't ridicule people (much) I don't bully anyone, and I always put others first. All the things I was raised to believe made one a "good person." I like being nice.
As the saying goes, "Nice guys finish last" and that often seems to be true, except in that greatest race of all called life. There, the nice guys seem to finish up well in advance of the assholes. I can think of a number of oldsters whom I would consider assholes-- mean, ill tempered, unpleasant people for whom everyone else is a stepping stone, or a toy, or something of a sport perhaps. They are as healthy as a horse and look like they'll be around for decades more. Yet there I sat, not even fifty years old, too damned tired to get into a chair, and not at all guaranteed I'll see my next birthday. In the words of every five year old who's skinned his knee, "It's not fair." Unlike the five year olds, I am old enough to know and accept that life rarely is fair, though. Doesn't mean I like it though.
As I sat there, cross-legged and contemplating my options, I realized that the weight I thought I was steadily gaining since stopping that drug was nothing more than fluid filling up my legs again. Shit. So much for the illusion of improvement, and so much for thinking I have any options at all. There's simply not enough meat left on these not so old bones to lay back and rest up without paying a heavy price later on, and not enough gas in the engine to get me back where I belong.
So, grab the phone (there's a reason why I take the damn thing with me wherever I go) call Papa, and ask if he can give me a hand.
What he must have thought, opening the door and seeing me on the floor I can scarcely imagine, but it can't have been good.
Papa is not a demonstrative man. He was raised in a time which was not conducive to physical touch, yet as I sat there head down, my eyes closed in a futile attempt to ward off shame, he puts his hands on my shoulders and asks in a quiet voice, "What can I do."
No preamble, no exclamations of surprise or fear, no fuss or muss. No anger as a cover to hide his feelings of frustration. Just a simple question, and at the sound of his voice, I lose it. (Hell, I can barely recount this without rubbing at my eyes. I'm still losing it.) :)
"Can you help me get back into my chair? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry..."
"It's okay. Do you want me to lift you?"
"Yes," I sob, unable to keep from thinking of all the times he (and I) did the exact same thing for Mom in her last year, and hating myself for being a reminder of that horrific period in both our lives.
Without a word, he lifts me high enough to get my feet back under me and stands close while I sit back down in my chair. I can barely look him in the eye when he asks what else I need.
I ask him for something to eat, it'll be the first I've had all day, and a refill on my water glass. I scarcely ever ask him to prepare anything for me like that, and having to do so now only adds insult to injury.
He brings me a bowl and a cup a few minutes later, plus the pillow the kids stole from my room when they were here the other night, (it'll soon be necessary because my chair has no more cushion than I and my butt was already sore from sitting on the floor) and stands by while I pull myself together. He asks if there is anything else I need and when I shake my head and thank him, he walks away, closing the door behind him.
That last part bears repeating because its the crux of this whole story. He walks away and closes the door behind him.
How that must have cost him, Papa, who spent every moment of his time with his wife while she failed by inches. He knows I am as fiercely independent as she once was, and I know full well it is his respect for that need to be independent that turned him around and put the door between us-- to preserve as much of my dignity as possible, despite the fact he more than likely wanted to stay, to help, to do whatever else he could.
I have never been as close to the man as I was to Mom so I can only guess at his thoughts as he walked down the stairs. I know my situation bears a striking resemblance to Mom's and that must have been on his mind. Knowing that I'll eventually become as she was, and who could blame him if he perhaps thought "Oh crap, not again."?
But if I were betting dimes to donuts, I'd say that thought didn't cross his mind. I can only hope he felt something like gratification at finally being able to do something to help. Gods know I don't make it easy on that score, always insisting I can manage the way I do.
That's something I came to understand oh so slowly, that once in a while, regardless of what it cost me, other folks need to feel useful, like they have some slight measure of control over the situation. Maybe it's to lend a hand, listen to me rant or wail, or even simply make sure the water pitcher is full.
I realized how important it is for them because when you get right to the very end of things, it is the people who remain behind after we leave who pay the ultimate price. They only have memories and grief to hang on to afterward. It therefore falls to me to make as many good memories as I can to overbalance the loss, even if it means my sense of self takes a shot in the arm, or a shot in the chest.
For Papa, the gem I found when I hit the bottom of the barrel, I'll take any blow that comes, and it'll still never be enough to repay the man a fraction of what I owe him for that one simple act of walking away.
Thanks Papa. I love you.
Happy Father's Day.
Patric
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
(Editor's note: Blogger wouldn't let me in for far too long, and part of this entry should have been posted several days ago.)
I had a brief conversation with Papa last night where we discussed my situation, what it really means to stop taking vorinostat in the long term, and general financial issues.
I'm making the transition to a fixed income, which for some might sound scary or bad, but given the sporadic nature of my career for the last twenty years, having a definite, reliable, consistent amount coming in is like manna from heaven. :)
I suppose, in a way it is, though the cost is awfully high.
Anyway, he went to bed and I got to work on another audio book, and as I listened for background noise, stumbled or misspoken words and whatnot, I came to a stunning revelation:
I feel good.
Such a simple thing, that. People say it all the time when their world goes the right way, when someone give them a birthday card, or just because the sun is shining. In my case, nothing hurt (drugs are so handy for that) I didn't feel particularly stupid (from said drugs, for which they are NOT handy) and I had nothing hanging over my head, like how to pay bills until the government finally gave up and paid out. Moreover, I was confident Papa completely understood the ramifications I had explained, and what that most likely meant for the long term, just as I understood them. His understanding and acceptance, as well as the rest of my family and friends is huge.
It's funny what we walking dead guys grab hold of to fuss about, though in retrospect I suppose worrying about how others will get along after we are gone isn't so strange after all.
Anyway, the net result of all this was a feeling I can only describe as 'contented'. The feeling of not having anything nibbling at the back of your mind except how nice the feeling is.
Some might say this is a very self absorbed post, and in an earlier time I might have thought the same thing, but now it matters that I mention how I feel because so many people who read this and have followed along are almost as deeply involved in all this mess as I am. I could wish it weren't so, for their sake, but I do understand it, at least. So it is for you who read and follow and care that I post this, in the hope that you can feel good too. :)
Addendum:
Several days have passed since I had that revelation, and a few things have happened along the way. One is that I continue to improve physically, albeit slowly, and I can pretty much eat whatever. Occassionally, I am even hungry. :)
Another is that I sent an update message to Doc, catching him up on what all has happened since we last spoke, etc. I got a reply from him this morning, pretty much confirming what I already believed; that we are at the point where all we can do is watch and wait, and see what happens. I had mentioned the idea that I had come full circle, meaning that once the last vestiges of the harmful effects of the vorinostat were finally gone, I'd be a few months shy of the point where I was a year ago when I first met him. Fever cycles are rare, (none, in actual fact, for the last week) just beginning to retain water, and so on.
His email confirmed my suppositions, and we agreed to simply watch and see. This gives me time to recharge, so to speak, and when (if?) the cancer progresses to a point where it seriously affects my ability to function, then we can look at the "traditional" chemo again. I'm fairly certain we both agree that it'll only ever be a holding action, a way to add a few more quarters to that proverbial parking meter, but as I said in the past, I'm good with that.
The third thing, and this is actually the more important of all these events, is that my sister and I talked for several hours this weekend. We got a number of things sorted out and the end result is that I can look forward to her visiting from out of state. Never mind that the thought scares the shit out of me because I no longer look like how she undoubtedly remembers me. That part has ever been a huge consideration because I remember how upset she was when she saw mom for the first time in ages, well into that point where she had become frail.
For as much as my sister has always defended and championed her quiet, not-a-fighter brother, I know full well I've always been her rock, and to see the rock a bit crumbly cannot possibly be an easy thing.
All in all, for the first time in a year, I finally feel like I have all my ducks in a row. My family and most of my friends have come to quietly accept what will happen far too soon, I am almost free of the constant hassle of dealing with insurance companies, and paying bills, I'm on track with my doctor and myself, and the sun shines more often than not, now.
The net result? I still feel good. :)
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm sort of hungry. I gotta go find something to eat.
Cheers!
Patric
Clare London
Let's face it, memories of school days are meant to be precious things, like winning the football cup, or discovering more to maths than a scrawl of ant's poo over the page, or setting fire to the desk in Chemistry with such a blue flash that you finally -- finally -- get Billy Dean to look over and notice you...
Not the memory of nearly pissing your pants in front of the school bully.
I was a short, weedy eleven-year-old, with glasses that sat awkwardly on my skinny nose and nothing much going for me except my sense of humour. And a rather dangerous one at that.
When we spotted Tod Baxter snatching a quick ciggie around the back of the science block at the end of the school day, I made some smart comment about his thickset, shaven head bobbing between his cupped hands as he nursed the illicit hit. Something about looking like a prick with ears. And rather more unfortunately, I said it aloud.
Baxter swung his bulbous head around and stared right at me. My friends dematerialized like the smoke from his cig. The wind keened around the abandoned wall of the block, cold and mocking.
Well, I could have run. Should have. I was never going to win any Rocky contests, but I should have reached the other side of the playground faster than a hungry whippet. Then maybe found some kind of schoolboy Witness Protection scheme. My gut was churning, my bladder threatening to embarrass me at any second. My legs were like jelly and my eyes were stinging already from the tearful anticipation of pain.
But instead, I squared up to him. Made my small sweaty fists and stared back at him. He looked astonished. For all of five seconds, before he began to lumber towards me.
"Charlie, you stupid prick," someone murmured, quite cheerfully. It wasn't Baxter. He wasn't known for being articulate, just homicidal. I hesitated.
And then another kid appeared. Not just appeared, but snuck up behind Baxter. I couldn't see exactly what he did, but he must have kicked him in the back of the knees or something. I saw the big guy's eyes roll and his legs buckle. Even as he crumpled down heavily with an 'oof' of pain, I heard "Run," hissed in my left ear.
I leapt around Baxter and ran like blazes, all the way home. I didn't pause until I was on my own front step, and I knew he wasn't following. And then realised the other kid was beside me as well.
"Thanks," I panted. I rubbed my damp palm on my trousers and stuck out my hand. "Charlie. Chas."
"I know," he said, but he shook my hand anyway. "Adam." He hadn't broken a sweat at all.
"What you said back there." I grimaced. "I was a stupid prick, right?"
"Right." His grin just made me want to join in. "It's not as if you're any match for him right now. You'd better sign up for those boxing classes after school."
"What classes?" I said. But I'd been looking at the call-up notice on the board before the start of school that day. Didn't know someone had been looking over my shoulder.
Rather surprisingly, Tod Baxter never bothered me again. And that was when Adam started looking out for me on a regular basis.
He was the one prompted the sports teacher to notice me on the bench and put me in the team for the cup final. He was the one insisted I study harder for my Geography exam when my only experience of volcanic ash was setting fire to the text book. Encouraged me to exercise until I wasn't just a short-arse but one with a fairly well-developed six-pack. Guided me secretly back in through the kitchen window of my house at four a.m. after a teenage party I'd been forbidden to attend, and where I'd sucked in far more than my fair share of illegal substances. And, somehow, beyond anyone's expectation including my own, I never got caught.
Don't ask me how Adam did all this, but I knew it was him. We didn't share classes; he didn't come to the boxing lessons with me; he didn't hang around with the same gang in town on Saturday afternoons. But afterwards, he was always there beside me, laughing at the same jokes, teasing me, pushing me to listen to his own brand of sense.
In the last couple of years of school, there were other problems. Not the work, which I coped well with by then, but, you know ... being gay. Look, I didn't have any epiphany or anything. Didn't even really know what it all meant. Just knew I was, from the time my voice broke and my balls dropped. And I was fine with that. But when my prick kept filling every time I saw Billy Dean in his football shorts... well, things got tricky. I got smart at hiding it, I avoided the cruder jokes, I leered over the pin-ups my friends had.
But when Billy nudged me behind the sports shed and let me jerk him off... hey, I was a very willing participant. His dick was thick and damp with sticky trails of come. It felt everything yet nothing like my own, a wet dream come to life in my shaking hand. His breath was hot against my hair, his fingers pinched the flesh of my shoulders. Our incoherent grunts made my groin ache, I was swollen with frustration inside my own shorts, but never happier. I thought all my dreams had come true.
Until the rest of the football team roughed me up after school. That was when the word 'faggot' came home to me as being ... well, me.
"Where were you?" I complained to Adam. I sat outside the school on the low kerb, dabbing my nose until it stopped bleeding. Luckily no bones had been broken. The gang had broken up pretty quickly when the school fire alarm went off.
"Making sure a short circuit set off the fire alarm," he said severely. "What the hell were you playing at?"
"At Billy Dean," I said, rather mournfully.
Adam laughed and sat down beside me. A stack of paper serviettes had somehow appeared on the ground beside me, to help me mop up. "He's a dick."
"But he could have been my dick." I was the poor victim, thwarted in lust and love.
Adam snorted. "No way. Not yet, anyway."
"Not yet?"
Adam smiled but his gaze skittered away, as if he'd said something he shouldn't. "He's just looking for an easy right hand. And in the school grounds? Chas, you really are..."
"A prick?" I snapped.
Adam laughed. "But my prick."
It was one of those stupid, but treasured moments. His company felt just ... right. I blushed, far more embarrassed by the pleasure of his friendship than by the humiliation of seeing my name carved on the sports shed wall by the football team, who'd tried---unsuccessfully, of course---to find a threatening rhyme for stupid gay pervert.
So, as is the time-honoured tradition in such sensitive moments, I stuck my tongue out at him.
Adam shook his head. "Whatever. Besides, I suppose you have to take some risks in life."
And so I did, but with a little more caution. Next time out---in the gay sexual experience sense of the word---I chose somewhere more private, though possibly not more salubrious. See what words I was using by then? I was horny and smart, an unassailable combination. And to my delight, Billy was still in the market. We kept away from his team mates, I worked on finding rhymes for homophobic arseholes (still working on that one, to this day), and our lust found plenty of places to try even more exciting things. Though never anything as heady as that first glorious time I got to put my hand down the front of his shorts.
In my final year---accompanied by much eye-rolling shock from both my Chemistry and my Geography teachers---I got an academic place at the local University. Never seen Dad look so pink and happy in his life as when I opened the offer letter. I was excited and proud and arrogantly sure I was on my way up in life.
I just had no idea how lonely it would be.
One Saturday midnight, Adam found me curled up in a shop doorway outside one of the seedier gay student clubs in the town. The rain drizzled down under my open collar, the street lights reflected in the puddles on the pavement, the occasional passing car raised spray from the gutters. It had been a long, miserable night, though I'd stopped specifically counting the hours after too many shots and plenty of blow. Adam stood there for ten silent minutes because I was initially determined not to acknowledge him and his disapproval. I stared at his shoes until my resentment and misery curdled in the pit of my stomach. "What the fuck?" I muttered.
A young woman passing the doorway on her way home started at the sound of my voice and quickly crossed the road.
"Go home," Adam said.
"Trying," I muttered. My legs seemed to have been reworked in putty and mis-connected to my hips.
"Pick up your wallet."
I hadn't realised I'd dropped it, not that there was much in it to delight anyone else. Four pounds fifty, a discount card to the sandwich bar and a condom that was not-so-rapidly-but-relentlessly going out of date. The journey back to my flat was through a blurred, occasionally psychedelic haze. Took me four attempts to get the key in the lock, then I lost my wallet again, until I saw it on the toilet seat. I grabbed hold of it before it fell in. Then grabbed hold of the seat itself and threw up into the bowl.
Several times.
"Good God." Adam's voice sounded strangely tired.
"At least I'm not singing," I grunted, but wit escaped even me. The misery had become second-nature, a thick, heavy blanket over my heart and hope. I'd been here months, but no one had even tried to guess the truth behind my sharp humour.
"Give this up, Chas. You're better than this."
I frowned. "'m fine. Student life, 'n all. 'njoying myself."
There was a pause in the air as if Adam were considering a suitable response. Glancing around my modest little bathroom, taking it all in: the damp toilet seat, the chipped floor tiles glinting from the harsh fluorescent light over the shaving mirror; my inevitably flushed face and the crusty trail of another cheap takeaway dinner on the front of my shirt. I knew beyond a doubt that he'd seen the emptiness of both my fridge and my phone book.
I leaned back over the bowl and heaved again.
Adam sighed. "I think not."
I sighed. Bastard was right, of course.
"Find him, Chas. He's at this University too, isn't he? Call him up."
I knew who he meant. Billy Dean had got a sports scholarship to the University as well, but he was the year ahead of me. After he left school, I think we'd exchanged a couple of emails and circulated some stupid jokes at Christmas. Then nothing.
"'s over now. Schoolboy crush."
Adam's tone sharpened. "Don't be a fool. As if you don't know where he lives, what days he comes on to campus. As if you haven't always known."
I glanced up at him, my eyelashes wet. "No secrets from you, eh?"
It was a joke, though feeble, but Adam didn't smile this time. "No," he said softly.
I called Billy the next day, the phone shaking slightly in my hand. I laughed too loudly, gabbled too much, but he sounded surprisingly pleased to hear from me. I pitched for the 'let's catch up on old times' sort of tone. Remember the school days, the teachers...?
Behind the sports shed?
I can't remember if I said it, or he did, and I wasn't going to ask. But we couldn't meet fast enough, my shocking eagerness apparently matched by his. That night we fell into his small, lumpy but sweetly clean bed, bare skin sticky, hearts thumping, mouths greedy, his touches raising goose bumps of delight all over me.
We were together from then on.
One evening near the end of Billy's last term, I sat outside the main college building waiting for him to finish a late lecture. The air was cool. Since I'd given up (almost) all my drug vices, including ciggies of all types, I could smell it more clearly, full of early summer promise and the sharp tang of sunlight on rich, fragrant shrubs. I blew on my hands, but it wasn't really too cold. Besides, Billy was worth the wait.
Adam gave a gentle cough. "You're good together. You and Billy. Well done."
I frowned. "You're always around. All hours of day or night."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything more.
"Look. I mean, a guy's got to have some privacy." I felt over-warm. "You don't ever...you know...?"
"Snoop on you and Billy?" He laughed loudly and I was glad no one else was around to see my gaffe. "You stupid arse. Like that'd be any kind of entertainment for me."
I stuck my tongue out at him, like we were back in school again. But I felt comforted.
When he graduated, Billy mortgaged himself to the eyeballs and took over a local sports shop---his own version of paradise---and we pooled whatever we had left to move into our own flat. I was aiming for a job in journalism and had already been offered a freelance place at the local newspaper. But Billy insisted I finished my course first.
"Why bother? I could leave now and live with you fulltime. The money would be great."
He just shook his head and pushed me back down on the bed to distract me. He was a man of action, not words, like I was. It almost always worked, too. I stayed on to finish my time though the year dragged for me. I sulked, and my degree wasn't as good as it should have been. But it was enough to get me a job I wanted, on a travel magazine.
Adam encouraged me as well, like he always had. He just seemed to know what was best.
But he didn't always tell me.
"What do you think I should do?" It was a common whine from me. I stood in our small back yard one evening, six months into my new job and an hour before Billy was due to finish work, watching the day sink into dusk and the midges cluster around the overhanging tree from next door. I wished I still had a smoking habit to concentrate on while I considered the option of a three month contract in the Far East.
And Adam? I was startled to see him shake his head in reply.
"Can't help. This one's up to you. It's your call."
I frowned. "It's a great opportunity, I'm still new to this job but they think I can do it. But three months away from home...what's Billy going to say?" Adam just looked at me. Fuck it, I knew he knew what I was really thinking. "I'm not sure we can cope with it."
Adam frowned. "If you're not sure of what you have by now, Chas, you don't deserve it."
"Fuck you," I said, though even my anger was confused.
He stared at me. It was one of his looks, one I'd grown to recognize over the years, the one that said I was being a dick. Which, of course, I was---but I didn't see why he was always pointing it out.
"So okay. I'll sort things out myself." The harsh words spat from me, intentionally cruel. "Why the hell I think I need your advice every fucking step, I don't know. Breathing over my shoulder, patronizing me like we were back at school, living my fucking life like you want it for your own---"
No point to my diatribe. I'd gone too far, but there was no point to an apology, either. Adam had gone.
I waited, but he didn't come back. I couldn't remember ever feeling so bad, even in the days before I found Billy again.
When I finally plucked up courage that night and told Billy I wanted to take the contract, the mood was even more sober than it should have been. But---like I'm sure Adam would have told me if he'd wanted to---Billy agreed I should do it, that I should be proud to be considered. That we'd weather the separation, like we had before, and he'd still be here while I was away. Also when I came back. As, of course, I would! I'd been stupid to doubt it; to doubt us. Shockingly grateful for his constant love, I gave him everything I had in bed that night, until he was slippery with sweat and gasping for astonished, ecstatic breath.
Then I lay awake for hours after, while he snored gently and guiltlessly beside me.
"Adam?" I felt stupid whispering into my bedroom.
"Hmmmh." Billy stirred sleepily, then settled back into his pillows.
I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot into our kitchen. I made hot chocolate, just like Mum used to make me when I couldn't sleep. I slumped at the kitchen table, hugging the mug with my hands, breathing in the fragrant steam.
"Adam?" He was there. Thank God. "Sorry. I was a dick."
"Yeah," he said, sliding into the seat beside me. "You were."
I sneaked a look at him out of the corner of my eye. Wondered whether he'd take it as the usual joke if I stuck my tongue out at him. "I didn't mean it."
"Yes, you did." He was smiling. "But you wish you hadn't said it. That'll do for me."
I sat for a while in silence, smiling and sipping the too-hot drink. And that's when I decided it was stupid to go on pretending. I turned slowly to stare at him, at the wisdom in his bright eyes, at the knowledge and friendship in his steady gaze. At the kid who came and went at will, without me ever noticing how it was done. At the face that hadn't changed for over ten years.
"Who are you, Adam? What are you?"
He wasn't embarrassed or startled. He didn't bluster, either. "I'm what you've needed. I'm part of your life. Part of you."
"The better part?" I grimaced.
He laughed, but now I knew I didn't have to worry about Billy hearing him. "Doesn't matter. I'm here for you. You need me. It works for us both."
I stared into the swirling, rich brown liquid, avoiding his gaze. "Couldn't have got here today without you." I sounded hoarse.
Adam didn't answer but relaxation stole through me, warm and caressing, like the chocolate drink itself.
"Billy and me... you know? We don't bother saying it. You know. It."
"You don't need to." Adam laughed softly. "But for a journalist, you have a damned clumsy way with words sometimes."
When I looked up to protest, raw from exposing my soul, flushed from knowing he didn't need anything explained anyway...
He'd gone again. But this time, it didn't feel like abandonment.
I didn't see Adam for a while after that. Life was busy for both Billy and me, so I wasn't conscious of loss. The Far East job went well and they gave me my own features column. I travelled some more, but I made a point of never being away for too long. Don't get me wrong, I didn't doubt Billy--- or even me, for that matter--- but it felt better to be at home.
Home. God. I was turning into the parents. It made me smile to myself.
I was pleased they coped with a son and son, rather than the more common heterosexual relationship. Mum blushed when Billy was affectionate with me, but she'd probably have been the same if I had a cute girl in tow. And Dad enjoyed having someone to talk football with.
The shop did well and Billy started sponsoring some local school teams. People came to ask his advice about sport in the community; about links to national clubs and funding projects for facilities. Sometimes I stood on the sidelines when he was coaching, trying to separate the offside rule from various other arcane black magic rituals, and wondering when I could take another nip from my hipflask without the kids seeing.
They were young and enthusiastic. They glowed with it. Had we been like that?
Then I'd look at Billy, and know he still was. It was both an exhilarating and deeply comforting feeling. And it made me want to slide my hand down inside his shorts again, like the first time. There was a sports shed at the far side of the field, too. When he came over at half time and asked why I was laughing, I had to censor my reply from too-teenage ears.
I probably wasn't as fit as Billy---actually, I knew damned well I wasn't, despite keeping the six-pack toned with some easy gym routines---and after one weekend at a couple more football tournaments, I slept more heavily than usual. When I stirred, my limbs felt lazy, my vision still fogged. The bedroom was dark apart from the glimmer of a streetlight from outside, sneaking in through the blind. Can't have been much past midnight.
Adam was beside the bed.
"Hrmpphh," I muttered in way of a greeting.
"Wake up," he said. "Properly."
I pulled myself clumsily up to sitting. I didn't bother asking him to whisper. "I seem to remember you saying you weren't going to go all voyeur on me and Billy, you know."
He didn't laugh, which was the first worry. Even though we hadn't been around each other for a while, no one had ever laughed at my lame jokes like Adam did.
"Chas, you need to get him to hospital."
I stared at his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Who?"
"Good God." The phrase had always seemed very old from his young mouth, but now it sounded pained as well. "Billy, of course."
It was late, right? I was still only half awake. That's the only excuse I had for turning slowly and aimlessly to stare at Billy, asleep in the bed beside me. For not understanding what the hell Adam was going on about. "What do you mean? He's fine." Billy had spent the day running up and down the pitch, yelling encouragement, finding praise for every single boy or girl, returning good natured smiles at the parents watching proudly from the wings. Especially the single mothers who simpered shamelessly at him...
"Chas? Listen to him."
I did. Carefully. Billy had always been an intermittent breather, worse when he had a cold, but that was nothing sinister. Was it?
An hour later, I was sitting huddled at his hospital bedside, watching him in carefully regulated sleep, a monitor recording his heartbeat and checking it for any irregularity. The room was overheated while the corridors were slightly chilly and very quiet. But it was late, wasn't it? I thought I'd said that before---or thought it, at least.
It wasn't too late for Billy, thank God. The doctor had been very cheery. That type of arrhythmic breathing was a common symptom, apparently. He must have seen the panic in my face, though, because he hurried on to explain he didn't mean serious heart or lung disease. No, they'd taken tests and would do an ECG, but Billy's lungs were fine, his body still young and healthy. It was probably an early symptom of an overactive thyroid, something like that.
"Something like what?"
The doctor had given me that professionally reassuring smile they must practice in the mirror during medical training. The condition could be treated with drugs, it wouldn't necessarily develop into anything more overt. No, Billy may not have to give up all his sport, or---his leer at me looked thoroughly suspicious---anything else requiring strong physical exertion. But I'd done the right thing, alerting them quickly. I should just keep my eye on things for the time being.
I stared at Billy, swaddled in the smooth white sheets, and I thought I'd probably never take my eye off him again in my life.
"It wasn't his time, Chas. He's okay now. It's all under control."
I smiled at the sound of Adam's voice, even his scolding. No one had ever known me so well. It would have been good to feel his hand on my shoulder, but it wasn't as if I needed the touch to know he was there. "You've been away, haven't you? Lucky you chose tonight to come back."
He laughed softly. "Lucky, yes, maybe. But I have other places to go, you know."
"Other people to snoop on?" I laughed in echo. The sound faded underneath the blip of the monitor. It was reassuring now, rather than frightening as it had been at first. I'd hardly ever been in hospital myself. Never seen anyone really ill. Never imagined that someone I loved might be at risk...
"Chas, believe me. He'll be fine."
"I believe you," I whispered. "Thank you."
There was a companionable silence for a while. I glanced down at my shirt to find I'd mis-buttoned it in my haste to get out of the house and into the ambulance. I fiddled with one of the buttons, but I didn't bother re-fastening it. "Are you leaving again now?"
Adam moved so he was in my line of sight, and I could look at him as well as Billy. "Soon."
I nodded. I'd never felt so tired myself, but it was exhaustion born of relief.
I rested my head on the pillow beside Billy and slept.
Billy woke properly around breakfast time the next day. He gave a disgustingly robust yawn and glanced over at me. I sat in the chair, leaning on the side of the bed. I'd been drowsing and drawing warmth from him, watching the way his muscles tensed every time he took a deep, nurturing, normal breath.
"You look..." I couldn't think of the right word, if indeed, it existed. "Good."
"Do I?" His voice was croaky.
I stretched up and my neck cricked. "Yeah. Of course, some of us have slept on a chair, you know. Some of us have drunk too many cups of sludgy machine coffee, eaten stale doughnuts and fended off calls from worried parents every half hour. I've also spent plenty of time wondering where the fuck you left the password to the online supermarket in case I have to handle this week's shopping on my own..."
"Chas?" He reached over and grasped my pale hand with his strong one. "Don't cry. I'm okay now."
"You scared me." That was a stupid thing to say. But it had been a time of stupid happenings, it seemed to me.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. But when I glared at him, he was smiling.
Dammit, I smiled back. "What would I have done?" The words spilled from me, against my will.
"Nothing's going to happen. I'm fine. I heard the doctor explaining it to you."
I raised my eyebrows. "Oh yeah? But you didn't see fit to let me know you were back in the land of...?" I paused. Bit my lip.
Billy chuckled. He let his head fall back on the bed. He still looked very tired, but I was elated now I could speak to him, touch him, hear him. "You were all right," he murmured. "You had other company."
My body went very still while my thoughts whirled. "What do you mean? Your parents insisted on coming down so they're on their way, but otherwise you're to have rest. Those nurses are trained in minimum effective force, you know. They're not going to let a troop of teenage midfielders charge through here with muddy knees and bags of chips to cheer you up..."
"I heard you. Even when I was unconscious, I think. I heard you talking to Adam."
"Adam?"
Billy sighed and nestled further back into the pillow. "It's all right, Chas. I mean, it's not as if you're a loony or anything, is it?"
"No. Is it?" I stared at him. "Um... how long?"
He snuffled like a baby finding its blanket. He'd be asleep again soon. "I don't know who or what the hell he is, but he's been with you all the time I've known you, hasn't he? Or at least, you've been talking to him for that long. Maybe not as much recently. Since we moved in together."
"Maybe not as much recently." I sounded like a hoarse parrot.
"Stupid. It's all right," Billy repeated. "He loves you too, right?"
Now I was impersonating a goldfish, my mouth opening then closing with barely a sound coming out. "Billy... some people would think I was a loony."
"Well, some people would think I was an uneducated, unimaginative sports jock." Billy sighed again, no real rancour in his tone. "Who cares about them? I know there are things I don't understand, but that's not the same thing at all."
"My God, no," I whispered, my words heartfelt.
"So he's looking out for you, the same as I do." He gave a soft, halting cough. "Looking out for me, too."
I nodded.
"Of course," Adam said from behind us, startling me.
"Not every day," I said, quickly, my eyes still on Billy's flushed and sleepy face.
"No," Adam agreed. "But whenever you need me." His voice softened even further. "Whatever happens to you, I'll always be with you."
"Whenever I need him," I said to Billy, too loudly, too brightly, like I was passing on a neighbour's goodwill message. Perhaps that was what I was doing. I could feel the warmth from Billy's blanket-wrapped body and also from Adam behind me. Such very different kinds of heat, but a combined reassurance and faith I knew I'd never find anywhere else.
Billy chuckled again, but it was already turning into a snore. I'd never been so glad to hear that rasping, infuriating noise in my life. "Bloody hungry," he muttered, and then his eyes drifted fully closed.
I lifted my head and wiped my eyes. Must have had a cold coming on. I couldn't feel Adam anywhere around, but it really didn't matter. He wasn't actually there, but he always could be.
It works for us both, he'd once said. I'm part of your life.
I reckoned I could go another night in the hospital chair, now I knew things were okay again. I wriggled to get slightly less uncomfortable, and smiled to myself, remembering a voice that wasn't there, and yet was as familiar to me as my own.
The better part.
I might even go and find another cup of sludgy coffee first. And some doughnuts for when Billy woke again.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Well before all the cancer crap started, I had the sneaking suspicion that I am congenitally unable to feel good, for long. Now, with recent events, I've pretty much confirmed that suspicion.
Thus, we return you from a brief respite to more selfishness, childishness, and whining.
Thank you for your patience during that minor slip into pleasantry.
(At this point I'm supposed to say "It won't happen again, but in point of fact, I rather hope it does.) :)
--ed.
According to Wordnet at Princeton, comparatively means: in a relative manner; by comparison to something else.
So by extension, comparatively speaking means I'm talking about something that I've held up and examined side by side with something else. In this particular case, other people's problems.
I've discussed this with a few very close friends, and by close, I mean these are people who generally understand what I'm trying to say as opposed to what it might sound like. :)
In those discussions, I mentioned how difficult it was nowadays to hear other people's problems and not compare them to mine. Wait. Let me clarify that. Difficult? Call it damn near impossible.
In the early days of my so called writing career, (which ironically coincides with my cancer career) I used to be logged in to Twitter pretty much 24/7. Despite being a horrible time suck, it was a fun way to keep in touch, keep up on events (and gossip, have to admit that) and the general doings of like minded individuals. Unfortunately, it also gave me too much of an opportunity to compare problems because we as human beings tend to share both good and bad news. Thus, not only would I hear about how so and so wrote four thousand words that day, or overcame a sticky plot hole, etc. I also heard about how various situations made it difficult to write anything at all.
Perfectly understandable. The gods know all manner of daily situations make writing, full or part time, something of a chore. And like the aforementioned human beings, how can one not help but empathize, compare, and commiserate?
@busymomwriter: Ugh, the kids were impossible today. I barely got the first chapter outlined and its already 10pm!
@fulltimeEDJ: My boss dumped a stack of unfinished reports on my desk that are due tomorrow! There goes my chance to finish Chapter Three today...
@itsmorethanahobby: That sucks, @busymomwriter, @fulltimeEDJ. I know the frustration, but I got 2k today despite the power outtage. Longhand by candle!
@busymomwriter: LOL @morethanahobby That's the spirit! Congrats! Hows the hand cramps?
And so on. People, not just in twitter but everywhere, in nearly all circumstances of communication, share and compare. It's easy to do, and helps both parties get past the irritation or frustration, but only when there is a commonality. Some similarity to circumstances that both sides can relate to.
Then you get things like this:
@writesfulltime: I stubbed my toe and I don't feel like working today.
How on earth can a busy mother or someone working a full time job and still tries to write possibly relate to a person who has the means to write full time, and decides something so trivial, comparatively speaking, is reason enough not to do what they themselves scrabble and fight to accomplish despite everything else going on?
You can't. Or at least I can't. The best I could possibly do in reply would be to say something like "I hope your toe stops hurting soon." and privately roll my eyes.
It would be monstrously unfair of me to denigrate other people's daily problems because they don't have the same scope as mine, but by the same token, it's all but impossible not to compare them, either.
How can I relate to someone who "can't" write because they stubbed their toe when I wrote one successfully published story while solidly in the grip of cancer's worst effects, before I had all the drugs to manage those symptoms, or another story while my body was inundated with the poison called chemotherapy and my brain refused to function? (In all fairness, that eventually took its toll and I had to stop writing. No one will publish gibberish.) :)
The point is, unless there is some sort of common ground, its difficult to share reasonably. What I wouldn't give to have "only" a stubbed toe to hinder my writing.
What I wouldn't give to be able to drive 60 miles to see my friends, or fly a few hundred more to go to a Con.
What I wouldn't give to have a reasonable guarantee I'll see my next birthday, rather than wailing about getting older.
Do I feel sorry for myself? Sometimes. How could I not? But comparatively speaking, its pretty rare that I slide that far down into the well of depression. Others in my situation are not so lucky.
Do I get frustrated hearing about other people's comparatively minor problems? Again, how could I not? I would never want to trade places with them because I wouldn't wish this shit on anyone, but I'd be more than glad to be in their shoes rather than mine, knowing what I do now.
That last part is key. Without knowing what I do now, there is no way I'd be able to understand how truly, comparatively minor my old problems were.
Can't make this month's bills? No problem. I'll work overtime next month and make up the difference. I didn't get the garden tilled this year because I was too busy working? No sweat. I'll put one in next year.
I can't finish chapter three because I stubbed my toe? Well, there's always tomorrow, isn't there....
Which brings me to the problem of folks who don't have that level of comparison, and why I'm so pissy today.
I have spent the majority of my life putting other people ahead of myself. I grew up terminally shy, was self effacing by nature, and I get a genuine kick out of helping other people solve problems. Problems are, after all, just a kind of puzzle and I always love solving puzzles.
Recently however, with the advent of my situation, I had to learn to be selfish. Had to learn that it was not only okay, but necessary to demand time for myself, consideration (to a degree) for myself, and worst of all, how to say no.
I'll be the first to admit I fail that last bit more often than not, though I've tempered my failure with provisos describing the probability that I'll fall asleep, not feel well enough, or simply not have the energy to do whatever, as fast as I used to.
For the most part that works well enough because I purely hate selfishness, in others and in myself. But in the aftermath of the vorinostat, I can finally admit to the necessity of the latter and accept it.
Any reasonably healthy person can take a break in their busy day, eat lunch, and while they might feel a bit logy, still return to class or work and continue. They can even skip lunch and continue to function despite not having stoked the furnace, or "fueled up" as the sport oriented folks might say.
I discovered that is simply not possible for me at this point. Now that I can eat, (and how often we take that simple act for granted) and occasionally even be hungry enough to want to, I am able to quite literally feel the biochemical result of digesting that bowl of cereal, or those scrambled eggs. Where once eating a single cookie was simply a matter of replenishing stores of energy, it is now the difference between functioning or not. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, by the time that experimental drug was cleared from my system, another week of not being able to keep anything down might well have been the difference between taking that final nap or waking up from one.
Things are obviously better now, thankfully, but that improvement taught me just how precious every erg of energy I have truly is, and how bloody hard it is to "restock the shelves."
As a consequence, when I am asked a favor, or asked for help or to solve a problem, all things I absolutely love doing, I have to be careful with my answer. Sometimes, I have to say no. For the first time ever in my working career, I turned down a fairly simple job, afraid I wouldn't be able to complete the project on time. It was the first, worst, and best decision I ever made. Worst because I hated the necessity, and best because I crashed hard that week and would NOT have been able to complete the project.
Likewise, and just as rarely, someone will ask for something and I have to decline. I hate it, but at least they and I both understand the necessity.
It's the times I say yes that have lately become a problem. With my condition becoming more and more stable, it becomes easier for other folks to, maybe not forget exactly, but certainly not keep it at the front of their thoughts that I am still severely diminished. Perhaps that's what makes it more likely for them to negate effort I expend on their behalf.
Case in point: Someone wants me to do something for them that they cant because they are too emotionally invested. Okay. I can go research, separate fact from fiction, and report the truth. I know what I have to say will cause them further distress so I agonize over how best to phrase my reply to cause the least hurt. When I finally do figure out how to be honest and still be accurate, I am told, "Oh well never mind. I found the answer for myself."
Shit. I just blew a wad of precious energy googling, spent more stressing out how to respond, and get told it was for nothing? Call me childish but damn, that pisses me off nowadays. Before, when I had reserves, it would have only been a flash of annoyance, quickly forgotten.
Now however, reality takes a front seat, and I have to think about such things. I don't ask that anyone else become so diminished that they know precisely what I'm babbling about, but I wouldn't mind anyone simply taking my word for it and respecting the effort I made.
Comparatively speaking, being blown off like that is pretty minor. I know that, but consider the fact that while it might piss me off (along with the several other instances yesterday that combined together made me cranky enough to write this post in the first place) I am stabilized enough that I can set aside thoughts of how close taking that final nap was, and think instead of the minor, inconsequential-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things problems that are, no matter who you are or what your situation is, as important as breathing because they directly affect you.
In a very sideways way of thinking, that means I'm getting stronger. Strong enough to get pissy about such things, at least.
Now all I need is the energy to get over them. :)
Patric
Sunday, July 18, 2010
As always, thank you for the lovely comments. I do read them all, and appreciate them, even if I haven't responded individually.
-- Patric
I know... It's been relative ages since I last posted. I did intend to write something to go along with the picture in the last post, but circumstances got the better of me, so it doesn't exactly count. :)
Those circumstances are no more than what's become the norm, now that the only thing coursing through my veins trying to eat me is cancer. From that, there are good days and bad, and that's pretty much how it'll be from now on. That alone almost renders this blog obsolete, unless it were to become a study in repetition. :)
And yet, even within the confines of "sameness," I find I am still capable of shifting my perceptions (or having them shifted for me) and seeing the world, or at least my place in it, in a whole new light.
On more than one occasion in the dim dusty days of my youth, I mentioned the fact that if I ever stopped learning, it'd be because I was dead. (Mortality is such a casual subject when you are young.) Now that my youth is dusty, I may no longer actively seek to learn new things, but that doesn't mean my days of learning are over.
What I find so unusual is that the bulk of my education now-a-days is about myself. I don't know if that's a result of my condition or my age, but it's interesting to note.
One thing I find particularly interesting is how my perceptions change. Not only alter, but deepen and refine, to the point where what I once thought was clarity I now see was as blurry as a fogged lens on a camera.
Keep in mind I'm not talking about philosophical or intellectual perceptions, but literal, mundane, everyday things. "How long have those trees been there? I drove down this road thousands of times and never noticed them." or "When did you get shorter than me?" Stuff like that.
One would suppose everyone experiences such revelations when their own circumstances change. Certainly, that would explain the trees because while I have driven down that road a thousand times, it has been only recently that I have been a passenger and by extension, look at things differently.
But what about changes to myself or my personality? Little things I never noticed before (well, maybe not so little) like a tendency to eschew someone else's bad end to a road trip because it wasn't anywhere near as bad as road trips I've had? Was I always like that, or did I simply not make the comparison before because I didn't have the all enveloping awareness of being terminal to re-define what "truly matters"?
In the past I've commented on how the people around me have changed once they learn of my situation. The barber who won't look me in the eye anymore, or how people are reminded of their own mortality when they see me. The latest is a curious phenomena where, if I decline an offer to "come visit" because I feel crappy, I never hear from them again. It's happened twice now so it's not my imagination, but the question is whether or not that's always been the case and I simply never noticed before. Like being a passenger in a car instead of the driver, am I more likely to see these kinds of responses now because I'm more inclined to look forward to such visits, knowing that time is running out?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. I do know the scope of my awareness is now remarkably diminished, or perhaps a better word would be "reduced," which no doubt forces me to see things more closely. It's something like standing on a hilltop looking at the horizon through binoculars and not noticing the Alpine Poppies at my feet. Without the binoculars I simply cannot see the far horizon, so perhaps the tendency to concentrate on what is close by isn't so unusual after all. Maybe these things have been going on all along and I never noticed before. That's the question I keep asking myself, much like "If I only just now noticed those trees, what else have I been missing?"
What bothers me, inasmuch as anything can bother me compared to being a walking dead guy, is not knowing if I've inadvertently damaged anything-- if I accidentally squashed those poppies at my feet all unaware.
Water under the bridge, right? Can't undo the past and all that? Maybe so, but that doesn't mean I have to stomp the flowers the next time I climb the hill, does it? Even at this last stage I am judged by my actions, and I'd prefer to be judged favorably. Call me weird that way. :)
I've never blithely accepted the notion that just because I'm a senior in high school, I suddenly have carte blanche to cut up rough, or just because I'm still young (twenty-something) I don't have to give a shit about responsibility. (That latter is a favorite among kids today it seems, and it simply boggles my mind, but I digress.)
I could be easily and accurately said that none of this matters in the end, except that it does, at least to me. It doesn't matter that graduation draws near so long as I can continue to learn about myself and how I fit into the world around me, and if I am very lucky, put that schooling to use before summer comes.
Patric
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
To Whom It May Concern,
You know me, just as surely as I know you. Or perhaps I should say, "You still know me."
Yes, I got sick, through no fault of my own. Yes, it's cancer which, believe me when I tell you, is a hell of a lot more frightening for me than it is for you. Yes, it's incurable, which means I will die a lot sooner than you or I might have hoped for. But beyond that one difference, I am still me.
So why do you treat me so differently now?
You used to smile when I walked through your door. Now you won't even look me in the eye. You told me time and again you wanted to see me, and now you barely speak to me. Why do you run away from me, even when we are sitting side by side?
Why are you punishing me?
When you look at me, what do you see that's so different from the last time we were together? Have I grown fangs? Horns? A third eye? Or do you simply see bone where flesh once softened sharp angles? Is it the creases and wrinkles scattered across my face like a road map to sorrow that forces your eyes to the floor?
Beneath my outward appearance, I am still the same as I ever was.
Perhaps I've become a mirror of sorts. A reflection of your own mortality. Does looking at me remind you that you too will die someday? Or is it merely the loss you will feel when I am gone?
Maybe what you see is proof of the facts I tried so hard to get you to understand for so long, that you tried so hard to ignore or disbelieve.
I don't know. Not for sure at least, but something changed because you used to look at me and smile. You used to seek out my company not so long ago. Now you step aside, never look up, and barely acknowledge my existence when we cross paths.
Oh, I know. It's not really all your fault. You can't help how you feel, and I know you never had to deal with the idea, except you did. I am not the only one you've lost in your lifetime.
And that's why I'm writing you this letter. Call it one last chance to keep loss and guilt at bay because you see, you are treating me like I am already gone. Like I am a shadow of what once was.
But I'm not gone, yet. I am still here, and you are wasting time.
While you avoid me you lose these last chances we have to be together. Maybe you'd rather I were already gone. Get it over with and not drag out the inevitable. I wouldn't have thought that were possible, but then again, I wouldn't have thought you would avoid me like you are.
Do you understand that there is no reset button, no "do-over" to start fresh and make different choices?
You have to make those choices now, and make them count. Don't you get that?
This is the only letter I will write. I'm not going to beg you to talk to me, not going to push myself on you. Instead, I will continue to hope you finally learn to deal with me, all of me, before it is too late-- and that you will once again smile when our eyes meet. Try not to blame me for getting sick. I swear I didn't do it on purpose.
As I said, I know you. I know guilt and remorse over these missed chances and bad choices will eat at you. Eventually you'll be forced to push your memories of me far away and I'll become no more than faded pictures in a forgotten album.
I don't want to be forgotten.
Think about that, and if you do finally decide to take a chance and come back, I'll be right here, waiting.
Only... I can't wait forever. That much is obvious.
Patric
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Well, my sister has come and gone, without saying more than a handful of words to me during her entire visit. I don't know if that was a result of her being unable to handle the sight of her once hale and hulking moose of a brother turned into a scarecrow, or if it was nothing more than her being frightened of the near perpetual scowl on my face.
Trust me, you'd scowl too if you felt like this. lol!
Whichever it was, the end result stung like holy hell. Far more than I ever thought possible which means I am getting sappy in my old age. :)
But strangely enough, that didn't matter near as much (Let's face it, I expected it to happen, didn't want her to come out and see me because of it. Who knows, I may have even fulfilled my own prophecy) as when Papa came home from taking her to the airport.
I woke around 6:30 pm and saw his car in the driveway, then promptly fell asleep again. A bit after midnight, I woke for real with a question on my mind: Does Papa know I'm still alive?
A silly question, granted. Of course he knows. Right? Right?! Let's chalk it up to strange dreams, or the still quivering barb of my sister's rejection (and it was a rejection, no matter how you justify it to yourself should you ever read this, Sister mine.) sending bolts of pain through my emotions, but I had to know. The urgency was killing me.
I hobbled down the stairs feeling even worse than usual and met him in the foyer as I headed toward the kitchen.
"So," says I. "What time did you come up to see if I was still alive?"
A startled expression crosses his face. O rather, I perceive it as startled.
"I didn't," he says, following me into the kitchen to watch me shamble to the refrigerator.
"Oh." Then a beat later, "You're gonna get a nasty surprise one of these days."
He says nothing, of course. What could he say? For all of his gentle ways and erstwhile consideration, he simply isn't made to think of such things.
I stir the chocolate into my milk (It's the only thing that stays put with any certainty) with my shoulders hunched so he doesn't see my face as I struggle not to be stung twice in a day. By the time I make it to the top of the stairs, (no mean feat clutching a glass in one hand and the rail in the other) I realize I have become invisible.
When all this mess started, it was a shock to everyone, and everyone set aside their lives and routines to check up on me, look after me, ask me how I was doing, or if I needed anything, or simply wailed at the unfairness of it all.
As much as I hated the attention (and trust me on that) I also had to value it because sometimes one or another visitor might see I was stuck and lend a hand, sparing me the ignominy of having to ask for help. More often than not it was Papa, of course. He is closest to me physically, after all. And we all know how much I hate asking for help. :)
But as time went by and I fought to regain something of my life and routines, and more importantly once I got off the chemo and the killer experimental drugs, my sickness became less visible, if you discounted the hobbling, the gasping, the slow speech, and what not. When all that remained became the norm rather than the novelty, I found myself once again relegated to the role of a hermit, hiding out in the cave which is my room.
A good friend of mine recently said that people generally want their sick to lie quietly in white linens and not impinge on healthy people's reality. It's so much easier to ignore the reality of death that way.
As far as I can tell, they were correct. Healthy people want us to be invisible.
Now remember, these are vastly broad statements that don't necessarily reflect home and family, but in a way they do. Papa doesn't check on me because I am always in my room and I always come down, eventually. I've been that way for years.
He's become complacent by habit.
People don't call every weekend as they once did because the news is always the same. "Oh, I have good days and bad days. Today is not so bad."
They've become complacent by repetition.
No, this is not me whining like a spoiled brat and demanding that someone pay attention to me. I actually prefer the anonymity, and it's a damned nuisance having to constantly say I feel like shit. On the other hand, checking on me say, twice a day, to see if I am still breathing isn't necessarily a BAD thing, either. Papa really will get a nasty surprise one of these days and I already feel sorry for him because of it.
The point is that even though there will always be new people, ones who will rail or rage or be taken aghast or ignore me and wish I was invisible as their personalities demand, the majority will simply "forget." Not in a malicious way, but for them, there will be more important things to do than call, or it will slip their mind. "I meant to call you the other day but I got sidetracked." is my personal favorite.
For the most part, I am fine with that. That same friend also said I went "way, WAY out of my way to be self sufficient." and again they were correct. It's no secret that I much prefer independence rather than reliance. And yes, I am generally considered an exception rather than the rule on that score, but it still doesnt keep me from feeling somehow abandoned, especially when the one thing that has not changed, has not become invisible, is my need.
The same need that has me sitting up at two in the morning writing a blog post when I would ordinarily be impatiently snoring the night away so I could wake up and attack a summer day with all the gusto and enthusiasm I once had.
It's also the same need that will eventually take me away far more thoroughly than just rendering me invisible.
I mentioned wasting time in the previous post. As far as I can tell, that complacency is probably the most insidious time waster of all because while we might forget, might settle back in the comfort of our routines and relax, I guarantee you the cancer is no where near as complacent. It is relentless in it's effort to eat me from the inside out, and that alone is reason enough to check and see if I am still alive, once in a while.
Patric
D.W. Marchwell
A difficult time can be more readily endured if we retain the conviction that our existence holds a purpose - a cause to pursue, a person to love, a goal to achieve. (John Maxwell)
He opened up the brand new notebook, the spiral metal coil reminding him of all those years in school, as he sat at his roll top desk with the pen poised over the crisp white page. The blank page. There was nothing on it but the light blue ink that formed the lines which he was now supposed to fill with his thoughts and feelings. He stared at the page and felt a little foolish. He had a perfectly good laptop that he could use to get over this breakup, but for some reason the idea of actually writing everything longhand held a promise of something different, something that he hadn't experienced since he'd started writing all those years ago, before his life had become so unwelcoming.
Campbell Connelly was his alter-ego, an identity that he'd created almost fifteen years ago when he'd begun to write stories that he'd been so sure would only be read by him. But then he'd begun posting them on line, in various readers' forums, and had discovered that he was not alone after all. Of course, no one knew who he was, nor did they know the turmoil that had caused him to begin to create all of these characters who always ended up living the life that Matthew had searched in vain to find.
It wasn't that Campbell Connelly was any happier than Matthew Leslie, but rather it was a relief when Matthew could become Campbell. It was a relief to leave behind all of the debris of Matthew's life and occupy Campbell's, so simple and uncomplicated. No one had ever hurt Campbell, not as they had Matthew. And Campbell had never had to watch, helplessly, as one man after another offered nothing more than a promise of what Matthew craved. In fact, it was Campbell that received dozens of emails a day from loyal readers who told him how much all of his stories meant to them. Matthew, on the other hand, was the one who sat on a stool for almost eight hours a day, watching all the people wait in line so he could answer their questions about their bank deposits or process their withdrawal forms. Matthew Leslie was the one who sat on a stool and saw life pass by.
He gave up trying to write anything and headed to the bathroom to shower and shave. He'd been up for almost two hours now staring at the blank page of that notebook. Now it was time to head to the bank for the late shift. Well, it was called the late shift, but Matthew would be home before seven this evening, which would give him another couple of hours to try and figure out what he so desperately needed to write in that notebook. What he wanted to write down about this most recent break up that would prepare him for the next one.
DAY ONE
He wasn't really sure what he was doing here, precisely, other than to attend some sort of exercise program that promised variety, excitement and, of course, results. He'd come home from the bank the other day to find a flyer stuffed inside of his mailbox. The one-sided flyer showed the grainy picture of a man who could have been from one of Matthew's novels, but that wasn't what he was doing here. At least that's what he'd told his neighbor and friend, Michael. Of course, Michael hadn't believed him, but had graciously kept his mouth shut and not reminded Matthew that men that looked like this were usually trouble.
"Come on in and stake your claim to a spot on the floor."
Matthew heard the deep, raspy voice and looked over at the moderately-hairy, tanned skin and the rippling muscles straining against the tight t-shirt and wondered--- yet again--- what he had gotten himself into. It wasn't the idea of being a part of this revolutionary new exercise program that had him sweating already, but the realization that the two men who were already here looked like they'd already graduated from the advanced version.
"Thank you," Matthew murmured as he made his way over to one of the huge windows near the rear of the room. With any luck, I'll be able to hide how out-of-shape I am behind all of the people that will end up in front of me.
"My name is Duncan."
Matthew looked up from his backpack and water bottle to see the beautifully white smile of the man who'd just told him to find a spot on the floor. "Matthew," he said as he shook the offered hand. He couldn't help but notice Duncan's tattoos, especially the ones that indicated that he'd been in the Marines. It seemed impossible for Matthew to control his eyes as they scanned the muscular, defined legs, the grapefruit-sized calves and the powerfully built quads. Matthew's mind had just about finished painting a picture of what the rest of Duncan must look like when he heard the deep voice again.
"I wasn't sure if anyone would actually be willing to be a part of this test version."
Matthew smiled and removed the cap from his water bottle as he tried to figure out what this man had to be nervous about. He was tall, maybe a few inches over six feet, ripped, tanned with an incredibly full head of silky-looking salt and pepper hair. "Well, if I...or we, I mean...look half as good as you after three months, your program will be a huge success." Matthew took a swig of his water and watched as Duncan's cheeks flushed slightly, a little amused at how wholesome and nervous the big man seemed.
"Well, thanks, but..." Duncan brought his hands together and rubbed them vigorously, looking around the room for a few seconds, as if he were cold and looking for a fire, before turning his attention back to Matthew. "Listen, I know that everyone had to go through a physical and take a fitness test, but I'm really hoping that this program will be for everyone, not just those who are already fit."
Matthew wasn't really sure if he'd just been insulted or complimented. Is he putting me with the out-of-shape everyman or with those who are already fit? He didn't have too much time to examine what Duncan had actually meant by the comment since it seemed that all of the other participants arrived within moments of each other, like they'd all caught the same bus from the suburbs.
Everyone was milling around, staking their territory and making small talk while each participant was weighed and the official before photos were taken. Matthew decided to get it all over with and stripped out of his t-shirt, hoping that no one would notice the pasty white skin and the fifteen extra pounds he always seemed to carry around his waist. He consoled himself since some of the others showed that they'd let themselves go even further than he had, but chastised himself again and again for having let the breakup drive him into the arms of Ben & Jerry---again.
Finally, Duncan took to the small stage at the front of the room, a tiny microphone looped over his right ear. Matthew smiled as he watched the nervous and uncertain man who was hoping that his program would work for everyone suddenly became a master showman. Duncan explained a little about the necessity of the steps they'd each taken to get here, what would happen tonight and ended with a brief description of what everyone could expect in the next few weeks.
Matthew smiled and found his eyes riveted to Duncan as he listened to the deep, raspy voice crack a few jokes about aching muscles and how he would either end up a world-famous exercise guru or be in prison when twenty-two people were all found dead the next morning from exhaustion. When he found himself to be the only person in the room laughing, Matthew cleared his throat and tried not to notice the heat pooling in certain areas of his body. As he realized that he would be spending an hour a day over the next three months staring at the beautiful man on the stage, Matthew had to admit that his friend, Michael, had been right. It had been far too long since Matthew had done any serious "research" for his novels.
Despite Duncan's attention to all of the participants and his consistent demonstration---and reminders---of the modified moves for those who were becoming tired, Matthew's t-shirt was soaked through, his lungs were on fire and his body felt as if he'd just relived all of his sexual experiences in the last hour; and that included the unemployed actor he'd seen for almost two years---the very muscular action-star wannabe who wasn't happy until he and Matthew had done it at least five times a day.
Any thoughts of Duncan as the sweet reserved type had gone out the proverbial window the minute the warm-up started. And any impure thoughts Matthew had had while watching Duncan's powerful muscles flex and strain, or while hearing the guttural grunts and moans of that raspy bass voice, were long forgotten by the time Matthew realized that Mondays would be nothing but push-ups and pull-ups.
As Duncan led everyone through the cool-down, Matthew felt a little better as he commiserated with a few of the other participants who'd also had some difficulty keeping up. Directly in front of him was Sandra, a housewife from the valley who had grown frustrated by all of her failed attempts to lose the baby weight her fourth child had brought. Immediately to his left was Joey, a tax attorney who'd wanted to join to ensure the heart attack he'd suffered last year would be his last. And to his right was Emma, a police officer who hadn't realized she'd gotten so comfortable on the job that she almost failed her last physical.
Duncan announced that tomorrow evening would be a cardio workout and Matthew found himself relaxing a little; cardio, he could do with no problem. He followed Joe and Emma up to the table where all of the participants were encouraged to drink the recovery formula that promised to help with muscle soreness. It wasn't until he'd finished his eight ounces that Matthew realized he'd not consumed enough water during the workout tonight. He threw his cup into the blue bin and was headed for the showers, hoping he wouldn't be too sore tomorrow. He had a fair bit of work to do around the new house still, and while he welcomed an excuse to keep him from painting the hallway and the foyer, he wasn't sure he could look at that chartreuse color anymore. Before he made it half way to the showers, Matthew heard the booming bass voice beside him.
"You made it!"
Matthew looked over at Duncan's smiling face and couldn't help but return the smile. "Yes, it was touch and go there for a while, but I'm glad it's over."
Duncan let go of a loud one-note laugh and reached out to place his hand on Matthew's shoulder, the long, powerful fingers squeezing briefly before letting go. "Only 89 more days to go." Duncan offered another quick squeeze to Matthew's shoulder and then headed back to retrieve his towel from the small stage.
Matthew realized how negative he must have sounded and searched his brain for some sort of apology. "But I'm also really glad I decided to take part," he half-yelled across the spacious workout studio. "You're a great instructor. I think your program is going to be a huge success."
"Thank you, Matthew." Duncan picked up his towel and quickly wiped his brow. He stuffed one end of the thick, yellow towel into his shorts and then pulled off his t-shirt in one smooth movement.
Matthew wondered if Duncan knew the effect his body had on people. With almost no body fat, Duncan was something akin to a bronzed statue straight out of a museum. It would be easy for Matthew to assume that Duncan could get plenty of action, from males and females whichever he chose, but there was something about this gorgeous man that made Matthew wonder if he got any action at all. He couldn't pinpoint one specific thing, but with each exchange, Matthew became more and more convinced that Duncan was just as big an emotional mess as he was. And the writer in Matthew was becoming more and more interested in learning everything about Duncan.
DAY TEN
Even though he knew better than to go after an ex-Marine like Duncan, and even though he knew better than to complicate his already busy life with thoughts of what it would be like to try his favorite sexual positions with someone as powerfully built as Duncan, Matthew kept finding himself arriving earlier and earlier to the studio. By day six, he had almost arrived before Duncan. And today, day ten, he actually did. He thought of throwing his car into reverse so that he could drive around for a half-hour, but then he noticed a beat-up old sedan pull into the parking lot. He closed his eyes and prayed it wasn't Duncan.
Matthew watched as Duncan exited the very old, beat-up army green SUV. He opened his own car door and cursed to himself as he felt frozen to a spot beside his own car. From fifteen feet away, he was about to offer some teasing words to Duncan about what his first purchase should be when his program was successful, but stopped short when he noticed the tight Levi jeans and sandals. Matthew couldn't believe his eyes; it hadn't taken him long that first night to realize that Duncan was physically perfect, but seeing him in street clothes--- as if he were going out for some milk at the corner store--- made Matthew want him even more. It was one thing to see and fantasize about Duncan while his muscles were flexing and straining, but to see him as if he were dressed for a leisurely stroll through the park was enough to send Matthew's mind reeling, clutching at the images of the two of them with two Samoyeds puppies and green tea from that coffee shop they both loved on lazy Saturday mornings.
"Have I created a monster?"
Matthew wasn't really sure what the words meant and blushed at the idiotic thought that Duncan had somehow read his mind. "Oh...no, I was just...I had a bad case of writer's block, so I decided to get out of the house."
"You're a writer?"
He smiled at Duncan as the big ex-Marine closed the distance between them and stood in front of Matthew. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks and tried his best to downplay his accomplishments. "Yeah, more part-time really."
"What do you write about?"
Matthew had never hesitated to respond to this question in the past; he'd always told people--- very proudly--- that he wrote queer romance to be precise. But staring up into Duncan's hypnotic blue eyes, Matthew wasn't really sure how to answer that question. "I, uh, write fiction...mostly."
"Like detective stories or legal thrillers?"
"Something like that, yeah," Matthew said, wishing that he hadn't said anything about his profession. As proud as he was of his accomplishments, experience had nonetheless taught him that not everyone would be so accepting of the kind of fiction he wrote. With most people, Matthew enjoyed explaining what kind of stories he wrote, but Duncan wasn't most people; there was something about this man that made Matthew want to keep him around as long as possible.
"Well, this is my lucky day then." Duncan pulled open the front door to the studio and stood aside to let Matthew pass. "I've been looking for someone who can help me with all the writing I'll have to do if this program is successful."
"I could help you with that," Matthew said as he found himself mesmerized by the smile on Duncan's face.
"Great!" Duncan's expression changed a little, and Matthew wondered if he was supposed to say something now. "You coming in?"
"Huh, oh, yeah, sorry." Matthew passed by Duncan and chastised himself for letting himself think that anything could happen with this gorgeous man. Why do I always do this to myself? Why do I always think that any man who's nice to me is interested in more?
"Maybe we could meet sometime...for coffee, I mean, and I could show you what I've got so far?" Duncan stopped at the door to the locker room, and Matthew realized--- for the first time--- that he would have to get changed in front of this perfect specimen.
"Sure," Matthew threw his duffle bag on the floor and began to rummage for a pen and something to write his phone number on. "I'll give you my cell number and---"
"I can get it off the intake form that you filled out," Duncan said as he pushed open the door and waited for Matthew to pass.
"Oh...right...sorry," Matthew said, fully aware of how meek and embarrassed his voice sounded.
"Are you okay?"
"Me?" Matthew tried to sound nonchalant as he waved his hand, as if to indicate that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. As he passed Duncan and caught the scent of after shave, Matthew closed his eyes and promised himself he would never again arrive early.
DAY FIFTEEN
"Your writer's block must have passed, huh?"
Matthew looked up from his impromptu stretching before class, his eyes at the same level as Duncan's groin. "My what?"
"Your writer's block." Duncan sat down a few feet away from Matthew, spread his legs wide, positioned his feet against Matthew's and then leaned forward, offering his hands. "Here, let me help."
Matthew put his hands in Duncan's and felt the stretch in his hamstrings as the ex-Marine leaned back slightly. The calloused, yet gentle, hands on his brought a flush to his cheeks and betrayed his own impure thoughts. He breathed in and out, slowly, and willed his mind to concentrate on something--- anything--- else.
"I haven't seen you here early lately, so I figured your writer's block must be cured." Duncan said as he brought his body forward and released the stretch on Matthew's legs.
"Oh," Matthew grunted as he was pulled forward again. "Yeah, it comes and goes."
"Must be a real pain in the ass, huh?" Duncan said, in conciliation, as he released the stretch again.
Matthew offered a slight grunt as he was pulled forward again and breathed in and out, willing his mind to focus on anything other than how tight Duncan's shorts seemed to get, or how flat his stomach was, every time he leaned back.
"So are you busy tonight?"
"Huh?" One of Matthew's hands came free when his head jerked up at the question.
"To work on the book," Duncan said with a smile, and reached out to take back Matthew's hand. "Unless you've changed your mind."
"No," Matthew grunted, hoping the stretching would be over soon. "Haven't changed my mind."
"Good," Duncan said as he released both of Matthew's hands, brought his own knees up to his chest and let his forearms rest on top of them. "My place okay?"
"Sure," Matthew said, proud that he answered the question without any awkwardness this time. "I'll just follow you after class then?"
"Sounds good."
And with those two words, Matthew's mind began working overtime wondering what kind of furniture Duncan would have, what kind of pictures would be on the walls and whether Duncan was a total slob or a neat freak--- or something in between, like Matthew.
Almost an hour later, Matthew found himself beginning to panic; the idea of going to Duncan's place had been exciting at first, but now that he would be there within the next thirty minutes, he realized he'd spent the entire workout thinking of Duncan's furniture and whether he would like it or not. He simply hadn't readied himself for spending a couple of hours alone, with Duncan, in Duncan's house, without three rows of people between them. He'd been a lapsed Catholic for most of his life, but he crossed himself quickly as he headed for the locker room.
Matthew had planned on parking on the street, but then he noticed Duncan standing at the end of his driveway, waving him behind the army green SUV. And for the moment it took him to turn off the engine and cross himself yet again, Matthew smiled at the thought that this is what it would feel like to come home to Duncan every night. Shaking his head, he exited his vehicle and hoped that he didn't look like a giddy schoolgirl.
Matthew knocked on the bright red door and waited for a few moments, wondering if the interior of the house was immaculate as the exterior. When the door opened, Matthew reminded himself to breathe. Duncan welcomed him into the spacious and sparsely decorated three-storey home. He admired the minimalism of the black leather sectional and the two large pieces of black-and-white modern art positioned carefully on the white walls. The only color in the room came from the jacket spines of the books, precisely arranged on the built-in shelves flanking the floor-to-ceiling fireplace. Duncan led them almost immediately to the dining room table where an open laptop and several piles of paper awaited them. Matthew took the seat opposite the laptop.
"So, this is what I have so far." Duncan said as he let his hand rest on Matthew's shoulder and laid a thick pile of printed pages in front of him. Duncan took the seat beside him. "You're really starting to show some good muscle growth, especially in your shoulders."
"Oh, thanks," Matthew said with a slight smile, straightening up and pulling his shoulders back. Like Pavlov's dog, the little voice in his head teased. One touch from a hot guy and you're already wondering how well your stuff will go with his. Matthew ignored the voice and started flipping through the pages. "So, what is it you need my help with, exactly?"
"Well, I know what it is I want the message to be, but I'm not sure if I'm being too hopeful in thinking that people will read all this."
"Have you done any kind of research on what people found useful or useless about other books of this kind?"
"You see?" Duncan leaned forward and put his hand back on Matthew's shoulder. "I knew asking a real writer would be the best idea I'd had."
Matthew felt his cheeks flush and wondered if Duncan would feel that way if he knew that Matthew was really Campbell Connelly, or that Campbell Connelly wrote about men falling in love while they did naughty things to each other in almost impossible gymnast-like positions. "Well, thanks, but---"
"You never did tell me what kind of fiction you write." Duncan didn't wait for Matthew to answer. "I went online to try and find some of your books, but..." Duncan let the thought hang in the air and shrugged his shoulders as he leaned back in his chair.
"I use a pen name." Matthew was certain his tone of voice and the conviction with which he made the announcement would negate the need to explain that he did it for privacy reasons, reasons that didn't involve being hounded by the press or his millions of adoring fans. "So, have you done research into what people want or not?"
"I have." Duncan picked up a manila folder from the chair beside him and pushed it across the table. "What's your pen name?"
"Okay, so what we need to do, perhaps, is insure that you've included what people are looking for in an exercise program."
"Are you famous?" Duncan's eyes twinkled and Matthew knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. "Did you write those Harry Potter books?" Duncan's voice was low and his smile made Matthew laugh out loud.
"Yes, I'm a blond, Scottish woman worth a geschmillion dollars," Matthew said as pointed over his shoulder. "That's why I drive that piece of shit. It's part of my disguise." Matthew felt himself relax a little as Duncan's deep, booming laugh echoed in the sparsely-furnished dining room.
"I'm sorry; I won't push you anymore."
"Campbell Connelly." The words were out of his mouth before he'd given them proper thought. No problem, the little voice said, sarcasm evident, maybe you'll be able to outrun him.
"The Campbell Connelly? Author of Slowly Again?" Duncan's expression seemed to be one of genuine surprise, but Matthew still kept himself on guard. He'd been lulled into this false sense of security before, so he knew better than to assume Duncan meant that as a compliment. The book had created something of a controversy when it was first released ten years ago. It had been called everything from "groundbreaking" to "pornography". Matthew had been very glad that he'd decided to go with a pen name.
"That is one of my favorite books." Duncan leaned forward again, his cheeks flushed. "And that last love scene? Still my number one unfulfilled fantasy." Duncan waggled his eyebrows as he leaned back in his chair, and mouthed the word "Sexy".
Matthew tried to compose himself. Jesus Christ, man, you're a writer. Think of something witty to say. "I guess I don't have to worry about out-running you then, huh?"
"Only if you're single."
Matthew felt his jaw drop, his inner voice having been silenced once again. He looked into Duncan's blue eyes as he felt the cold sweat begin to form at his hairline.
"Sorry, I've embarrassed you. Or you think I'm a complete idiot."
"No, not at all." Matthew told himself to get back to the book, to say something, to do anything, but his mind was far too busy conjuring up images of helping Duncan fulfill his number one unfulfilled fantasy. "I just don't get to meet a lot of fans."
"Sorry, I'll behave."
"I thought you wanted help with your book?" Matthew felt, for the first time in his adult life, at a complete loss for words. He'd always considered himself the aggressive type when it came to going after what he wanted, but now he was face-to-face with a man--- and an incredibly gorgeous one at that--- who was pursuing him shamelessly. The only problem was that Matthew didn't know whether he liked being the prey instead of the predator.
"Say we can go out sometime?"
"I don't know," Matthew said, his voice as uncertain as his mind was confused. "I just got out of a bad relationship and..."
"Enough said," Duncan said with a smile. "Just my luck. Meet an incredible, smart, funny, sexy guy and he's not available."
"Yes." Matthew wasn't sure if it was his own voice or the look of surprise on Duncan's face that made his jump slightly. "I'll go out with you sometime."
"Well, whadda ya know? Looks like my luck is changing."
Not as much as mine, Matthew thought and returned his attention to the book in front of him.
DAY THIRTY
Matthew took his usual spot on the floor, after having arrived early, which had become his habit over the past two weeks. It was another Saturday, so Matthew was relieved that it would not be a terribly strenuous day at the studio. It would be mainly stretching and some yoga moves with a warm up and a cool down bookending the afternoon session. There had been so many things going on in Matthew's life lately that he still found himself standing in one spot sometimes during the day trying to let it all catch up to him. He would be sitting at his computer, flush with new ideas and new scenes to write, but his fingers would stop dead on the keyboard while his mind replayed the moments he'd been sharing with Duncan.
There had been several dinners, walks along the beach, a couple of movies and even some heated sessions during which the television was forgotten and provided nothing more than background noise for the frenzied groping and marathon kissing sessions on Matthew's living room floor. Most of their clothes would be discarded and there was definite interest on Matthew's part, but Duncan had always slowed them down by pulling away. And, if he were honest with himself, Matthew was always thankful; if it had been up to Matthew, he would have gone full speed ahead, as usual.
At first, Matthew had been confused. He thought maybe Duncan was having second thoughts, but then would be so complimentary about the beautiful body that Matthew was developing. And then there was the kissing, and the way Duncan would settle Matthew against his chest while they watched a movie or while they just listened to music. Duncan had come on so strong at first that Matthew was sure that they would have done everything by now, and he was sure they would have if he'd not been awake when Duncan had actually believed him to be sleeping.
Duncan lay in the corner of the sectional, with Matthew in his usual spot between the muscular thighs, his back resting against the warm solid mass that was Duncan's chest. He'd almost fallen asleep as they lay listening to one of Duncan's favorite jazz CDs, but was pulled out of his stupor by the soft kisses that Duncan placed on the top of his head. As he felt the strong fingers comb through his thick, blond hair, Matthew heard a sigh of contentment that he'd only ever heard once before. It was the sigh he'd made himself--- almost fifteen years ago--- when he finally realized that he had fallen in love.
"Hey you."
The words pulled Matthew back to the present. He looked up as he heard the raspy whisper near his ear. He'd been lost in his own thoughts and remembered wondering where Duncan had been when he'd first arrived. "Hey yourself," he said, his lips curling into a slow smile.
"What were you thinking about?"
"I'll tell you later."
"Deal," Duncan said and sat down on the floor across from Matthew. "Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"
"Not really," Matthew answered as he continued to try to work out the kink in his lower back that had been bothering him after a morning of sitting at his computer. "Probably more writing. Why?"
"Was wondering if you wanted to spend the night at my place."
He noticed that Duncan was only sort of looking at him, as if he were one of those magic paintings that hide an image that you can see if you don't focus your eyes too intently. Was Duncan embarrassed? Or did he honestly think that Matthew would turn him down? Matthew had been acutely aware that neither of them had spent the night with the other.
"I hope you know you won't be getting any sleep." He saw the relieved smile on Duncan's handsome face and reached out to push against the solid shoulders. He laughed as Duncan feigned an exaggerated roll backwards, as if his own strength was no match for Matthew's.
"'S okay," Duncan shrugged as he righted himself. "I'll be tired, but still smiling."
"I'll make sure of that."
Duncan opened his mouth to respond, but Emma and a few of the other participants entered the studio at that moment. Duncan offered a quick wink and then was gone to greet the other members of the test group, leaving Matthew sitting on the hardwood floor thinking of anything that would curb his excitement and allow him to stand up without embarrassing himself.
Matthew's stomach had been in knots for the entire drive back to Duncan's home, but as they walked through the front door, he began to feel the usual untroubled peacefulness that he had begun to associate with Duncan, and he found himself relaxing. "I always forget how quiet it is here," Matthew said as he hefted his duffle bag from his right to his left hand.
"Thanks." Duncan stood in front of him. "Let me take that for you," he said as he leaned down briefly for a tender kiss and then took the duffle bag and placed it near the stairs. "Would you like dinner?"
"Sure," Matthew said as he shrugged. "Now is fine, or later. I'll let you decide."
"Later, definitely," Duncan said with a lopsided smile and held out his hand. "I have something I want to show you." Matthew put his hand in Duncan's and followed him to a smaller room on the other side of the stairs; Matthew had noticed the room the few times he'd been over, but the door had always been closed. The room was obviously a study of some sort. There were even more books in here than on either side of the fireplace. Matthew's eyes widened as he tried to take in all of the floor-to-ceiling shelves that were stuffed with books of all kinds. There were books on history, art, construction, computers and, of course, fitness.
"I may never leave this room. I've never seen so many..." Matthew said as he let go of Duncan's hand and found himself drawn to one particular shelf. He reached out a hand and pulled one of the paperbacks from its position in the center of the shelf. He felt Duncan move to stand behind him as he turned the book over in his hands. It was his latest collection of short stories, published only four months before. His eyes returned to the shelf to see all of his works right there, on the same shelf.
"I really like your style," Duncan said as he put his hands on Matthew's shoulders and steered him back to the desk near the window. "But that's not what I wanted to show you." Duncan picked up a well-worn, dog-eared paperback from beside the laptop computer and held it out to Matthew. "This is what I wanted to show you."
Matthew took the book and studied it. "It's my first novel, Slowly Again."
"I know." Duncan turned himself around so that he could lean against the mahogany desk and be face-to-face with Matthew. "Do you believe in fate?"
"I believe in everything." Matthew closed the book, but kept it in his hands as he felt Duncan draw him closer. "I'm a writer."
"I know that, too." Duncan pulled Matthew even closer and wrapped his arms around the slimmed-down waist. "You've made really good progress in the last thirty days."
"Thank you," Matthew said as he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "I can't cheat or get away with slacking." Matthew leaned against the solid muscles of Duncan's chest and stole a quick kiss. "The instructor is always watching me for some reason." He watched Duncan's gaze fall to his lips, could feel the heat of Duncan's erection through two layers of jeans, and felt his eyes flutter shut when their lips made contact again.
Without letting go of the book, Matthew pressed himself against Duncan's considerable erection and let his free hand travel over the tense muscles of shoulder, bicep, traps and lats. The strong, capable hands that had touched him often during the time they'd been seeing each other seemed different to Matthew. There was something familiar yet new, confident yet hesitant about the way Duncan was holding him, kissing him, petting him.
"I, uh..."
Matthew heard the sounds and opened his eyes reluctantly, the taste of Duncan still on his lips. He looked into Duncan's blue eyes while he waited.
"I wanted to show you that copy because..." Duncan took the book from Matthew's hand and held it between them. After a few seconds, he saw Duncan shrug and look down at the book. "Well, you saved my life."
Matthew wasn't sure if he'd heard the words correctly, or perhaps it was just the order of the words that had him momentarily confused. "Me?"
"Yes," Duncan said as a small laugh of disbelief escaped his lips. "You."
"How did I save your life? We only met a couple of weeks ago."
Without letting go of the book or Matthew, Duncan maneuvered them over to the small plaid love seat that sat under the picture window of the study. He relinquished his grip on Matthew and the two of them sat facing each other. "I'll give you the short version," Duncan quipped as he opened the book to the first of the many dog-eared pages, the one with the dedication. "I enlisted when I was sixteen because I was flunking out of school and the Marines seemed my only hope. It was the early nineties and it was either drugs or the Marines."
Matthew wanted to open his mouth and say something, but he kept himself in check while he waited for Duncan to finish his story. How had he never known about any of this? How had none of this come up in their conversations before?
"My mother had died and my father was never around. They'd divorced when I was only five years old and he remarried almost right away." Duncan shook his head as if he were trying to get himself back to the version he'd wanted to tell. "Anyway, I ended up joining the Marines, seeing combat a few times. I thought I could do it, but I just couldn't. I couldn't kill people." Duncan's grasp on the book seemed to tighten and Matthew was about to explain that Duncan didn't need to relive all of this just for his sake. But then Duncan cleared his throat and began again. "When I got out, I didn't know what to do, so I got a job as a carpenter."
Matthew looked around the room, following Duncan's eyes; it was obvious to Matthew that Duncan took a great deal of pride in his craftsmanship. He wanted to say something about how beautiful all of the woodwork was, but decided it was best to keep quiet.
"I was happy for a while, took a lot of pride in building beautiful things for other people, but there was something missing. It took me a long time to figure out what was missing: I wasn't building anything that I could hold onto. Everything I built was for someone else. I was feeling really lost until one day I was doing some work for this gay couple down the street from where I was living." Duncan held up the book. "I heard one of the men talking about this phenomenal book about a grunt who was wrestling with figuring out he was gay." Duncan caressed the cover of the book. "I never had a problem with being gay, but the way this man talked about the book made me think that there might be something worth reading inside."
Unable to control himself any longer, Matthew reached out and took hold of Duncan's strong hand, turning it over and caressing the calluses that dotted the fingers and palm.
"I stayed up all night reading it." Duncan let go of a muted snort. "I had no idea that it would have such graphic sex scenes, but even they were telling me the same thing as the rest of the story." Duncan shrugged once and lowered his eyes. "I spent most of the next couple of weeks reading the book over and over. There was just something so powerful in your words, something that made me want to be like the soldier in the story. I wanted to be like him, go after what I wanted like he did. I'd close my eyes sometimes and see what my life could be like."
Matthew was struck dumb; he'd never heard Duncan speak like this. They'd only been seeing each for two weeks or so, but it was still something of a shock to realize how reserved and shy Duncan really was. He wondered if this was the way all marines were, stoic and strong and silent. "Thank you just doesn't seem to be enough right now," Matthew said, laughing, as he reached out for Duncan's hands. "That's the best thing anyone has ever said about my book." He leaned across the small space that separated them and placed a long, gentle kiss on Duncan's lips. "I think that's the most you've ever told me about yourself."
"Yeah," Duncan said with another shrug. "It's a Marine thing." Duncan leaned forward over the small space that separated them and kissed Matthew, passionately. Matthew's eyes fluttered open when he felt the cool air caress his swollen lips. Duncan brought his hand up slowly to cup Matthew's jaw. "We don't say much, but when we do, we mean it." Duncan looked down as he took Matthew's hand in his. He kissed the sensitive palm first before placing the hand on his thigh, leaning forward to take Matthew's swollen lips in a searing kiss.
Matthew's eyes closed, his body feeling as if it were on fire with the feel and taste of Duncan's desire for him. Matthew's hands seemed to move as if they had a mind of their own, pulling at Duncan's shirt. Soon, they were both free of their shirts, the heated skin of Matthew's torso yearning for the excited and gentle touch of Duncan's skilled hands.
Matthew didn't know what Duncan wanted, but he knew what he'd been dreaming of doing to that incredible body since he'd first seen it almost a month ago. He pushed gently on the broad muscled shoulders until he hovered over the blue eyes filled with want. Without saying anything, Matthew lowered his lips to Duncan's, one arm braced beside the handsome face while the other worked efficiently to undo the buttons of their Levi's.
After a few frantic moments, during which Matthew wondered if he even remembered how to undo a button, he felt Duncan's hand come up to steady his, their lips still tasting, exploring and claiming. And as their erections sprang free of the confines of jeans and boxers, Matthew was quite convinced that he would never experience anything quite so exquisite again. His senses were all on overdrive: the scent of Duncan's cologne mixed with something uniquely Duncan; the taste of Duncan's mouth and skin; the sight of the beautiful blue eyes filled with desire; the sound of his bass voice, purring and encouraging. And that first touch of skin to skin, that first, seemingly interminable moment, when he could feel the excitement he was causing in this other man's body.
Free of their clothes, Matthew found himself on his back know, not really knowing when they had changed positions. Duncan's muscled thighs were between his, their erections leaking and pressing while the two men found a rhythm. As Duncan's mouth moved between his lips and his ears, between tasting and whispering, Matthew felt himself letting go of his final reserves of control. He took both of their cocks into one of his hands, the rhythm purposeful but unhurried. He pulled his knees up closer to his own chest, an open invitation to Duncan. I'm yours, all yours. There'll never be any other for me.
But Duncan did nothing more than he was already doing; he kissed any skin he could reach, explored Matthew's willing body with his strong hands and whispered words into Matthew's ear. They were the words that Matthew had always wanted to hear from someone as kind, as sexy and as attentive as Duncan; the words that sent Matthew over the edge and into a euphoria he'd often written about but never experienced.
As he felt his body come down from the most powerful climax he'd ever experienced, Matthew opened his eyes to see that Duncan's were closed. Matthew felt Duncan's heat on his belly seconds later and then felt the cool air lick at his sensitive skin moments after that. Matthew might have panicked, but he heard the water running and just knew that Duncan was the kind of lover who would be getting something to clean them.
He felt the warm washcloth and looked up at the handsome face; Duncan was smiling at him. It was the kind of smile that Matthew knew was on his own face as well.
When Duncan had finished wiping Matthew's belly and chest, he sat down on the loveseat and cleared his throat. "I know it may seem sudden, but...I love you, Matthew."
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Matthew wasn't the first to say it. Nor did Matthew convince himself that he believed them; he didn't have to. Everything Matthew needed to know about Duncan was right there behind those blue eyes. "I love you, too, Duncan." Without really knowing why, Matthew found himself unable to suppress a giggle.
"What's funny?" Duncan asked as he stretched his long body beside Matthew's.
"Me...You...This." Matthew shook his head, worried momentarily that he had hurt Duncan's feelings. Matthew shook his head in disbelief, remembering the notebook he had purchased to do some writing. He'd hoped to figure out how his life had gone so far from what he thought it should be. He picked up the book from the coffee table. "Who would have ever thought that this book would lead us both to what we wanted?" Matthew squeezed Duncan's hand. "And your program?" Matthew let go of a one-note laugh and shook his head, again. "You promised a different me in 90 days, and you managed to do it only thirty."
"I am good, huh?" Duncan offered a wink. "There's a quote that I read a long time ago." Duncan cleared his throat. "The message was that the difficult times in life can be endured as long as we realize that our lives hold purpose...that we have a cause to pursue or a goal to achieve...or a person to love."
"Did I write that?" Matthew said, his tone teasing. "I am good."
Duncan's booming bass laughter filled the small study. "I don't know if you did or not, but you're definitely the reason my life has purpose...Well, one of the most important reasons anyway."
"Good enough for me," Matthew said and stole another kiss. "Now," he said after a few moments. He stood up and held out his hand. He watched Duncan raise himself off the love seat, Matthew trying to achieve the simultaneous look of pending mischief and wonton lust. As he led Duncan to the stairs--- and the bedroom--- he wrapped his arm around the trim waist. "I remember you telling me something about an unfulfilled fantasy?"
Friday, August 13, 2010
I don't get out much anymore. That's a given. Sometimes it is because I am too tired to drive, sometimes the drugs dont work, and sometimes they work too well.
Occasionally though, someone comes to my rescue. :)
After two weeks of hell which eventually saw several significant changes in my situation, the set decorator I worked with for more than ten years as a leadman dropped by for a visit, and time stood still for a day.
More than a hundred years ago, the planners of a tiny town in Oregon decided to build a natural masonry dam which would power a paper mill. The project collapsed some ten years later due to floods and erosion, and a hundred years after that became our playground.
Although it is small, the area is deemed a state park and like so many other parks in Oregon, are free to visit.
Sean and I drove roughly a half hour on a warm, windless day and talked. And talked. And laughed, and skirted around unpleasantries, and generally caught up with each other until we arrived to a parking lot just off the main highway.
As we descended a long metal stairway down to an observation point, me slowly and he patiently, I found myself gripped-- no, seized-- by a pang so sharp my breath caught.
"I may never see this place again."
Never mind that I live only half an hour away. In my sometimes condition, it might as well be a million miles away.
Never mind that any one of a dozen people would bring me if I asked, and even perhaps enjoy the experience. It had taken me nearly thirty years to finally stop long enough to look at the ruins of a tiny park I had driven past easily dozens of times before.
And never mind that with the help of such generosity in others I could almost literally stop the world; to return or go elsewhere, or do anything I chose.
It was that moment, that precise instant when so many variables and choices and possibilities and circumstances coalesced into a memory, no different from any other, that was lost. Forever. I would never again be able to re-create that exact instant no matter how hard I tried.
How many other moments have I let pass all unheeded in my lifetime? How many times did I briefly pause to notice something interesting only to set it aside thinking I would come back to it later?
How much time have I let slip away while I was girded within the impenetrable armor of health that demands we believe nothing of ourselves but our own immortality?
The thought hit me so hard I would have been driven to my knees were it not for the metal railings of the stairs we descended. The stairs I discovered when I returned home that Papa helped build. (If I were not already a firm believer in irony, that discovery alone would have served as a full blown course of study.)
"My God, it's beautiful here!"
Dear Sean, completely unaware of my moment of existential epiphany, exclaimed as only he could; with a loud, gravelly voice that serves to mask a heart larger that the mountains which surrounded us. The comment was Sean's way of trying to make me think he wasn't waiting for me to catch up. Never once did he become impatient or irritated because of my slow, careful pace as I navigated the rocky terrain. Never once did he gasp and tell me to be careful as I stepped across a narrow gap, or ventured too close to an edge.
Never once did he remind me that I was sick.
And I latched onto that moment of understanding and tucked it away for the future, just as I had my earlier revelation. The moment may have been lost, but the memory and the appreciation would remain. Forever.
"No kidding! C'mon, lets go down to the river."
I was again as I had once been; alive and full of eager curiosity, recalling the fact that my most favorite outdoor activity of all was to explore the nooks and crannies and the hidden swirls and depths of a river. And yes, I could feel his brief flash of panic as I climbed over the retaining wall to get to that place all the signs marked as "Danger!" but Sean held to his nature and said nothing. Instead he followed me, and not even so close that he would have been able to catch me if I had slipped and tumbled into the swirling water. Another lost moment held forever.
We played and explored, and rested, and explored a bit more until I ran out of juice, and as we ascended the steps back to the car and something cool to drink, I realized I had been a fool.
Not unexpectedly, once I was told (or rather when Doc confirmed what I already suspected) that my time was limited, I started grabbing at every little thing, trying to hold on to them against the coming loss, desperate to keep and treasure every ounce of life that I could. But as I climbed those steps, thinking of what I had just seen and felt, I realized it was all too easy to lose what I already had in hand in favor of grasping for something just out of reach.
Yes, treasure every moment, lost and held forever, but not at the expense of trying to make new moments. That's the trap, all to easy to spring for folks like me, that is the real danger. It's not unlike ignoring the beauty of Winter in favor of longing for Summer. Something I have done in the past.
Needs must I hold on to what I have and let whatever will come, come of its own accord, without any frantic grasping on my part.
Put another way, I have to stop fretting that someone wants to take my picture and just let them, regardless of how much I hate being in front of a camera. By doing so, I've given someone else what they want, and got that flash of a pleased smile in return.
It's my reward for not fretting the little stuff that in the end, doesn't really matter anyway.
So, dear friends who read this blog, and those who come to rescue me from time to time, and anyone else I have yet to meet. Take my picture. I'll grumble as is my nature, and try to hold still as best I can, and in doing so we'll both have created lost moments we can treasure forever.
Cheers!
Patric
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Times, They Are A Changin'
I woke up with a fever this morning.
The same as I did yesterday, and the day before that.
If you've been following along since the beginning, you'll recall that I had such repetition just before I met with Doc for the first time. In the month that followed while a variety of doctors tried to arrive at a diagnosis, those fevers "spiked" repeatedly.
By the time we started chemo, I'd bounce between 97 and 102 degees as many as six times a day, and that same pattern is forming again.
In short, the final countdown has begun.
In nine days, it will have been exactly one year to the day that I met Doc for the first time, and as I think back on the last year, I am startled to discover how much my world has changed. How much I have changed, really.
In a nutshell, I am no longer content to sit back and let whatever happens, happen.
The circumstances of my life, within the context of my condition, have changed enough for the better that I find myself wanting more and more to stick around, to do something useful with the time I have, and get my grubby paws on even more time if I can.
Put a few more quarters into the meter, as it were.
To that end, I sent a message to Doc updating him on my current status, and we will meet in a couple of weeks to determine whether or not I can survive another round of chemo. Unfortunately that's not just a bit of over dramatization when I say 'survive'.
We know the chemo was at least partially effective against the cancer a year ago, but we also know that the further into the regimen I went, the less I was able to recover between cycles. Recall that being the reason why we stopped at six, rather than the planned eight.
That was a year ago, when I weighed fifty pounds more, and I was unarguably stronger. I had reserves back then.
Now those reserves are gone, consumed by the horrific effects of the Vorinostat in conjunction with the still unidentified stomach problem that all but destroyed me. Without those reserves, even a lesser dose of chemo in fewer cycles might do for me as surely as the cancer.
But then again, it might not, and that is at least a chance I don't have if I do nothing at all.
To me, it's a chance worth taking. :)
I told Papa about all this mere moments after I read Doc's replies, and asked him if he had any objections to my attempting the chemo. He looked startled for a moment, and replied in an almost indignant voice, "Of course not!"
It was the reaction I would have expected, but strange as it sounds, I needed to make sure he understood the ramifications and the effect my actions would have on him. As I explained to him, there is every likelihood I wont be able to be as self sufficient as I was the first time, and the burden of my care will fall directly on him as a consequence. Not only because he is the closest at hand, but because he is the only one I trust not to make me pay for it in favor of their own feelings and considerations.
"Well, I'm down with it as long as you're sure, or you believe it will help you," he says.
I puzzled over that for several minutes before I understood (or think I understand) his comment. He was basically saying "As long as it doesn't kill you faster than the cancer does."
Oh yeah. Begin the waterworks. :)
"Well, that's definitely a consideration," I say. "Obviously I'm not as strong now as I was the first time, but that's why Doc wants to meet with me to assess the situation, and really, when you get to the bottom if things, at least it's a chance."
He nods and goes about making his breakfast while I slip away, neither of us quite able to look the other in the eye. We are far too butch to watch the other snivel. :)
Shortly after, we continue our day. There is a propane tank to be refilled, and new glasses I ordered (because I can see enough of a future to warrant the purchase) to be picked up, and errands to run, and once the damn drugs kick in, it's a good enough day to do them.
As we drive around, him patiently waiting between stops while I make various calls about insurance and schedule appointments and such, I am overwhelmed by how lucky I am to not only die with such selfless company, but to live with it too, for however long I can.
Some fourteen hours later as I finish this post, the drugs have worn off and with the sickness I haven't felt in almost a year slamming through my body like a freight train, I know damn well the road ahead is going to be bloody hard to travel, but I am still grateful that I can walk it at all.
Somebody please remind me of that when in some future post I am whining and bitching about barfing my breakfast and losing my hair. Minor shit in the grand scheme of things when you think about it because the key word here is future. It may be short, and we may not be able to make it longer, but I still have one. :)
Cheers!
Patric
Sunday, September 5, 2010
"I never lie."
This is a statement I have made, and stood by, ever since I crawled my lumpy ass out of the closet and stopped insisting I was straight. I looked behind me the day after that door slammed shut and realized I had been living a lie most of my life.
Until recently, I was convinced of my veracity. But reading back through this blog, and the comments made by so many people, I came to realize that sometimes, under certain circumstances, an omission is as good as a lie.
Oh, I don't mean that I willingly or consciously, deliberately held my tongue, it's just that I didn't pipe up and temper the statements made about how "good" I am.
Laugh... Already this is sounding like some existential examination of self worth, and I suppose there cough might cough be some merit to that. Tomorrow I will meet with my oncologist to decide if I am physically capable of withstanding another round of chemotherapy. If I can, and it works, I get to stay on this rock yet a while longer. If not, well, I still have a few quarters left in the fabled parking meter. If there were ever a time to be existential this would be it. :)
At any rate, any number of generous, thoughtful people have read this blog, read the messages I post in various groups, and even listened to me prattle on face to face.
Each has formed an opinion, just as anyone would do while getting to know someone, and almost universally, the consensus is that I am strong, brave, insightful, and even inspirational. In short, folks seem to think I am a good person.
While I try to be a good guy, I can't say they are wrong because I respect other people's perceptions, but I can't say they are right either because I know about the other half of myself. That darker, less pleasant collection of parts I generally don't show off to the rest of the world.
I am cynical, opinionated, judgmental, moody, and cranky more often than not. In short, I am just like everyone else. :)
That means while I can be all those things folks say about me, I am also quite capable of storming and ranting and acting decidedly unpleasant. In other words, I can be an asshole.
Why does any of this matter?
Because I need it to be clearly understood that while I might be put on a pedestal, and even with reason perhaps, such a lofty elevation is not my natural habitat. Not only is it sometimes difficult to breathe up there, but by seeming to be something I am not, I lose the freedom to express myself fully, to bitch about the things that piss me off or frighten me, or gods forbid, preclude me from living what's left of my life AS my life, and not that of some impossible ideal.
I also like being able to say "I don't lie." :)
Now, with all of that said, we come to the reason for this particular post and that a growing awareness that my perceptions are changing right along with my physiology.
I originally started nattering in this blog to update the myriad queries of how I was doing when all this started. When that leveled off and the answer was pretty much always the same, it then became a place to gripe and bitch instead of letting the shit bottle up inside and eventually explode all over the people around me. Finally, the intent of this blog is to give insight into what it is like to be terminal. Something no reasonably healthy person can truly understand unless they are already "there." Not even a close association with someone who's time is limited can really reveal all the things that have changed.
Since I have a rather deplorable habit of finding something good in most rotten situations, these posts began to feed that pedestal raising concept of being brave and "inspirational." Not necessarily a bad thing, but I came to realize (or believe, whether its actually true or not) that if I were to suddenly fall back into grumbling about things that I might somehow let others down. Intellectually, that should be nonsense, but I have never been only intellectual. Emotions play as strong a part in my world as anything else, and I am just as susceptible to fear as anyone else.
And right now, as I grow physically weaker and less able to defend myself, to defend my way of life and how I choose to live it, what I fear most are the very people who have been so generous and helpful over this last year. It is a fear born of a much deeper understanding of the motivations and perceptions that move folks to such generosity in the first place. I have gained that understanding at perilous cost.
I have already experienced a situation where one persons generally nurturing nature overshadowed her ability to see whether I needed, or even wanted such coddling, and the end result wasn't exactly pleasant. I've witnessed an occasion where another person was unable to make the distinction between my intent to downplay my infirmity and thereby not cause undue stress and her perception that I was too independent and that I should "give up" and let others spoon feed me, carry me to and from my bed, and likely even wipe my butt, all while I lay back and do nothing to interfere. (No, this is not an exaggeration, I swear.)
Prompted by a real life comment made by a very dear friend, I posed a scenario to one of the author groups I haunt; "If your best friend got sick, but didn't tell you right away because she knew how upset you'd be, how would that make you feel?"
What I got back was a fairly unsurprising split between "It's her life and her decision." and "I'd be hurt and offended." Yet it was the explanations that explained why they'd be hurt and offended that bothered me, and even frightened me to the point where I bailed on the subject altogether. Almost to a person, each cited the fact that they had the RIGHT to be told, period, and if they weren't then this friend must not either trust them, or care about their feelings, etc. (Never mind that caring about their feelings was the exact reason the friend said nothing in the first place.)
Basically, the situation boils down to two equally opposing rights. Hers, to say nothing, and theirs to be told. I get that, but what I don't get is how utterly selfish people can be, and justify that behavior by demanding their rights given priority at the expense of hers. In a case like mine, where my days are limited, I can't help but think my rights get the priority, if for no other reason than the fact that I will be gone tomorrow, and they will live on. Does that make me selfish? You bet, and its just as easily justified by the basic need to survive.
So who gets the priority?
I can't really say with any certainty. I have ever been the friend who was more interested in the feelings of others and I am quite comfortable not saying anything that will upset others. I've spent my life being the one who says "Her choice, her decision." and considered the act selfless.
What I do know, and its where I draw the line, is if I am forced to be something I am not in order to give priority to "their" rights, that's wrong on so many levels. In the case of the nurturer, express your concerns but respect that I am an adult capable of making informed decisions for myself and back off if I don't want to wear my damned hat just because it's cold outside. In the case of my sister, who seems to insist I roll over and let her wipe my butt, forget it. I am still capable of independence and I place a high value in that independence. Wait until I'm in a coma and can't "fight back" before you shove your need to justify your entire existence by seeing me comfortably to my grave. (It should be noted here that when I offered that exact scenario as an alternative to "how hard it was to talk to me" she took it. That was a blow that cost me more of my will to live than I care to admit, but it proves to me just how inadvertently selfish people can be.)
For the rest who get all indignant and hurt because I chose to spare your feelings as best I could, get over yourself. You WILL be alive tomorrow and I won't. Use the time to wonder what was wasted while I was still alive in favor of your insistence that your hurt is greater than my death.
Does that make me the asshole I warned about earlier in this post? Yes, it does, but as I said, I have always been quite capable of being that asshole. I simply choose to exercise that right only when it is a choice between living longer as myself, or dying sooner by giving up the bits and parts of me that make me who I am.
Energy has become a commodity in my life more valuable than dollars or drugs. The energy to stand up out of a chair, or answer an email, or even the energy to say no thank you all take their toll against reserves that simply do not exist any more. I guarantee that no one who has not been so completely drained can ever truly grasp what it is like to decide how to spend that energy, limited in amount, and on what. Do I risk driving to the store by myself knowing I may not have the steam to get back home? Do I open a can of soup in favor of chopping up bits for the crock pot? Do I brush my teeth, knowing I'll have to wait at least a half hour to recharge enough to be able to go downstairs (and get back up again) and forage for breakfast?
And most importantly of all, do I spend some of that precious energy arguing with someone who insists on helping me in some way that makes them feel better but forces me to capitulate my independence? Or do I choose to separate myself from those eminently well meaning individuals so can spend that energy on say, holding down my lunch or fighting some other effect of chemo?
That probably sounds harsh, or even mean, the way I dont seem to respect their need to lend a hand, but I have to believe that the ones who TRULY want to help, for my sake AND theirs, will be capable of understanding the difference between "Doing FOR me" and "Doing BECAUSE of me." As generous as so many people can be with their good intentions, it has to be tempered with the ability to back off and not take hold of my hand if doing so pulls me off balance instead of helping me over a rough step.
Were it not for Papa and Sean, and others like them who are ABLE to stand aside and let me attempt that step on my own, I would seriously wonder if I weren't just being a dickwad. They are the difference between treating me like I am capable, if not well, and constantly reminding me that I am sick as others do when they fret where I walk, or how close to the edge of the cliff I get, or when they shriek because I stumbled.
Folks like Papa and Sean and Doc and Liz, and the myriad others let me spend my energy on surviving the cancer, or the chemo, instead of having to use it to defend the way I choose to live. And if they can see that, then I must not be a total dickwad after all. Its not just my imagination, in other words.
I have never been fond of selfishness, either active or inadvertent, and I care very little for people who view their world as a priority above all others, but I have learned that in order to do what so many people ask of me, to live a little longer, I have to BE a little bit selfish. If for no other reason than to maintain the difference between living and existing.
As I read back over this post looking for typos and such, I see just how erratic and disjointed it is, a fair reflection of the degradation of my ability to think as the cancer takes more and more toll on my body. I hope it doesn't sound like I am ungrateful for all the help and assistance I have been given because I'm not. I've just come to the point where it is imperative that I pick and choose carefully what sort of help I can accept nowadays and although it WILL sound harsh, the help that is offered only as a sop to the giver really isn't anything I can use anyway, and those who don't already understand this are the ones who'd be offering such in the first place. To those folks I will say "Thank, but no thanks. I prefer to be treated as though I were still living, rather than be treated as though I were dying."
That too sounds a bit selfish on my part, and its pretty much true. But I have lived my life being selfless in all other things and with that knowledge I can die happy, confident I've done the best I could for myself and for others, whether they be family, friends, or even strangers who sometimes needed what I had to give.
In short, I've been a good boy, raised right by my Mama, and lived the best way I know how.
Best of all, I can safely say "That's no lie."
Patric
Thursday, September 9, 2010
It is no real secret that my interest in living has waxed these past few months, putting me into a position of contemplating chemotherapy once again.
Where I had once been content to merely sit back and "let 'er ride" I've taken a much more active interest in sticking around a bit longer.
When I mentioned this fact to Doc a couple of weeks ago, I was startled by the excitement in his response. My surprise was compounded by a similar response from Liz, my cancer counselor. Until that moment, it hadn't truly "sunk in" how interested other people might be in my survival.
To many, that will sound like the quintessential "Duh moment" but keep in mind that I've never really had a strong survival instinct. Hence my willingness to let 'er ride. :)
Now of course, as my time draws near, (very near, given my current symptoms) I find myself gratified by the enthusiasm Doc and Liz and others have expressed, and equally gratified by what I now see was their willingness to accept my previous lack of determination without a lot of fluff and fanfare.
All of which makes the contemplation of walking boldly back into the hell that is chemo that much easier to manage. I thought.
I mentioned in previous posts how chemo would never be a cure and that at best it would buy me more time. I also mentioned the lack of certainty that I would be able to withstand the effects a second time around. Doc and I discussed these things yesterday when I met with him to bring him up to speed and to talk about options.
"I know you updated me in your email, but has anything changed since then?"
"Oooh yeah," I say, grinning like a loon. "Lots."
I gave him a rundown of my symptoms, fascinated as always by the way his thoughts and emotions play across his very mobile face. Each wince and widening of the eye confirmed the accuracy of my suspicions. When I finished my litany, he asked a few questions, and then said, "Are you still interested in doing chemo?"
Oh hell yeah!
Color me excited because there was a chance he would decide otherwise, especially if in his estimation the therapy would do more harm than good.
As is the way of things in my universe, whenever anything "good" happens, there is always a price to pay. I mentioned this to Doc once and he played it down, of course. It's silly to think there are forces at work which would see my path be more difficult than it should be, right?
Except that shortly after (and this was regarding the bone marrow biopsy last year) there was a chain of events which supported my theory. Clearly enough that Doc actually agreed when I reminded him of the fact. :)
"So, there are a couple of options available to us," Doc says. "The drawback is that they are all performed on an inpatient basis."
Clunk!
That was either the sound of the shoe dropping, or my jaw hitting the floor. I'm not sure which. "Why can't we use the same protocol as last time?" I ask, trying not to let the dread in my voice come through.
"Well, because the what was left of the lymphoma was the parts which weren't affected by the treatment."
"Oh."
Shit. Of course. I should have realized that.
"Also, with these second line therapies, some of the drugs have to be administered on a continuous basis for twenty-four hours."
Clunk!
That had to be the other shoe hitting the floor because my jaw was already there.
"Twenty-four hours? How long do I have to stay in the hospital?" At least my voice sounded steady, I think.
Doc looks at me sort of sheepishly, then raises his head and in a confident voice says "Three days."
Three days? Oh man, this just gets better and better.
Give Doc credit for checking to see if the nurses at his office had ever administered this therapy on an outpatient basis, and of course the answer was no. I could just imagine the horrified look on the RNs face when he asked, as she thought about what would happen if one drug in particular happened to leak outside of the vein. Apparently the end result is not good. :)
So.... In the hospital every three days at three to four week intervals, and this time they will have to install a pick line. Its a semi-permanent "port" which offers direct access to a major vein rather than constantly poking holes in me. That won't be so bad, right? Right?
At this point I am numb, with the exception of wondering how much worse this protocol will be compared to the last one, and there is simply no way I can imagine it being easier.
Astute readers will recall that generally speaking, I had a pleasant time in the hospital, with the exception of the last visit when Nurse Kimberly basically put her job ahead of my freedom of choice. Logically, she's one out of dozens of other nurses were absolute angels, but I don't trust easily and when I finally do and it is subsequently broken, I am even more reluctant to try again.
Gentle soul that he is, Doc gives me a moment to absorb all the ramifications, listens to me rant about how very much I don't want to go to the hospital again, then asks me again if I still want to do this.
"Yeah, I do."
I really don't have much choice in the matter because there are others besides myself who would be genuinely pleased to see me live a little longer, for my sake as well as their own, and it is in respect for them and myself that I have to do it.
Besides, I want to live longer, and what a novel change that is from last year when I simply, selfishly, just wanted the pain to end.
"Okay! I'll get the admittance papers drawn up and you'll come back here on Friday. (tomorrow) I've got a meeting on Friday but they'll get you all set up."
Do I detect a note of happiness in Doc's voice? I think I do, beyond his usual cheerful self, and that decides me, right there.
What the hell, man. I've always had a high tolerance and threshold for pain, so I can do this. Maybe not easily, or not even easily as last year, (haha) but I'll manage because I have to.
Better still, because I want to.
Patric
Taylor Lochland
I exited the restroom and looked around, but I didn't see a single member of my astronomy club. I plopped down on a bench, and hissed as the metal burned the backs of my knees. I shifted in my seat and tugged on the legs of my shorts.
Several minutes passed with no sign of my compatriots. They probably haven't even noticed I'm not with them. I'd only been in the group a couple months, and didn't know any of them very well yet. I'd hoped to fix that by going along on their annual amusement park outing. Yeah. That worked well. As usual, Aiden was the only one who had said more than a dozen words to me. I reached into my pocket for my cell phone, but before I could pull up Aiden's number, I heard a familiar voice.
"Hey, Neil. There you are." Aiden sat down next to me. "Everyone else headed off to the miniature golf course, but I came back when I saw you weren't with us."
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. "Thanks for that. I'm glad somebody noticed."
"Hey, no problem." Aiden silently watched the passers-by for a moment. "I was the new guy not too long ago, so I know it can be tough. This group has been together for awhile, so they all have their own friendships and cliques already."
"Yeah, I could see that." A breeze kicked up and blew Aiden's auburn hair into his face, and I had to exercise a large amount of self-control to avoid reaching over and pushing the strands back into place.
Aiden ran his fingers through his bangs and shot me a smile. "Don't take it personally."
"I'm trying not to. It's probably just as much my fault. I don't make friends very easily."
"Well, you have me."
My lips parted in a grin to match his. "I'm glad for that."
"Who needs those stuffy old guys, anyway?" He turned his attention back to the park. "I have an idea. Are you up to experiencing physics in action?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Depends. What kind of physics?"
He nodded in the direction of the huge roller-coaster in the distance. "Ever ridden the Millennium Force before?"
"Nope."
"Me neither. Want to give it a go?"
I stared at the tall, steep hills of the coaster and took a moment to gather my nerve. "Let's do it."
Aiden rose to his feet. "If you chicken out when you see it up close, just tell me. I won't hold it against you."
"Not going to happen." I laughed and took off toward the ride.
As expected, the line was long. We made small talk as best we could over the blaring music coming from the nearby speakers, and before we knew it, an hour had passed and we were standing in front of the train.
My heart pounded as we climbed into the car and strapped ourselves in. Aiden looked at me from the corner of his eye.
"Scared?"
"Hell no."
Amusement flickered across his face. "The death grip you already have on that handlebar says otherwise."
I let go and shook out my hands. The park employee came by to check our lap bars, and then the cars began their journey along the track. Without realizing what I was doing, I grabbed onto the handlebar once again as the train climbed the hill, and my fingers tightened when we reached the top.
"Aren't you going to put your hands in the air?" Aiden barely finished his sentence before we plummeted downward.
I held my breath as the ride continued its twists and turns, jerking my body around and occasionally lifting my ass off the seat. I kept my eyes glued on the car in front of mine. Aiden laughed, and I wasn't sure if it was because of me or the ride.
Aiden patted my hand when the train rolled to a stop and the lap bars released. I unfastened my seatbelt, my skin still tingling where Aiden had touched. My body continued to shake as I climbed out of the car.
"You okay?" Aiden caught my elbow. "You look like you're about to fall on your ass."
"I'm fine. I need something to drink, though." I headed toward the nearest concession stand, but moved slowly, not wanting to lose the physical contact. "That was intense."
"I think that was the point." Aiden chuckled and dropped his hand. "Are you glad you rode it?"
"Hell yeah. Thanks for suggesting it." My nerves had returned to normal by the time I reached the counter. "Did you want something, too, Aiden?"
Aiden waved his hand. "I can get it myself. Thanks, though."
"Welcome." I bought my Pepsi and waited for Aiden to buy his. "Think we should go to the miniature golf course and look for the rest of the group?"
"I don't know. I'd rather hit a few more coasters with you." One corner of his mouth curled up. "If you think you can handle it."
"You're on."
We spent the rest of the day on the rides, alternating between the huge coasters and the smaller, gentler ones. By the time we met up with the rest of the group and boarded the bus, I was exhausted and sunburned, but happy.
Aiden sat next to me, and shortly after we hit the road, he fell asleep, his head dropping to my shoulder. My heart pounded, and against my better judgment, I brushed my thumb across his cheek while pretending to stretch. "Sorry," I whispered, but he didn't stir until the bus stopped in the library parking lot, everyone standing up and saying their "good nights."
Aiden straightened and rubbed his eyes. "I didn't drool on you, did I?"
"I don't think so. Anyway, what's a little drool between friends?"
He yawned and then flashed me that smile of his, which gave me the courage I needed to do what I'd wanted to do for much of the day.
Everyone filed out of the bus, and as soon as Aiden and I were out of the others' earshot, I touched his arm. "Hey, Aiden?" When he turned around, I took a breath, the words coming out in a rush. "It's supposed to be clear tomorrow night, so if you're not doing anything, you could bring your telescope to my place and we could set up in my backyard. We could grill something to eat before it gets dark, and have our own private star party." I paused and shoved my shaking hands in my pockets. "If you want to. No pressure."
The corners of his eyes crinkled. "I'd love to. Sounds fun. What time?"
Able to breathe again, I took my phone from my pocket and opened my astronomy application. "Well, sunset's at 9:13, so, how about dinner at eight?"
"That works. Email me your address." Aiden opened his car door, sat down in the driver's seat, and fastened his seatbelt. "I'm looking forward to it."
"Okay. See you tomorrow." I took a step back so he could close the door, and I grinned like an idiot when he waved at me as he drove away.
\* \* \* \*
As I set up the grill, I glared at the clouds threatening to take over the sky. A drop of rain hit my face. I cursed under my breath at the weather gods and waited for the deluge, but all that came was a light sprinkle.
A car pulled up in my driveway, the engine shut off. I cut through the house and came out the front door.
Aiden climbed from his car, pushed his seat forward, and dragged his telescope and tripod from the back seat.
"Is that a telescope in your hand, or are you happy to see me?"
Aiden grinned and slung his bag over his shoulder. "The answer is both A and B."
I turned my head, hoping he didn't notice the redness I knew was on my cheeks, and then I looked at the sky. "Looks like we might get rained on, or at least clouded out. Maybe we should have canceled."
"It isn't supposed to do more than sprinkle, and clouds can be fun to watch too, you know. Anyway, I'm here for the company. I can see the sky just fine from my own place."
I let out a chuckle, giving up on trying to hide the blush. "Let's go out back. I've got some hot dogs ready for the grill." I picked up his tripod and led him to the patio.
While Aiden situated his gear, I opened the package of hot dogs and dropped a half dozen franks on the grill. "Do you have to work tomorrow morning?" I winced when I realized how the question could be interpreted.
"Nope. I'm free to hang out all night. Or at least until Jupiter gets high enough for us to see well. Unless you have to get up early."
"I don't. Having most of the summer free is one of the few benefits of being a teacher."
We commiserated about the poor night sky visibility in the Great Lakes region as we grilled and enjoyed our dinners. As soon as we finished eating, Aiden got up and went for his telescope.
I glanced at the sky, where the clouds had staked their claim. "There may not be any point in doing that."
"I want to set it up while there's still enough light for me to see what I'm doing, just in case it clears up." He looked up and grinned, his bangs falling over his forehead. "Besides, what fun is brining over a 'scope if I can't show it off to you?"
"Good point."
We turned our attention to setting up the telescope and tripod, and we finished just as dusk settled in. He connected his netbook and loaded up the control software. When he looked up from the computer, his eyes widened. "Holy shit."
"What?" I scanned the area, but saw nothing except the trees, grass, and bugs. "You okay?"
"Yeah, but... the fireflies. There are so many of them."
I watched the two dozen or so fireflies buzzing around, their bottoms flashing. "Oh, yeah. I've had a ton the past few days." I shrugged and pulled out my phone to check if the weather forecast had been updated.
"I haven't had many in my yard at all yet. Just a few so far." He reached out, gently caught one, and watched it for a moment before letting it fly away.
I returned the phone to my pocket. Aiden's child-like expression made me smile. "You really like those things, don't you?"
"Of course I do. What's not to like?"
"Don't get me wrong. I do like them. It's just that, if I didn't know better, I'd think you'd never seen one before."
"Don't forget I'm from out west. We don't have fireflies out there."
"What? No fireflies? I thought they were everywhere."
"No, they're not everywhere. At least, not the kind like these." Aiden chuckled when a firefly landed on his cheek, walked in a circle, then took off. "You don't find these guys west of the Rockies."
"I didn't know that." I sat down in a patio chair and swatted away a mosquito. "And here I've been taking them for granted."
Aiden sat down next to me, the look of wonder still on his face. "I was going to try to hit one of the nature parks next weekend to watch for them, but this is better."
"Feel free to come over to watch them anytime."
"Thank you." He turned to me briefly before returning his attention to the light show. "I'll take you up on that."
"Great." My heart beat a little harder. I flicked another mosquito off my arm. "Just don't forget your bug spray."
The fireflies continued their aerial dance. The lights faded one by one over the next hour, as each insect found a mate.
When several moments had passed without any flashes, Aiden looked up at the sky. "Looks like the clouds are getting worse."
I checked the weather on my phone one more time. "And it doesn't look like they're moving out of here anytime soon."
"Oh, well, it's not like I didn't have anything fun to watch." He shot me a glance from the corner of his eye.
I scratched the back of my neck and cleared my throat. "Yeah. The fireflies were pretty cool. Anyway, may as well pack it up and go inside. Unless you want to go home."
"Didn't we already cover this? I'm here to spend time with you."
As we gathered up our things, pleasant tingles ran through my body. They returned every time Aiden's eyes met mine, or our hands brushed.
We went inside, I made us a plate of cheese and crackers, and then we settled on the sofa in the living room. I turned on the television and found a rerun of "Star Trek: The Next Generation." "This okay?"
"I'm an astronomy geek. Of course 'Star Trek' is okay."
"Just making sure." I set the remote down on the end table.
Aiden picked up a piece of cheese and popped it in his mouth. "Speaking of astronomy, what do you think of the club so far?"
I shrugged. "Everyone seems okay."
"Yeah, but those guys live for astronomy. Doesn't seem like you do. You don't even have your own telescope."
"You're right. I like the night sky, but...." I shook my head. "I have almost nothing in common with the other teachers at my school. Joining that club was just another failed attempt to find a place to belong."
Aiden studied me. "Is that important to you? Belonging?"
I shifted in my seat. "It didn't use to be. But lately? I've been kinda lonely."
Aiden placed his hand over mine and ran his thumb over my first knuckle. "And right now?"
"Not lonely at all."
\* \* \* \*
The night breeze cooled my skin as I looked up to the sky. The clouds parted, allowing the moonlight to shine through just as the fireflies began their mating dance in my backyard. Since Aiden came over that night a couple weeks ago, I'd stood watch at my back door every evening at dusk, and gone outside at the first flash. I'd always liked fireflies, but once I hit adulthood, I'd forgotten how fascinating they were. Aiden reminded me.
Aiden came over most evenings now, and we sat side by side, sharing the lounge sofa on the patio. Our friendship had grown strong, and though I admitted I sometimes wished for more, I worried about scaring him off.
"You know what?" he asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Hm?"
"We should go camping before the firefly season ends, and before you're too busy getting ready for the new school year."
"Camping?"
"Yes, camping. We can go to one of the state parks and watch the birds and animals during the day, and do some stargazing at night."
I made a face. "The last time I went camping, I fell off a horse, tipped a canoe, and the howls and hoots kept me up all night."
"And when did this happen?"
"When I was twelve."
Aiden laughed and shook his head. "Then isn't it time to give it another chance?"
"I...I admit I love the thought of spending the weekend with you." My voice was barely above a whisper. "Can't we take a trip to Chicago or something?"
"We can go to Chicago when the weather's too cold for camping."
"All right, all right." I held up a hand. "I'll go, but only if we can rent an RV."
"An RV? Pfft. Where's the fun in that?"
"It's a lot more fun than ending up covered in bug bites. Or being eaten by a bear."
"Oh, for crying out loud." Aiden suddenly attacked me, tickling me mercilessly until I struggled to breathe. We both slid off the sofa and landed on the deck, my back against the wooden boards and Aiden straddling my waist.
I put my hands on his chest and tried to push him away. "St-stop," I managed to utter between fits of laughter.
He forced his fingers into my armpits. "I'll stop if you say you'll come camping with me."
I rolled to the side, but that only made things worse for me. "Okay, okay."
The tickling ceased, but Aiden kept me pinned underneath his legs. "Okay what?"
I took a few seconds to catch my breath. "I'll go camping with you."
"In a tent?" He held his fingers an inch above my body and wiggled them.
"Come on. We're missing the fireflies."
"Neil...."
"Yes, in a tent."
Aiden slid off me, stood up, and helped me to my feet. "You'll have a good time. I promise." He grinned at me, and I grudgingly admitted to myself that he might be right.
\* \* \* \*
It was already hot and muggy by eleven o'clock Saturday morning, and the rest of the weekend wasn't supposed to be any better. I'd much rather have stayed inside in the air-conditioning, but Aiden wouldn't hear any excuses when he called to tell me he was on his way to pick me up.
"You promised me you'd go, so we're damn well going. I'll be there in twenty minutes." He hung up before I could protest further.
Almost exactly twenty minutes later, he knocked on my front door. When I let him in, he stared at the mess of bug sprays, sunscreens, packets of dehydrated camp meals, and first aid supplies scattered all over the floor.
"What's all this? We're going to a state park. Not into the remote wilderness." He sat down on the floor and picked through everything. "You know, I have most of this stuff covered already." He picked up a silver pack of dehydrated spaghetti. "And these are god-awful."
"Sorry. I'm a newbie at this, remember?"
"Yes, I remember. Anyway...." He helped me finish packing, and then we hit the road.
We arrived and checked in at the campground without incident. We unloaded the car and found our campsite, the sweat dripping down the center of my back by the time we finished setting up the tent.
"Hot?" Aiden opened a jug of water and poured some onto a rag. He held the cloth over his head and wrung it out, letting the drops trail over his bangs and onto his face.
I tore my gaze away and nodded. "That's an understatement. I hate this weather."
He laughed, wet the rag again, and handed it to me. "In winter, you'll be missing the heat."
I soaked the back of my neck and let out a sigh. "I hate sweating. Well, unless I have a good reason to sweat." I coughed. "I mean, unless I'm exercising or something."
Aiden smiled, but didn't say anything as he reclaimed the rag and dropped it on the tarp. "Speaking of exercise, let's go for a walk. There are plenty of hiking trails here, and the ground's mostly flat, so it should be easy for you."
"In this heat? Can't we wait until dusk when it's cooler?"
"And even more mosquitoes will be out for blood at that time. Besides, as you already pointed out to me, it's not going to get much cooler. Unless you had something else you wanted to do. Canoeing or horseback riding, maybe?"
I snorted. "Ass."
He burst out laughing and looped his camera around his neck. "Sorry. Anyway, the trails are mostly in the shade, which will help."
"Okay." We each grabbed our backpacks, and I followed him to the trailhead.
\* \* \* \*
Aiden halted. "Hold up for a second." He looked up into a tree and slowly raised his camera.
"Find something interesting?" I stumbled, and there was a flurry of wings and rustling leaves as a huge bird took off, disappearing from view.
"Oh, just a hawk. I think it was a red-tail." He looked at the viewscreen and sighed. "I wasn't fast enough."
"Damn. Didn't mean to scare him off."
Aiden waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. It's not like I've never seen or taken pictures of a hawk before."
"I haven't." I stared at the sky, hoping the bird would come back. "Well, except when a rescue group came to our school for a birds-of-prey program. The presenter said you can find them in our area, but I've never seen one."
Aiden cocked his head. "You need to look up during the daytime more often. I saw one last week when I was on my way to your place. I've seen a few vultures too."
"In the city? Are you shitting me?"
"I'm absolutely not shitting you." Aiden adjusted his camera strap and resumed the walk. "Plenty of roadkill in the city for the vultures, and plenty of rats, mice, and smaller birds for the hawks."
"Huh. I never knew."
"Well, now you do."
A sense of melancholy passed through me as we continued down the trail, and I moved slowly while scanning the area, but all I saw were trees and bugs.
Aiden stopped and looked over his shoulder when I had fallen a few feet behind. "Something wrong?"
"I'm afraid I might miss something else."
"There's no way you'll be able to see everything, Neil. Just be more aware, and you won't miss too much. Still, it's never a good idea to gawk as you walk. You might trip over something, or overlook something that's literally right under your feet."
We continued down the trail, taking frequent breaks so we could look around, and so Aiden could get some pictures. When we finished the loop, we hit another trail, and then another after that. Aiden taught me how to recognize the different trees and birds, and I barely noticed the heat anymore. By the time we returned to camp in the evening, I almost felt like an expert on the local flora and fauna.
After dinner, I took off my shoes and socks, lay down on a blanket, and watched the fluffy clouds as they passed by overhead. I let out a sigh. "Okay, I'll grudgingly admit I had a good time."
"I'm glad. What did you like about it?"
I stretched out, burying my toes in the grass. "Well, I definitely have a greater appreciation for nature, that's for sure."
"Yeah, I've noticed that in most cases, the more I learn about something, the more I like it." He sat down next to me. "Are you saying you'll come camping with me again sometime?"
"I'll definitely go to parks with you and walk the nature trails. As far as camping, let's see how well I manage to sleep tonight."
"Fair enough." Aiden picked a piece of grass, flipping it back and forth between his fingers. He grinned at me, his eyes dancing. "If you want to completely experience nature, close your eyes for a minute and listen." I did as Aiden requested, and after a moment, he spoke again. "What do you hear?"
"A cardinal and a Blue Jay. And a chickadee."
"Good. Anything besides birds?"
I waited for the jay's shrieks to subside. "Crickets chirping. Flies buzzing. The wind." I turned my face into the breeze. Something---probably the grass---brushed across my cheek. I chuckled and lightly swatted at it. "None of that tickling stuff again."
There was a soft rustle, and then lips pressed against mine. I gasped into Aiden's mouth and froze in surprise, but only for a second before I kissed him back. I put my hands on the back of Aiden's head and parted my lips. Aiden accepted the invitation. I sucked on his tongue and opened my eyes, and then Aiden pulled away.
"No peeking."
I shut my eyes, and Aiden rewarded me by resuming the kiss. He climbed on top of me, and his hand slid down the side of my body and rested on my hip. I pressed my groin into his belly and gripped his shoulders as dizziness threatened to overtake me.
I came up for a breath. "Maybe we should go hide in the woods or something."
"Don't worry. I overheard our neighbors talking about going to get trashed on the beach. They won't be back for awhile."
"In that case..." I wrapped my arms around him and rolled us both over, and then trailed soft kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Encouraged by his gasps, I tugged on his T-shirt, exposing a small section of collarbone. I latched onto it with my lips and sucked until Aiden's fingers tangled in my hair.
"It seems you have good suction powers." He looked at me though half-closed eyelids.
"Are you asking for a demonstration?"
"It would be helpful."
I pushed his shirt up, and he pulled it the rest of the way off and dropped it to the side. I ran my fingers along the contours of his chest, circling his nipples until they grew hard. His body arched into my touch, and I lowered my head, laving my tongue over his skin, working my way to the waistband of his jeans. I cupped the bulge between his legs with my palm, and then breathed on it through the denim until he groaned and popped the button himself.
"Anxious?" I pulled down the zipper and slipped my hand inside his underwear.
He gasped. "Well, duh."
As I pulled down his pants and briefs, I kissed my way down the trail of hair running from his navel to his crotch. I touched the tip of my tongue to his shaft, and then blew on the spot of saliva. I repeated the action on the head, and on the slit, making him squirm before I finally took his cock into my mouth. I sucked as I moved my head up and down, my own body singing as his musky scent filled my nose and his cries of pleasure filled the air. I played with his balls, one at a time, and then ran my finger over his skin to tease his entrance. He stroked my hair, and his fingers brushed against the back of my neck, sending tingles down my spine.
My own dick strained against my jeans, and I pulled away from his cock to free myself from the fabric. "Sorry about that."
"Hold on." Aiden reached into the tent, dragged out his duffle bag, and rifled through it. He dropped a condom and a small bottle of lube on the blanket.
I raised an eyebrow. "Were you planning this?"
"I always prepare, just in case. Weren't you ever a boy scout?"
"I dropped out." I picked up the condom packet, tore it open, and dressed myself.
Aiden tugged on my T-shirt. "Lose this."
I raised my arms and let him finish stripping me. The evening breeze cooled the sweat on my skin as I flipped open the bottle of lube and slicked us both up. "Ready?"
"Hell, yeah." Aiden grabbed my discarded clothing, wadded it up, and slipped it under his ass.
I nudged Aiden's legs up, positioned myself between them, and then gradually pushed my way inside.
We moaned in unison as I thrust, his muscle tightening around me and sending shivers through me with every motion. I supported myself with one arm and ran my other hand down his side. He closed his eyes and rocked his hips, forcing me in deeper and eliciting a cry from my throat. A firefly passed by and cast its glow on Aiden's face before moving on.
"You missed it."
"What?" Aiden opened his eyes.
"A firefly."
He touched my cheek. "As much as I love the things, I have other things on my mind right now."
I grinned and turned my head to kiss his palm. He locked gazes with me. I resumed thrusting, though at a slower pace than before. Loving the way his body arched into mine, I maintained the rhythm. I inched my hand closer to his cock, and finally wrapped my fingers around it and give it a few quick pumps.
"Neil..." Aiden's voice trailed off into a groan, and he clutched my shoulders, raising his rear off the blanket as he shot white ropes onto my hand and belly.
I thrust a few more times, and as I reached my own climax, all I could think about was how Aiden's body was joined to mine. I held on to the ecstasy as long as I could, but the trembling in my muscles eventually subsided. I pulled out, took off the condom, tied it off, and set it to the side. I wrapped my arms around Aiden, and the spark of connection filled every fiber of my being and intoxicated me.
Aiden kissed my cheek and snuggled close. "Have you found a place to belong?"
I took in the feeling of his body heat against my front, and the evening air on my back. The crickets chirped, the fireflies lit up around us, and Aiden looked up at me with a huge smile on his face. "Yeah." I tightened my arms and buried my nose in his hair. "I have."
Monday, September 13, 2010
Rapid notation of the after effects of this second chemotherapy session one year after the first, first cycle of proposed six.
----------------------------
This one hits hard. Very hard. I don't know if its due to the components of this very different therapy alone, or if it is that in combination with whats gone before that I still haven't recovered from, or a combination of both on top of what I've already noticed as a result of the cancer itself.
Wiser heads than I can can probably determine that.
So far, there is a radical "flip" between where I was, and where I am now. Almost as where I was, (pre-treatment) is a dream and where I am now is a waking state. I keep bouncing back and forth between them, reminded of which is which because "then" didnt have nausea, incontinence, or the hiccups that "now" has"... Excuse me whilst I go barf...
Back... Damn. There went the phenergan, swallowed less than fifeteen minutes ago and not long enough in my guts to do any good.
The split is further exacerbated by the fact that I an typing these notes one one computer, reinforcing "now", but when I check email on the big computer I flip back into "then", the pre-chemo time, and the confusion deepens.
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
Those words were written more than two weeks ago, and since then I have been struggling with how to elucidate exactly what I thought, felt, and understood about that very strange time. I now know that one drug in particular, isofamide, (not sure of the spelling) metabolizes in the brain as parts of its molecular chain "break off" and allow certain enzymes, proteins, and so on to attach themselves to complete the drug. In my case (and of course it would have to something that rarely happens) the remnants became toxic and I had a rather nasty reaction which caused some very disjointed thought patterns.
I very much hope to be able to eventually articulate those thoughts and emotions so anyone else in similar straits can point to this post and say "That! That's what it was like!" when their doctor asks, "how did it make you feel?"
Right now, I can't even say why it's so important to me to provide that, except maybe because I found the experience to be so damned frightening, and frustrating when Doc wanted me to describe it for him.
And a SERIOUS shout to that man for spotting just how far "out of it" I was, simply by recognizing that I wasn't my usual self. I am speculating here, but I think I'm fairly accurate in saying there was no indication in the blood tests of how it had affected me, and aside from the mumbling and agitation which was probably his first clue, the real significance wouldn't necessarily have been evident to anyone else who didn't know me so well.
So, with the next treatment coming up on Monday, we'll adjust the dosages a bit and he'll pull a few chemical tricks out of his sleeve (in the form of something called Methylene Blue which makes me pee green, literally.), and with luck I won't be so whacked out this next time.
Keep your fingers crossed for me. :)
As for the rest of this post, I am trying to retain the chronological order so I'll come back from time to time and see about that explaining bit by editing this post "in place."
In the meantime, a number of things have happened these past few weeks. One is that my response to the treatment (aside from the bad stuff) was immediate and aggressive. I dropped the water I had been retaining within the first two days. Remember that for me, when the cancer is particularly active, I retain fluids in my legs and such. When the chemo works, the water drains off, and with the first session a year ago, it took almost a month for something to happen.
This time, it took a couple of days.
That tells me if I can survive the shit, I should see a marked improvement in how well it works to halt the spread. I hope so anyway. I might even be able to hope for a whole year of extra quarters. Good quarters. Not just the survive kind but the live kind. It's too early to count on that, but the seeds are planted and I'm rather hoping Doc has a green thumb. Laugh!
Patric
Sunday, October 3, 2010
This is the guy. Caught on camera as he tried to hide, he denies any involvement in helping me retain my sanity by dragging my butt out of this house to anywhere but a doctor's office.
Sean, mentioned previously and pictured above, took me to another nearby State park today to take advantage of the last of the good weather before it gets gloomy and starts to rain.
Unlike our last trip though, this time he was a bit more solicitous about my condition. While I can't be certain, I strongly suspect the changes in my appearance had something to do with it. :)
I'm down to 150 pounds or so, and look like a bald headed scarecrow more than ever. Just in time for Halloween and yeah, I've got the perfect costume this year; a zombie. You know, the walking dead? Laugh.
Okay, gallows humor aside, we tromped the trails shooting pictures of everything that moved and a lot of things that didn't. It was when it came time to go back up the dang hill that I got winded, and he got worried.
As before (and I discovered just how much I value his consideration today) he was the perfect model of patience as I stopped repeatedly to catch my breath, ease the ache in my legs, or generally tried to muster enough energy to take a few more steps.
As before, he didn't treat me like I was sick. (Just slow and clumsy.) :) And as before, I marveled at how lucky I am to have such friends.
At any rate, while we coursed the trails and studied the geology behind the waterfall, literally behind the waterfall in this case, I had the opportunity to watch the people watching us.
It's fairly obvious something is out of whack to anyone who bothers to look in my direction.
You've seen someone like me before, I'm sure. There is a sense of "wrong" that surrounds us. Maybe its the grimaces, or the baldness that only a knit cap pulled way down can hide, or the fret lines on our face while we moved with such careful determination and still don't get very far. You look and wonder, and try not to feel guilty when we happen to glance up and see you staring....
Sound familiar? It does to me. I used to be the one doing the staring, and now that I am on the other end of the stick, it is easy to recognize the shuttered glances and the slight scowls or furrowed eyebrows.
I smiled when I caught someone looking (when I wasn't frowning with concentration, at least) and very, very few smiled back. Most simply nodded or looked away sheepishly, and I could see the brief flash of what might have been gratefulness skate across their face that they weren't in my shoes. Or Sean's.
Even he got looked at, and at first I couldn't understand why, but I realized the looks he got seemed to be more about pity, as though they thought he was stuck having to look after me, and that surprised me. It has never occurred to me that caring for someone, in whatever capacity, might be considered onerous, but as I watched the veiled glances shift from me to him and back again (It is amazing what you can see reflected in the view screen of a digital camera) I realized that many people are probably thinking about the inconvenience to themselves at the "burden" before they think about easing said burden.
Surely not everyone thinks that way, and maybe it was only because neither Sean nor I were the "loved ones" to anybody staring, but there sure were a lot of similarities in the scowls. Or maybe it's all just my imagination, but then again, look at how most of us feel uncomfortable when we see someone in a wheelchair.
Maybe it's that fabled "human nature", or maybe it's coincidence or imagination, but whatever it is, would it really be such a terrible thing if folks smiled instead of frowned when guys like me came into view? I'd rather hope not, because I can say with certainty that when those rare few did smile, I sure felt a lot less like crawling under a rock to get away from the disapproval.
Do me a favor if you happen to see someone with that cloud of "wrong" clinging to them. Smile broadly, or just smile at all. See of you don't a startled, maybe even grateful grin in return. I bet you do, because there is at least one valid point to that human nature thing; it says we all want to be accepted, regardless of our circumstances or situation.
I know I do, and once again, thank you Sean for letting me take my own steps, yet still being right there in case I had to reach out for a hand up off the ground. Thank you for accepting me as I am.
Patric
Amy Lane
Oh, God, it came so fast. From diagnosis to home hospice in less than a year. And he'd tried to spend that year well, he really had. He'd visited family, spent time with his nieces, took his boyfriend to every goddamned family function from Christmas to Arbor Day, and still... still... it had flown by. From a little bit of inconvenient pain, being winded on the treadmill, saying, "Hey, doc---this is a little weird, canyalookitthismaybe?" to saying, "Jimmy, baby, I need you to pull yourself together so I can write out my living will," in a matter of months.
And now, here they were. Autumn. Leaves were showering in a purple/brown scatter, the sky was interminable blue, and his body was crumbling, decaying from the inside out. With every pump of his heart, his blood carried flawed cells, little mini-assassins to every vital organ, and his body was about as strong as a leaf-bare tree with brittle limbs.
And the drugs weren't even good.
"Hereyago," Jimmy murmured, standing by the alien bed in the middle of their living room. "I'm sorry, baby---I didn't realize we'd gone so long after our last dose."
Connor grunted. He'd tried not to make any noise, or suggest that he needed more morphine. "S'no fair," he said, trying to be clear, but the morphine was whitewashing his bloodstream, and it was SOOOOO lovely after the terrible, suffocating pain that was, quite literally, bone and lymph node deep.
"What's not fair?" Jimmy pulled a stool up next to the bed, and Connor looked at him gratefully. He had things to do---he was working from home now, to take care of Connor through the end, but he'd been on the computer all morning.
"So little time left...don't want to spend it out in the clouds."
Jimmy's smile was...broken. He took Connor's hand, purple from the nearly constant IV, and frail. It didn't used to be frail. Connor had worked construction jobs through college---it used to be thick and battered and tough. Even though he'd been working as a computer tech for the last ten years, he'd been proud of his bruiser hands, and Jimmy had always found them sort of sexy too.
"At least tell me the dreams are good, baby. You're doing all the drugs---tell me you've got some kick-ass dreams, yanno?"
Connor grimaced and tried not to be a big, dying baby about it. "The dreams ss...sssuck," he confessed. "They're...they're boring. Every day. This morning I dreamed of...of..." What was he saying again? Oh yeah... "I dreamed of doing the dishes."
Jimmy laughed a little. "I could fill that one in for you," he murmured suggestively. "Remember that one time? You remember...you were all tense from work, and you'd just about ripped my head off for...shit. I don't even know."
"Doing the dishes," Connor supplied with a small laugh. He remembered. "You didn't do the dishes, and I wanted to cook dinner and...Jesus!" He was suddenly tearful, and felt like a pussy, but he felt it deep inside where he couldn't say it, because not much of his deep insides made it up to his mouth right now. "Jesus, I was such a bitch," he confessed, regretting the moment acutely.
"You weren't in the end," Jimmy said, grinning. Jimmy had one of those grins that pushed his apple cheeks up and made his dimples pop. He was so damned cute he was almost nauseating, and Connor... well, Connor had always been a sucker for brown eyes and dimples.
"Yes, I was," Connor said now, hoping the drugs were letting him be lascivious.
"You're always a sweet bitch when you bottom," Jimmy told him, reading his intent. Connor wanted to cry again. Damn, Jimmy---God bless you. Not only did you stick with me to the end, but you learned to read my mind too.
"I learned from the best," Connor managed back, and Jimmy's smile was heated.
"Yeah... that day, you learned real good. You remember?"
"Mmm..." He did remember. He remembered Jimmy coming up behind him, in spite of his snarling bitchiness. Jimmy wasn't usually the type to confront someone when they were pissy---Connor would never know why this day was different. But it was.
Jimmy's body, stringy, hard, bony, and hot, had ranged itself behind Connor, and Jimmy had dug that sharp little fox-point of a chin into Connor's shoulder, and then nuzzled his ear...
Connor went boneless, liquid, his arms going stiff against the counter's edge to just hold him up, because his knees weren't doing the job. Jimmy's hands didn't fuck around, either---one hand went straight down under the back of Connor's jeans, and Connor managed a grunt and a wiggle to help it, cool skinned and sinuous, cup his ass. The other hand was out of sight---Jimmy's shoulder was tilted backward, and Connor thought he might have had something in that hand, but he was suddenly so hot he didn't care what it could be.
"You want me to 'fucking get something done'?" Jimmy purred, echoing Connor's words, and Connor made a sound like a cross between a whimper and a sigh.
"Sorry about that," he muttered, not sure whether to push his ass into Jimmy's hand so he could squeeze it, or spread his legs and bend over the counter so he could squeeze other things.
"Don't be," Jimmy said softly. "Unbutton your jeans."
"Mmm...was going to cook you dinner!" Because that's what started the whole thing in the first place. Jimmy had asked him to make Stroganoff the night before, and Connor said, "Fine, but you need to clean the kitchen!" and Jimmy had forgotten. Connor got home with a grocery bag full of ingredients, and the cat was on the counter, eating yesterday's hummus!
"You were going to take care of me." Jimmy flickered a tongue out to tease Connor's earlobe, and he found he was arching his hips to try to brush the front of his jeans on the countertop, because, hot damn! Was his cock hard! "You always take care of me. Let me take care of you. Now," and Jimmy's voice firmed up with command, "I said unbutton your jeans!"
Connor's hands were wet and soapy, and he didn't argue, not once. His jeans were unbuttoned in a quick second, and Jimmy helped him shuck them down to his ankles in a little less time. Jimmy stood up then and moved his other hand to Connor's ass. His hand was slick with lube, and there was a plug caught between his fingers.
Connor gasped at the coolness of the plug as it pushed between his cheeks, and Jimmy spoke in his ear again. "Just hold this for a minute, princess, while I get things ready, 'kay?"
And then he thrust it, quickly, right into Connor's entrance, and it was so slick with lube---and Connor was so begging for it---that it went right in...
Connor was jerked out of the dream of the past by the present. He remembered that day---oh, God, he remembered. But the sensations, the feeling of being bent over the counter and just...just fucked until his body was weak and liquid, and come spattered on the cabinets in front of him, that was, well...
His eyes wandered to the colostomy bag that took over when all things south stopped functioning.
"You know what I remember from that day?" Jimmy asked, not seeing Connor's embarrassed, angry glance at the ugly truth of what was left of his life now.
"Fucking me senseless?" Connor joked weakly, and Jimmy rolled his eyes.
"I remember knowing I wasn't going to leave. Ever. There I was, all afraid of commitment, afraid of being locked in a little cubicle of hell for the duration, and I realized that, you know... you could come in and chew my face off, and I could change that. You loved me enough to let me change that." Jimmy shrugged, and to Connor's blurry vision, it looked like he had wings. "Most powerful goddamned thing in my life."
It was like magic. Transformation---a grim, ugly fact of his life was washed away in the glow of what the moment had meant. Connor blinked, as entranced by the changing color of his thoughts as a child would be at a light show. Suddenly the sex didn't matter---or it mattered, but it was irrelevant to why they'd had it, and what it had meant.
The months before that moment, the tension-fraught ones, where Connor was afraid, afraid of making plans with his family, in case he woke up, expecting to take his nieces to the zoo, and found Jimmy gone. Those were the months when he was afraid to breathe the air in the hollow of his lover's neck, in case he could scent another man's breath, and they melted away as though they had never been. Connor felt a moment of regret, because with the lightness in his chest now, he thought maybe they should have been the first things to go---hell, before the bowel function, at the very least---but he was so grateful that they didn't exist anymore, that he refused to complain.
"I could always dream about that," he murmured, not wanting to tell his lover that it wasn't the sex that mattered. When you weren't inches away from death, the sex should matter, because, he was starting to think now, it's one of the things that made life sweet. It wasn't Jimmy's fault you couldn't carry it with you, like candy in your pocket, now was it?
"You could always dream about that day at the beach instead," Jimmy told him out of the blue.
Connor managed to squint at him, which cost him, because he knew he was fading out for the moment. "You mean the day that it rained?"
Jimmy laughed, and for a man who always claimed to live in the "now" (and hence the little problem with fidelity at the beginning of the relationship), the noise was laden with nostalgia. "Yeah---and we ran for the car, and we were all wet, but we didn't want to leave the beach, and you ended up giving me the world's most awkward hummer in the front seat of the car!"
Connor groaned---this time in memory, and not pain. "Oh, Christ...and then the cop came knocking on the window---"
"And they were all steamed up, and then I rolled down the window---"
"And you were still fastening your pants, and I was wiping my mouth, and you said---"
They finished the story together, "Keep your shirt on, officer---all things considered, we should have just gone walking in the rain!"
They hadn't, though. The cop had left, and they'd turned on the engine to defog the windows and just sat there, talking, watching the great gray waves coast in and wreck against the sand in an explosion of froth. It had been a few weeks after Jimmy made washing the dishes a pornographic sport, and they'd played a Dave Matthews album on the iPod while the fan was running, and held hands without thinking much about it.
Connor's laughter faded, and then his consciousness, and then he was back in that car with Jimmy again, just talking...
...and then Jimmy got out of the car, and started racing down the beach, hopping on one foot to pull off his tennis shoes. The jeans went next, and then the hooded sweatshirt in hideous San Francisco Giants orange, and then the ring-collared T-shirt underneath, and then the boxers, and there he was, naked, and running full force into the surf, his hands fisted over his head, and he jumped up and down, shouting, exuberant, and triumphant.
Connor was stuck in the car. He kept trying to open it, but the latch slipped out of his hand, or the door fumbled closed, or his legs got caught on the steering wheel, and at one point, a gust of wind blew the door back into his thigh, which ached and ached, and he was stuck, pressing his hands against the condensation on the windows, watching his lover shriek naked in the rain...
He came to abruptly, surprised that the autumn blue that marked time through the bay window in their living room had turned to purple/black.
"Shit," he mumbled. "How long was I out?"
Jimmy was sitting on the couch, asleep, and he startled, jerking his head off of his fist and jumping to his feet abruptly.
"Wha?" Jimmy asked, all frowzy from sleep, and Connor managed a dusty chuckle.
"How long was I out?" The sky was dark. Had he slept through the afternoon?
"Twelve hours," Jimmy yawned. "It's ass-crack-of-the-a.m., my darling. You want anything to eat?" It was a courtesy, mostly. Connor had been eating broth and mushed noodles for weeks.
"Mmm...water," he begged, feeling piteous.
Jimmy was there though, and Connor sipped from the big icy thermos gratefully.
"Better, baby?"
Connor grunted---talking seemed to be hard, so hard, but he wanted to say something important. What was it? Oh, yeah. "I dreamed of you," he croaked. "You were...naked, at the ocean. You were free. Free enough to dance in the rain."
Jimmy shivered, and perched himself on the edge of the couch again, so he and Connor could talk closely. "Sounds cold," he murmured.
"Yeah, but you were free," Connor said insistently. Jimmy had wanted to be free at the beginning, and Connor had given him that. It had been painful, and there had been nights when he hadn't come home, and Connor had howled bile into the pillow. But that bitterness was truly gone. Now all that remained was a desire to see Jimmy happy, shrieking glee into the stormy waters of a life without him.
Jimmy's laugh was humorless. "After five years with you, baby, what on earth makes you think I want to be free?"
"No?" Connor asked, a little sadly.
"No." Jimmy kissed that limp, sickly hand. "Like I said, Con, it sounds cold."
"Maybe warm rain, then," Connor said, willing himself to adjust the dream, fix it, so it would be perfect. If he only had a few dreams left with Jimmy, he wanted them to be right. "Warm, like August, when the clouds are so heavy, and the sky is suffocating and hangs in the mouth like wet wool..." His lungs weren't working well. When did that become a perk? He tried to take a breath and couldn't, and Jimmy stood up with frightening alacrity.
"Not yet," Jimmy breathed. "Dammit, not yet. Connor, your mom's coming, okay?"
"Why..." would his mother come? He couldn't remember inviting her, and the place looked like shit.
Jimmy stood up and spoke quickly, rifling through the drugs on the stainless steel tray with shaking hands. "Remember, baby? It was part of that fucking will. You said you wanted your mom to come."
Well, yeah, but only at the end...oh fuck, wait. "Not yet," Connor told him through a clogged chest.
"Damned straight!" Jimmy muttered. "Here. Here. Holy shit, it's here." Whatever he came up with, Connor was glad it made him glad. His chest felt like a thousand pounds of wet laundry, and he thought, maybe, if he closed his eyes for a minute, just stopped trying so hard, the breath would come, the breath would come...but first, but first, he wanted to make that dream perfect for Jimmy. Jimmy who had clipped his own wings to settle into Connor's little nest, and shelter Connor in the soft down under his chirpy, sharp-beaked, tough-little-chickie exterior. Jimmy, who didn't want to fly anymore. There was an incremental decrease in the pressure in his chest, and he took a breath and closed his eyes, and...
This time, it was Jimmy doing the dishes. This time, it was Jimmy who was hurt, because Connor hadn't believed him. This time, Connor came up behind Jimmy, planting his square chin hard on Jimmy's narrow shoulder. Connor pulled Jimmy back against his swollen groin and swiveled his hips, and Jimmy's hands on his were warm and soapy. They danced there, without any music but the beating of their hearts, and Connor closed his eyes, feeling Jimmy in his arms, secure, not flying away, simply nestled there, making sated, grunting noises as their bodies locked together in rhythm.
Something wet hit Connor's face, and again, and again, and when he looked up, he and Jimmy were outside, their bodies still swaying and the heavens opening up above them into the heart of a bright gray sky. The water droplets were warm and fat, and they started out plopping one at a time and ended up deluging, full and heavy, until Connor caught them on his face, on his neck, on his shaggy, sand-colored hair, plopping in such quantity that he was covered, surrounded by water, barely able to breathe in the rainstorm. It filled his mouth and his nose and permeated his skin with heat, until he began to moan, uncomfortably, and Jimmy, who seemed oblivious to the danger of drowning in the rain simply danced on.
Connor fought for breath and began squirming in the heat of what was running under his skin, and Jimmy danced on. He began shedding his clothes, slowly, sinuously, stretching his shirt over the stringy muscles of his back and shoulders, grabbing his jeans at the knees and sliding them off his lean hips. Connor actually found breathing superfluous for a moment---who needed breathing when your lover was naked, his nipples pebbled and purple in the air, his cock semi-erect, every stretch of his shoulders and swivel of his hips pure invitation to something only the living could do?
But that heat, that uncomfortable heat was still flooding him, and eventually it began to tingle under his skin, and he gasped, dragging in a furnace blast of air that seemed to freeze his lungs. He gasped again, and again, and...
"Oh, thank God."
Connor's chest was on fire, and Jimmy was standing over his bed, weeping, hot tears falling onto Connor's hand.
"Wha' happened?"
Jimmy wiped his eyes with his sleeve. His face was all crumpled, and he looked like hell. Pretty Jimmy, who had always been so vain, especially before that day doing dishes, and he was crying ugly, just for Connor.
"You made me promise," Jimmy mumbled. "I know it hurt to come back, baby, but you made me promise you'd get a chance to say goodbye to your mom, so I had to give you the Lacex to ease up the pressure on your lungs. Your mom's on her way---but you can't leave until she gets here."
Connor didn't want to leave, period, but then, he was pretty sure he'd made that position clear when he was diagnosed as terminal. What do you mean, "die"? Jimmy needs me---I can't just up and "die"!
"Mom..." Oh, no. Connor was leaving his mother too. "Jimmy, you gotta take care of my mom."
Connor's mom, as they were eating lunch in the family kitchen when Connor was sixteen, had teared up just a little.
"I'm sorry I'm a disappointment to you," Connor had mumbled, heartbroken. It was a lie---all that literature that said coming out would make him feel better, and now his mother didn't love him anymore.
Celia had shaken her head and wiped her eyes, then covered his hand with hers. "Not a disappointment, Connor," she sniffled. "Never a disappointment. I..." she smiled then, brilliantly through her tears. "You bastard---I have to rely on your sister to give me grandchildren now, and she's only twelve! I was really hoping for a few before I was fifty, you know?"
Connor got a little sniffly himself. "Well, maybe she'll make up for it in quantity."
Connor's mom's smile had gone a little crooked. "You really are a sweet boy to say it. Now, do we need to have the talk about condoms this instant, or can it wait until we're done with lunch?"
Connor had blanched. "If I tell you I've already bought some, can it wait forever?"
She'd let him finish lunch first.
And Joyce had done her share since, having four beautiful daughters after she graduated from college. Celia adored them all, but when the fourth (and last) one had been born, she'd looked at Connor bittersweetly over Miranda's downy little head.
"I was hoping for at least one boy," she'd said, her expression much as it had been that day during lunch. "But then, I should have known there'd only be one you."
And now his mother was coming to say goodbye, and he worried, worried, worried, because he was going, and Jimmy...
"You promise?" he asked insistently, coming out of the memory of his mother's face. "You promise you'll look after her, Jimmy?"
Jimmy pulled in a long, clogged breath, and Connor saw him, hovering right over the bed like people in medical dramas. His face was rumpled and baggy, like a pink frog's, and his hair---always perfectly moussed and gelled and what-the-hell-ever was greasy and slicked back to his head in clumps.
"Not to make you feel guilty or anything, Con," Jimmy said deliberately, "but I think I'm gonna need her to look after me, you feel me?"
Connor raised his hand, and was appalled at how badly it shook and how it went flopping toward Jimmy's face like a bruised and pale fish. Jimmy took it in midair and pressed it against his face.
"I'm sorry I'm leaving," Connor said after a moment.
"You should be, you bastard!" Jimmy snapped, and he wasn't kidding, not even a little. "One man on the planet who can make me settle down and nest, and now you're taking off without me? Real fucking bad form, I'm telling you." He wiped his nose on his sleeve, like a five-year-old, but Connor wasn't going to give him shit about it.
"I keep...I keep dreaming of you, free," he said painfully.
"I don't want to be free," Jimmy gasped, falling to his knees next to the bed. "All I want is you."
Connor clenched that weak hand in Jimmy's hair for a while as his lover cried, and fell asleep wishing for a dream, somehow, to fix this.
The little boy looked just like Jimmy, only at, about, six or seven---the age when the front teeth fell out, and were replaced with oddly-sized, oddly-spaced adult teeth. He had apple cheeks and sparkling brown eyes, and dimples and a divot in his chin. He came up to Connor and grinned, and then turned abruptly away, pattering on bare feet, his cut-offs a blur of darkness on his pale brown body.
It was twilight, in a big field, and the boy was headed for an oak tree twenty yards off, and the tree was a dark void in the golden summer light, and tall, so tall. There were flickering, crane-like shadows, and the echoes of older boys in the tree, and Connor felt a frisson of fear.
"Wait! Jimmy, wait! Not alone! Don't go alone!" Connor was running toward him, running, but his body wasn't working, his hands were flopping, limp as fish, and his chest was pounding like surf. The boy disappeared, swallowed by the tree, and a star arced across the sky above it. The tree turned to gold for a moment, and was full of boys, all of them with hands extended toward the sky, trying to catch that brilliant star.
Connor took a step toward that tree, and another, but someone was holding his arm. He almost jerked away, almost, because that boy was in the tree, and Connor was terrified for him. What if he caught that star? He would be jerked out of this world, cast into the heavens, and what if they were cold? But Connor looked, and stopped his motion because...
"Connor? Sweetheart, are you still with us?"
Connor's mom was still beautiful, even at sixty. Connor wasn't sure if she was actually beautiful right now, because his vision was dim, and his mother stood out like she was backlit, and she was fuzzy with nimbus. She was beautiful, but more like a beautiful angel, and not like his beautiful mother with her tired warm eyes and lined, kindly face.
"Sure, mom," Connor said, feeling loopy. "I was gonna go climb trees, but, yanno, decided to stay here instead."
Celia nodded, and her cool hand on his sore one grounded him. She still looked Gloriana-bright, but she felt right and human, here on sweating, struggling, harsh-breathed earth.
"Well, Connor, you let me know when you're up for climbing that tree. I'll be at the bottom, rooting you on."
She used to do that for him. She was terrified when he tried, though. He remembered her pale, anxious face, and that over-tight smile, the one that said she was worried but didn't want to say anything. She'd worn that face when he climbed trees, or played Pop Warner, or when he'd come out in high school. It was funny that she wore that frightened expression when he was in danger, but when he fell down and broke his wrist, or got a concussion, or someone spray-painted FAG across his locker, her face relaxed, and she looked like mom again. It was like, once the worst had happened, she could deal with it, but the fear of it... the absolute fear---that was the worst part.
He wished he could see her face clearly. He wanted the relaxed, "I can do this" mommy, not the terrified, "Don't hurt my baby" mommy. That one scared him, even when he was climbing the tree or playing Pop Warner or wearing his rainbow button during the day of silence.
"I'll be fine," he said, thinking of that kid, running off to climb that tree. He was worried about that kid---he was terrified for that kid. He needed to go check on him, back in the gold-lit twilight, but mom was here, and the house was a mess, and Jimmy was crying... "Mom, you gotta take care of Jimmy, okay? He's not ready to fly." Would Jimmy be in that tree?
"Jimmy's going to be fine," Jimmy said, but his voice sounded muffled, and he seemed to be standing in a dark corner. The sky outside had lightened, become a glorious, dark, cosmic blue, and Connor stared at it, wondering when it would become licorice shadows and gold-spangled, dusty-taffy-shaped light.
"Jimmy sounds sad," Connor said, wanting more dreams. Could he dream Jimmy dancing in the rain again? Could he dream him shouting gleefully at the beach? He couldn't remember the shape of his cock or the sheen of his skin after sex, but maybe he could watch that terrible brightness of Jimmy's spirit, shrieking, laughing, dancing at the elements and feel, maybe, that Jimmy would be all right.
"Jimmy's going to be sad," Jimmy murmured, coming out of the shadows. "I'm sorry, Con---I know I made all sorts of promises about going on and celebrating your life and being strong, but... but I'm going to be sad. But you gotta know that's okay. I wouldn't be sad if you hadn't become my wings, right?"
Jimmy had wings? Jimmy was free?
"'Kay," Connor nodded. "Mom, remember when I used to climb trees?"
"Yeah, honey. You loved them. You would go up and hide---your father and I could never find you. One night, right after your father died, you disappeared for hours---we called the police, the whole neighborhood was out there looking for you, and you know where you were?"
"In a tree," Connor managed. The words were harder to say. Jimmy was free? Their love had made Jimmy free?
"Yeah." There was something hot on the back of his hand, and Celia was holding it next to her face. "You were in a tree. You were huddling in there, shaking, and when we found you, you said you were reaching for Daddy in heaven, but he told you to stay behind."
Connor laughed, his brain looping. "Jimmy and Connor, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g..."
The bed moved, the world swam, and Jimmy was on Connor's other side. His face was a blur of light against the pending darkness, and his lips were soft on Connor's cracked, chapped lips. "Best tree I ever perched in," Jimmy said. "Maybe your mom and I can hang here for a while, and you can go reach for heaven now, okay?"
Love you, I love you, I love you, I love you... He thought it. He thought it and tried to move his lips, but instead...
The little boy's lips curved into a smile, and Connor was that little boy with the missing teeth and the apple cheeks and the crooked grin. He waved madly at the white faces, lit by the sun with the darkness at his back, and then turned toward the dark tree, the shadows of the other boys flickering in shade-on-shade as they climbed. His bare feet padded briskly in the dust, and the grass prickled his soles for a minute. He had to chicken-foot it to the rough bark of the trunk.
Trees always felt so good under his hands, so real. This one was no different. His knees scraped on the bark and his palms chafed up, became raw, and still he climbed. The others were in the top of the tree, and he wanted to catch up with them.
He got to the top, a magic branch holding him up as he stood to his waist in prickly, dusty-green leaves, and found he was alone. Those other bodies, the isolated, childish voices had faded, and it was him, reaching for the endless velvet of a sky just before the last of the light faded.
A star appeared, and another, and another, and then, just as the final gold ray was cut off at the curve of the horizon, a meteor streaked through the heavens, brilliant, burning silver, gold, and red, so close he thought he could catch it.
He extended his hand, higher, higher, here it comes, Jimmy, Jimmy, look---I'll grab that star and go flying! You want to come flying with me? But Jimmy was a pale face on the ground, in the evening shadows, only his grief making him brilliant against the black.
Jimmy would follow, he thought confidently. Jimmy loved trees as much as he did.
Connor extended his hand just a little more, his fingers taut and trembling as the star flew into it. He shrieked and gasped and clutched it tight and swung his other arm high above his head. It was so easy, the exertion was a joy, and he clenched the star in both his hands, and it burned, cold, so coldly bright, that he almost let go, but couldn't.
His feet lifted off of the magic branch, and he was lifted, lifted by that struggling star, and the cold began to burn through his limbs, through his lungs, and he laughed, because it tingled, and oh, God! He felt so alive as that star began to zoom, resuming its hectic course across the night sky.
The wind flowed around his skin, balmy and sweet. His lungs pulled in great gasps of laughter as the world disappeared in darkness behind him, and the gold glowing from the star in his hands opened up before his eyes.
"Bye, Jimmy! You can catch the next star!"
It was supposed to be a celebration of Connor's life---at least that's what Connor had insisted upon when he'd written out that fucking will.
"I want a party," Connor had insisted. "I want people so roaring drunk, they take pictures of each other to prove that they were really that shit-faced. I want the music cranked up so loud, the neighbors complain, okay?"
Most of the neighbors were in the backyard, getting roaring drunk with Connor's coworkers, and his sister, and their other friends. The laughter was too loud, the music was too loud, and everyone was doing their damnedest to do Connor proud.
Everyone except Jimmy, who was in their room, holding Connor's old pillow to his face, and trying to smell that last redwood, working-man, dusty computer-geek scent molecule, to prove to himself that no, in spite of the year of warning and Connor's disgustingly healthy, "live-life-to-the-fullest" attitude, Connor wasn't really gone.
The door opened, and Jimmy didn't need to look up to know that it was Celia. The bed depressed next to him, and an arm that was all mother looped around his shoulder. He sank into her like he'd never been able to sink into his real mother, who didn't like children, or hugging, or commitment, and she laid her head on his shoulder, tears soaking through his "R.I.P., Connor" shirt, the one Connor had made when they'd first drafted the will.
They had taken care of each other, this last week, and when she had made noises about going back to her small apartment in the next city, Jimmy had mumbled, "Please don't. Please don't leave me," and the next thing he knew, she'd canceled the lease and was staying in the guest bedroom, indefinitely.
Jimmy, flighty Jimmy, who would drop on a dime and fuck on a whim, thought he would give up sex forever, just to keep Connor's mom there, being his mom too. Maybe that would change. Maybe someday, she would get another apartment, and he would move Connor's shit out of the garage, but not now. Not now.
"The thing is," he said out of the blue, his voice unapologetically clogged, "the thing is, he was no fun at parties whatsoever, you know?"
"No, I didn't," Celia said, using his shoulder to wipe her eyes. "Tell me."
"See, we met at a party, and he was just hanging out in a corner, passing the joint, passing the beer---but never taking any of it. And I was pretty buzzed, and I thought, What is this total geek doing here? And I went over to ask him, right? And he started pointing out people---this one kept checking her hair, and she was hitting on a guy that he'd slept with a month ago, and he was wondering when she was going to figure out that the signals didn't fly. This other one had just had a breakup, and he was drinking to forget. It was all about why people were there---he liked their stories, liked watching them play out. He really liked chatting with the drunk people as the party wound down."
Jimmy's mouth twitched. Connor hadn't made it to the end of that party. Jimmy had gotten close enough to see those eyes---not remarkably colored, but kind, and crinkly at the corners, and Jimmy had hauled him to a back room for a one-off that had lasted six years.
Jimmy hadn't wanted to commit at first, because he was sure he'd break Connor's heart. He still felt a little angry that Connor had been the first one to leave.
"Mmm..." Celia murmured, and Jimmy liked the way she really thought about what he was saying. Connor hadn't sprung from thin air---Jimmy had realized that this last year. "Why do you think he wanted a party for his funeral?"
"Don't know," Jimmy lied. "Don't fucking care, either!" Sobs broke in his chest, and he was vaguely surprised. He'd held onto them for the last week---he'd been a grown up. He'd made all the arrangements, used Connor's compulsively made checklists, just generally kept it all together, but not now.
Now, Celia held him as he sobbed into her lap, muttering, "I fucking hate him, Mom---how could he fucking leave us like this!"
Celia weathered his storm. The sleeve of his shirt and the back of it were sodden by the time he was done, but she stayed solid and true, just like her son, as Jimmy said horrible, horrible things about the man they'd both loved.
She ignored them, and Jimmy remembered hearing her voice, shrill as it had never been shrill, as Connor broke the news that the cancer had spread, and the chemo wasn't working, and it was time to plan the endgame.
You're just going to fucking give up on me? ME? Don't you have any goddamned respect, son? You're not supposed to leave before I do. Oh, God...Connor...don't leave me...
As Jimmy lay, finally still and quiescent, in Celia's lap, he thought that maybe Celia had done this part already.
After some moments, heavy in the darkened room, Celia's voice came as a welcome surprise, and was not shrill at all.
"Do you remember what he said?" she asked, and it was a rhetorical question. How did you not remember your dying lover's last words?
"He said, 'Bye Jimmy. You can catch the next star.'"
Celia nodded. "C'mon, sweetheart. It's broad daylight outside---there's not a star in sight. You can go star-catching later, okay?"
Jimmy pulled in a breath and shuddered it out, and stood and offered Celia an arm. She took his arm, and leaned her wet cheek on his sleeve (the other sleeve, so now he had a matched set), and they moved toward the brightened hallway. It was the full sunshine of late October outside, without even a hint of rain. God, Jimmy wanted a rain to fall, something that would wash away the grief and the lead roots that seemed to bind his heart to the ground.
Not yet, he thought, hearing the pained chatter from the backyard. Not yet.
The party was winding down, and it was time to listen. People would speak wisely now, and be truthful, and memories of Connor would be thick and real, and his presence would be as palpable as the fluid light from the autumn sun.
Winter was coming. Stark branches, stark thought, bleak hearts, and the terrible void of Connor.
Maybe when spring returned, and the trees grew thick with leaves, Jimmy could perch in the nest he'd made with his mate, and think once again of flying.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Tuesday, the 30th of November, finds me on the outside of four ICE therapy treatments, with the results of the latest comparative CT scan in hand, and in so much physical pain I want to scream.
The good with the bad, as per usual.
Doc admitted me to the hospital on November 15th, and warned me he would be there over the weekend, but would begone the following week. I was hit with the usual sense of dread knowing I would have to contend with the weekend warriors. Doc knew it too, because the next words out of his mouth were to offer a choice of warriors to check up on me that week. I chose one over the other, knowing Dr.P had at least a minor propensity to pretend to listen to me, and that was fine, except HE was on vacation over the Thanksgiving holiday, leaving me with the worst choice of all.
Naturally, she came in, wholly inundated by her own sense of godlike powers and started delivering ultimatums.
"I want to stop the blue."
"Why?"
"Because based on your blood tests, I think you are becoming hemolytic." (A fancy word to say that my blood was being destroyed.)
"Okay... How many doses of blue have I had so far?"
"Oh, I don't know. You can get that information from your nurse."
I told her I wanted more than just her "I think." to go on, and got back some noise about how she didn't have to prescribe it ("Sit down and shut up," in other words.) and no, she couldn't let me go home. (I didn't even have a chance to ask.) Not with the condition I was in.
Fair enough, and even justifiable, but she would have saved us both a LOT of grief if she had simply treated me like a thinking individual and told me there had already been FORTY-SEVEN doses of blue (as compared to the twenty-six we stopped at during the third treatment.) That would have been enough "concrete data" to convince me right there, but no, we don't talk to patients like they have a brain. Not when we firmly believe that 'doctor is god'.
The conversation ended with me telling her it was all but impossible to keep control of my mouth and thoughts and to get out before I lost it altogether and really started yelling.
Turns out she was right enough, or at least as much as I could tell from the specious data I could glean from her. Her solution however was to pump me full of the antibiotics that Doc took me off of once he could not find a reason for the transient fever spike. Spikes I have had off and on and she would have KNOWN, if she had bothered to read my back chart or even listen to me when I told her so.
The end result of that was retaining so much fluid in my legs that they began to split and weep, but by that time she was out of the picture and I was back to working with my first choice, who after a few arguments did finally decide to cut back on the IV delivered medications. (There is still significant swelling even now as I sit here at home typing this, and as I mentioned, the pain is excruciating.)
He also ordered the CT scan that Doc talked about before he left. The one that would be a comparison to the baseline scan prior to starting the ICE therapy. Pretty standard procedure, and that was completed on the Sunday afternoon prior to Doc's return on Monday.
Too bad I made the mistake of asking a certain nurse for a print-out of the result. She chose to fall back on the safety of policy and not give it to me, despite my having demonstrated repeatedly that I was well able to handle any unknowns it might present. The end result of that is she significantly precluded the time I would have had discussing the results with Doc when he made his rounds, and all in favor of giving me grief because she doesn't care for me all that much.
Too bad, Jessica. Your petty bullshit still cannot negate the essential news of that scan, which Doc "interpeted" in formal language for me so I could include it here:
"All the lymph nodes have returned to normal size (less than 1.5cm). The liver and spleen are back to normal. Basically, no evidence of lymphoma seen anymore. Of course we still know that there are viable lymphoma cells SOMEWHERE in there, but using this CT alone you could not identify where. This would be called a complete remission (CR) and is truly the best results one can obtain."
In the grand scheme of things, when all is said and done, I am only one insignificant blot in an otherwise huge, encompassing design, and anything I might say or have to say in the future is all just noise, but with this last scan and the result it proffers, however long that result will last, all that noise is still music to my ears.
My deepest, heartfelt thanks to all of you who have stood by, held me up, let me fall softly and picked me up again throughout all of this bizarre roller coaster ride. Without you, I am certain I would have lost the few marbles I still possess and become as arbitrary and recalcitrant as anyone else might have in my position. Without you, I would have ceased to be me.
With the sounds of a new future playing music in my ears, I bid you all a fond farewell, hope we might still keep in touch as that future unfolds, and look forward to a time when I can someday meet you all face to face and give you the hugs and love you so richly deserve.
Until then, take care, and beware the weekend warriors!!
Patric
Elizabeth North
In the early summer of 2010, I was sitting on my front porch swing, swapping tales with Patric about the antics my sons get up to with virtually unlimited acreage, a golf cart, power tools, and sometimes more imagination than sense. Patric was filling in with his own adventures from childhood, including homemade fireworks and police stations, and I can say with complete certainty that it is a good thing that Patric and my sons live on opposite sides of the continent. The world would not be safe if you combined Patric's ideas and sense of humor with my sons' youth, determination, and lack of fear. Having said that, it is my fondest wish that someday soon my sons will have a chance to meet Patric because Patric Michael is one of those rare individuals who touches your life, no matter how briefly, and you walk away a better person for the experience.
During that conversation, Patric said to me that people were starting to ask him how he wanted to be remembered after he was gone. He wasn't sure how to answer them. He had definite ideas about what he didn't want, but only the seed of an idea for what he did want. That seed grew into this book.
At that time, several authors had already written stories for and about Patric, and he felt that all of them combined were a good representation of the many facets that make Patric unique. He felt that if you combined the stories with his experiences as set forth in his blog, it would create a book that was both an accurate reflection of who he was and a record of the highs and lows of fighting cancer. His wish was that others fighting cancer and their families might find help, comfort and understanding through his shared experiences. He wanted to offer what we all long for---a chance to connect with someone else with similar views, feelings and experiences and to be really understood. He hoped with words to achieve that moment of "here is someone like me, someone who has felt the way I do."
As we were putting the final touches on this volume, I was talking with Patric. I asked him how he felt reading the draft now that it was in actual book form. His first comment was, "I wish I'd done a better job editing my blog entries before I posted them." The customary tension relieving joke was followed by, "I'm too close to it." Those words tell me that we succeeded. Not in being able to capture everything that makes Patric special---that would be impossible---but in coming as close to Patric as we possibly can and sharing that irrepressible man with you.
January 2011

