Part 4 - Financial Costs... and other Things
I have amassed a short stack of medical statements in the last three months. They total $21, 290 to date. More are coming. This is twenty-one thousand dollars just to find out what’s wrong with me. I started treatment, the “cure”, on August 13th, but haven’t, as yet, received any of those statements. I expect the total cost to dramatically climb.
I’m one of the lucky ones in that I have grown old enough to have Medicare and the State of Alaska offers supplemental insurance, so my out-of-pocket costs each year is limited to $800. I have enough reserves that I could have paid the bills to date, but doubt that my resources run deep enough to cover that which is coming. Many in the country do not have that peace of mind. I don’t know exactly how many are without insurance, but they count in the millions, and showing up at Emergency will not get them the serous treatment they need for catastrophic illnesses. Most bankruptcies and financial ruin are a result of the enormous bills that pile up when an “unexpected” illness befalls a family that lacks adequate coverage. The financial burden and emotional anguish must be overwhelming.
And then there is the “cure”: Chemo, Radiation, and Surgery - two poisons and a dagger. Granted, the radiation machinery is impressively sophisticated, and the chemicals are refined and targeted. But the best modern medicine can presently deliver is, in a way, indistinguishable from the tools of a medieval alchemist. I have to get sick before I can get well. The radiation is to shrink the tumor - the chemo to kill any wandering cancer cells. I may be free of the cancer after that.
I feel fine now but it’s an irony that when the first two stages of therapy conclude in another month I may be weak, nauseas, bald (more so), somewhat emaciated, and need to recover before I can go under the knife. The surgeons will remove a good portion of my stomach and esophagus in hope of preventing the cancer from returning, but there are no guarantees.
I have a blood draw on Tuesday and am injected with two Chemo drugs on Wednesdays. I sit in a comfortable leather recliner for Chemo, in a room with eight other patients, all reclining in theirs – some reading or on their computers, some sleeping, and a few eating snacks.
The nurse puts a warm bean bag on my arm and then hunts for a large vein in which to insert the needle. The larger the vein the larger the needle can be, and the faster I get the dosage. I’m going to be there two and a half to three hours. A saline solution is first to flow, then a pain killer, and then the first drug, Paclitaxel (trade name: Taxol). Paclitaxel functions by causing abnormal microtubule formation in cells. That inhibits cellular replication and causes cell death.
When that bag empties it is replaced with one of Carboplatin. (trade name: Paraplatin). This one produces its anti-cancer effects by binding with DNA, damaging it, and killing the cell. I am told they kill healthy cells along with the cancerous, but fewer cancer cells survive each week. I completed the fourth of five treatments this week – one to go. So far, I cannot claim any ill effects from Chemo. I continue to have plenty of energy – cut the grass, cleaned the rain gutters (on an extension ladder), and varnished the front door recently. Mary has had to take over the dog and cat poop as the doctors say I need to avoid such things.
I go to radiation every weekday at 3:30pm, and am scheduled for 28 treatments. It’s in the same hospital complex as oncology so I have just a short walk. The spacious radiation facility congers images of a medical temple with a sacrificial alter centered in the middle of the room. It is the Siemens Oncor Impression Plus Linear accelerator, an external cone beam radiation device coupled with a CT scanner. I remove my clothes from the waist up and lay down bare chested, and am offered a warm towel which I always decline. They tattooed several reference points on my abdomen and sides (not really noticeable) which are used to ensure I’m properly aligned when I lay down on the alter, my head resting in a cup. X-rays are taken at the beginning of each week to ensure nothing has moved around. The machine then rotates around me, stopping to beam radation at my tumor from seven different angles. The procedure takes only about 15 minutes. I’ve had sixteen treatments so far – twelve to go. So far, so good - no ill effects that I can claim.
GO TO: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Cancer on My Mind – August 14, 2012
Part 3 - The Doctors
Dr. Timothy Miller, a native of Oregon, has been my primary physician for the last two years. I have a lot for which to thank him. When I went in about my swallowing problem he jumped on it, ordered a Barium Swallow test that revealed a jagged growth at the junction of my esophagus/stomach.
Dr. Miller is up here doing his internship at Providence Family Medicine. I was one of his first patients, and we got along from the beginning, but he will be my primary for only another year. He is the fourth intern I’ve had in 5 years, and will, like the rest, move on after he finishes his residency. I’ll then have to break in another, so I may change to a new Medicare unit that just opened – would like to see the same doctor from now on.
That test launched us on a quest in which it now seems that I’ve seen as many doctors as in all my previous life. Dr. Charles Shannon performed an upper endoscopy a week later, didn’t like what he saw, and ordered a CT scan for the next day. Once the biopsy came in he told me to find an Oncologist. Normally I would have looked up the word, but under the circumstances the meaning was obvious – cancer doctor. Mary and I have been on the Internet these past two months. She has concentrated on getting names and looking up info on doctors. I focused more on my cancer, how it would likely be treated, and by what type of doctor.
One of the first things I discovered was that three doctors would work as a team while treating my cancer. One specializes in Chemo therapy, one in Radiation Therapy and the last is a surgeon. I assumed all three would be working out of one office, so all I had to do was decide which team I liked and just settle in for treatment. It doesn’t necessarily work that way. We found several “Oncology” clinics, one at each major hospital, but all the doctors in those offices were Chemo specialists. Radiation therapists had their own clinics, with several radiation specialists working at each. Surgeons worked independently. Once we made our separate selections the three doctors would then coordinate their work.
We chose the oncologist (Chemo) first. Dr. Verneeda Spencer is a likable, down-to-earth, physician, without pretention. She is a African American/Choctaw native of Alabama who left that state for medical school in New Jersey some years ago. I got the impression she never looked back other than to visit family. Doctor Richard Chung became our Radiation specialist. He is a native of Taiwan and San Francisco who came to Alaska soon after completing his residency in 1994.
We settled on Dr. Richard Peters as my surgeon once his assisting physician, Dr. Peter Marbarger, a specialist in vascular surgery, said he would want Peters to operate if he were in my shoes. Dr. Peters was a career military doctor, certified in trauma surgery, and the most experienced in the state for the type of surgery I require. The two physicians are a “Mutt and Jeff” combo, Peters being the short one. He is military tidy, sports a neatly trimmed mustache, dresses sharply, and jokes with a biting sense of humor. Marbarger is tall, scruffy, sports a shaggy beard, wears casual clothes that seem ready to fall off his body, but evinces a comfortable, nonchalant presence.
The last member of my “team” is a Naturopathic doctor. I decided I would cover all bases. Doctor Markian Babij, a certified naturopathic oncologist is a native of Canada, has worked at several cancer treatment centers, and provided tips and a list of supplements to help alleviate the undesirable effects of Chemo and Radiation. I now swallow a fairly large number of pills throughout each day.
I started radiation yesterday and have my first chemo injection tomorrow. I am as ready as I’ll ever be for what comes.
I have a twenty percent chance of being alive five years from now. That’s the survival rate for those with stage three esophageal cancers. That’s a statistic, a number average drawn from a pool of thousands of similarly diagnosed cancer patients. That number has little significance to me or any other single individual in the sample - we are all different. Most people are diagnosed when they are in their seventies and I‘m seventy-two. Many stomach/esophageal cancer sufferers have no symptoms until they are in an advanced stage. I’ve had a bit of luck with early detection. Some people are already sick when they are diagnosed, either with the cancer or other ailments, but I’m basically in good health. Some have lost a lot of weight by the time the cancer is discovered. I weigh in at about 195 pounds. That’s been my minimum weight for several years. I had wanted to lose ten pounds (without success), but the doctor now gives me orders to eat healthily and whole- heartily (which I happily comply), and even to supplement it with Ensure or other high protein drinks. Some patients respond better to chemo and radiation treatment than others. I don’t yet know how that will go.
There are other factors. My wife, Mary, offers a legion of support and that’s boosted by the concern shown by friends, neighbors, and family. Lastly, I think a huge factor is a person’s outlook on life. I’m a “What! Me Worry?” sort of guy. I refuse to fret over the infinite possible realities that can spring from a situation. I’d rather just deal with things when they arise. I try to control my mouth and bowels, and have lived long enough to know little else in this world can be managed with certainty. So, my bottle is half-full, and the sun follows rainy days. There was that initial shock upon hearing the word “Malignant tumor”, but now I’ve gravitated back toward my usual attitude of taking life as it comes. It surprises me though of what one can get used to.
GO TO: Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
Dr. Timothy Miller, a native of Oregon, has been my primary physician for the last two years. I have a lot for which to thank him. When I went in about my swallowing problem he jumped on it, ordered a Barium Swallow test that revealed a jagged growth at the junction of my esophagus/stomach.
Dr. Miller is up here doing his internship at Providence Family Medicine. I was one of his first patients, and we got along from the beginning, but he will be my primary for only another year. He is the fourth intern I’ve had in 5 years, and will, like the rest, move on after he finishes his residency. I’ll then have to break in another, so I may change to a new Medicare unit that just opened – would like to see the same doctor from now on.
That test launched us on a quest in which it now seems that I’ve seen as many doctors as in all my previous life. Dr. Charles Shannon performed an upper endoscopy a week later, didn’t like what he saw, and ordered a CT scan for the next day. Once the biopsy came in he told me to find an Oncologist. Normally I would have looked up the word, but under the circumstances the meaning was obvious – cancer doctor. Mary and I have been on the Internet these past two months. She has concentrated on getting names and looking up info on doctors. I focused more on my cancer, how it would likely be treated, and by what type of doctor.
One of the first things I discovered was that three doctors would work as a team while treating my cancer. One specializes in Chemo therapy, one in Radiation Therapy and the last is a surgeon. I assumed all three would be working out of one office, so all I had to do was decide which team I liked and just settle in for treatment. It doesn’t necessarily work that way. We found several “Oncology” clinics, one at each major hospital, but all the doctors in those offices were Chemo specialists. Radiation therapists had their own clinics, with several radiation specialists working at each. Surgeons worked independently. Once we made our separate selections the three doctors would then coordinate their work.
We chose the oncologist (Chemo) first. Dr. Verneeda Spencer is a likable, down-to-earth, physician, without pretention. She is a African American/Choctaw native of Alabama who left that state for medical school in New Jersey some years ago. I got the impression she never looked back other than to visit family. Doctor Richard Chung became our Radiation specialist. He is a native of Taiwan and San Francisco who came to Alaska soon after completing his residency in 1994.
We settled on Dr. Richard Peters as my surgeon once his assisting physician, Dr. Peter Marbarger, a specialist in vascular surgery, said he would want Peters to operate if he were in my shoes. Dr. Peters was a career military doctor, certified in trauma surgery, and the most experienced in the state for the type of surgery I require. The two physicians are a “Mutt and Jeff” combo, Peters being the short one. He is military tidy, sports a neatly trimmed mustache, dresses sharply, and jokes with a biting sense of humor. Marbarger is tall, scruffy, sports a shaggy beard, wears casual clothes that seem ready to fall off his body, but evinces a comfortable, nonchalant presence.
The last member of my “team” is a Naturopathic doctor. I decided I would cover all bases. Doctor Markian Babij, a certified naturopathic oncologist is a native of Canada, has worked at several cancer treatment centers, and provided tips and a list of supplements to help alleviate the undesirable effects of Chemo and Radiation. I now swallow a fairly large number of pills throughout each day.
I started radiation yesterday and have my first chemo injection tomorrow. I am as ready as I’ll ever be for what comes.
I have a twenty percent chance of being alive five years from now. That’s the survival rate for those with stage three esophageal cancers. That’s a statistic, a number average drawn from a pool of thousands of similarly diagnosed cancer patients. That number has little significance to me or any other single individual in the sample - we are all different. Most people are diagnosed when they are in their seventies and I‘m seventy-two. Many stomach/esophageal cancer sufferers have no symptoms until they are in an advanced stage. I’ve had a bit of luck with early detection. Some people are already sick when they are diagnosed, either with the cancer or other ailments, but I’m basically in good health. Some have lost a lot of weight by the time the cancer is discovered. I weigh in at about 195 pounds. That’s been my minimum weight for several years. I had wanted to lose ten pounds (without success), but the doctor now gives me orders to eat healthily and whole- heartily (which I happily comply), and even to supplement it with Ensure or other high protein drinks. Some patients respond better to chemo and radiation treatment than others. I don’t yet know how that will go.
There are other factors. My wife, Mary, offers a legion of support and that’s boosted by the concern shown by friends, neighbors, and family. Lastly, I think a huge factor is a person’s outlook on life. I’m a “What! Me Worry?” sort of guy. I refuse to fret over the infinite possible realities that can spring from a situation. I’d rather just deal with things when they arise. I try to control my mouth and bowels, and have lived long enough to know little else in this world can be managed with certainty. So, my bottle is half-full, and the sun follows rainy days. There was that initial shock upon hearing the word “Malignant tumor”, but now I’ve gravitated back toward my usual attitude of taking life as it comes. It surprises me though of what one can get used to.
GO TO: Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Cancer on My Mind – July 15, 2012
Part 2 - Test Results and Other Discoveries
It has been nearly six weeks since my cancer diagnosis. The hard part of dealing with it has been the realization that I did not know what I was dealing with. Dr. Shannon told me that I had an ulcerated growth when I came out of the endoscopy on May 30th. He said it didn’t look good, but we’d know more when the biopsy came in. For a whole day I comforted myself with the hope that it was nothing more than an old fashion ulcer. That delusion lasted only till evening. Then the bad news came. The “growth” at the top of my stomach was a malignant tumor. That’s about all I knew. Many questions began to trample through my mind. How big was it? How long had it been growing there? What stage had it reached? Had the cancer metastasized? How long before I would I feel pain? How long was I going to live? Questions without answers create vacuums - empty spaces for the imagination to fill.
I am nearly without symptoms. I have a little trouble swallowing – have to consciously chew my food and chase it with water. I sleep a bit longer than I use to, but can’t say that’s due to the cancer. I have plenty of energy for chores and projects. I feel no pain. I’m super-tuned to the least stomach grumble, but can’t claim any definitive activity in that area. In short, I feel fine. I wouldn’t know I had cancer.
I visited the surgeon the other day. Dr. Peters estimated it has been growing down there for around five years - about the time I had my last colonoscopy - seems I was looking at the wrong end.
A PET scan on June 29th revealed the cancer might have spread to nearby lymph nodes, but not much further. My radiologist and oncologist took my case to the “Tumor Board” on July 5th. The board, made up of about twenty local specialists, came to the consensus that I had a stage three esophageal cancer. Its recommended a five week treatment of radiation and chemo therapy. The two work in a synergic manner to shrink the tumor and kill cancer cells throughout the body. Surgery will follow with the removal of a part of my stomach and a portion of the esophagus.
So, why me? Why stomach cancer? I’m not overweight. I exercise regularly, follow a good diet, limit alcohol to only two or three glasses of wine in the evening, and my blood tests range in the normal. I’m supposed to be healthy. Stomach cancer is rare in the United States, but quite prevalent in Japan. Doctors routinely screen for colon cancer here, in Japan its stomach cancer. I’ve been delving into my genealogy for twenty years and am assured that no Japanese were hiding in any of my ancestor’s woodpiles, but my Cousin Sarah in California reminds me that our grandfather, John Harrison Buckingham, died of stomach cancer. He passed in 1939 at 58 years - just six months before I was born.
My reaction upon learning of the stomach cancer could be likened to that of a prisoner being sentenced to death. The condemned has the advantage of knowing his impending date. I suspect my mortality has also been scheduled, sometime earlier than I have always expected, with the exact moment shrouded in the future. From my perspective this seems unfair because it doesn’t reflect my own made-up lifeline. Others may not have chosen the age at which they expect to expire, but mine has been set somewhere around 85 years. That is probably because my mother and maternal grandmother died at that age, just short of 86. The two were the longest survivors of my birth family (Grandma lived with us from a time before my birth). Uncle Charlie (Mom’s brother) lived into his 90’s. He has the record for several generations - including my own. I’ve had this number stuck in mind for some years, so I’ve always been focused on how many I have remaining (for example, 85 minus my present 72 equals thirteen years - at a minimum). So there was yet plenty of time to accomplish the things on my “bucket list”. It’s a bit of a shock to disover that I’ve been using a faulty system all these years.
Go to: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
It has been nearly six weeks since my cancer diagnosis. The hard part of dealing with it has been the realization that I did not know what I was dealing with. Dr. Shannon told me that I had an ulcerated growth when I came out of the endoscopy on May 30th. He said it didn’t look good, but we’d know more when the biopsy came in. For a whole day I comforted myself with the hope that it was nothing more than an old fashion ulcer. That delusion lasted only till evening. Then the bad news came. The “growth” at the top of my stomach was a malignant tumor. That’s about all I knew. Many questions began to trample through my mind. How big was it? How long had it been growing there? What stage had it reached? Had the cancer metastasized? How long before I would I feel pain? How long was I going to live? Questions without answers create vacuums - empty spaces for the imagination to fill.
I am nearly without symptoms. I have a little trouble swallowing – have to consciously chew my food and chase it with water. I sleep a bit longer than I use to, but can’t say that’s due to the cancer. I have plenty of energy for chores and projects. I feel no pain. I’m super-tuned to the least stomach grumble, but can’t claim any definitive activity in that area. In short, I feel fine. I wouldn’t know I had cancer.
I visited the surgeon the other day. Dr. Peters estimated it has been growing down there for around five years - about the time I had my last colonoscopy - seems I was looking at the wrong end.
A PET scan on June 29th revealed the cancer might have spread to nearby lymph nodes, but not much further. My radiologist and oncologist took my case to the “Tumor Board” on July 5th. The board, made up of about twenty local specialists, came to the consensus that I had a stage three esophageal cancer. Its recommended a five week treatment of radiation and chemo therapy. The two work in a synergic manner to shrink the tumor and kill cancer cells throughout the body. Surgery will follow with the removal of a part of my stomach and a portion of the esophagus.
So, why me? Why stomach cancer? I’m not overweight. I exercise regularly, follow a good diet, limit alcohol to only two or three glasses of wine in the evening, and my blood tests range in the normal. I’m supposed to be healthy. Stomach cancer is rare in the United States, but quite prevalent in Japan. Doctors routinely screen for colon cancer here, in Japan its stomach cancer. I’ve been delving into my genealogy for twenty years and am assured that no Japanese were hiding in any of my ancestor’s woodpiles, but my Cousin Sarah in California reminds me that our grandfather, John Harrison Buckingham, died of stomach cancer. He passed in 1939 at 58 years - just six months before I was born.
My reaction upon learning of the stomach cancer could be likened to that of a prisoner being sentenced to death. The condemned has the advantage of knowing his impending date. I suspect my mortality has also been scheduled, sometime earlier than I have always expected, with the exact moment shrouded in the future. From my perspective this seems unfair because it doesn’t reflect my own made-up lifeline. Others may not have chosen the age at which they expect to expire, but mine has been set somewhere around 85 years. That is probably because my mother and maternal grandmother died at that age, just short of 86. The two were the longest survivors of my birth family (Grandma lived with us from a time before my birth). Uncle Charlie (Mom’s brother) lived into his 90’s. He has the record for several generations - including my own. I’ve had this number stuck in mind for some years, so I’ve always been focused on how many I have remaining (for example, 85 minus my present 72 equals thirteen years - at a minimum). So there was yet plenty of time to accomplish the things on my “bucket list”. It’s a bit of a shock to disover that I’ve been using a faulty system all these years.
Go to: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Damn Cancer - June 1, 2012
Part 1 - The discovery
It was Friday, June 1st when Dr. Shannon finally reached me at nine in the evening to tell me that I had stomach cancer. He had been trying since early afternoon. He said the preliminary report had come in, and that was enough to make the call necessary.
On Tuesday, May 8, Mary and I were having lunch at the Lucky Wishbone. My favorite dish is the three-piece-all-white fried chicken (two large wishbones and a breast). Mary usually eats one of the wishbones but declined so I consumed all three. I thought I chewed adequately and didn’t notice any back up, but a big drink of water went down real hard though, and it hurt. Then I started gurgling and turned very pale - scaring the holy heck out of Mary. Water was sitting on top of my chicken and nothing seemed to be going up or down. I spit some into a napkin - clear water and white chicken fragments. Mary wanted to know whether she should call 911. I said “no” and left her to pay the bill while I retreated to the parking lot to spit up more water and chicken. She stopped twice on our way to meet a friend (to walk our dogs), and I spit up more chicken and water. I was alright by the time we got to the dog play area.
I got an appointment with my Primary Doctor, Timothy Miller at Providence Family Medicine Center, and he ordered a Barium Swallow. That revealed an irregular growth at the junction of my esophagus and stomach. That lead to a Upper Endoscopy on May 31 by Dr. Shannon who then ordered a CAT SCAN the following day, and then the call came.
My primary physician looked over the report and concluded I have a Stage One or Stage Two adenocarcinoma. That is an early stage of a type of cancer that starts in the inner lining of the stomach. He said the oncologist could pin-point the staging more exactly. I have an intake appointment with the Oncologist at Alaska Oncology & Hematology the June 25 and the first working appointment three days afterward. I’ll know more then. Meanwhile, Mary and I are going camping for a few days and hope for some sunny weather.
GO TO: Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
It was Friday, June 1st when Dr. Shannon finally reached me at nine in the evening to tell me that I had stomach cancer. He had been trying since early afternoon. He said the preliminary report had come in, and that was enough to make the call necessary.
The first indication of
trouble occurred on about March 22, a little over two months before. Mary and I
were in San Diego eating dinner at the hotel. I noticed food went down with
some difficulty, seemed to stick, water helped. I thought maybe I had neglected
to chew. Thereafter the same thing happened at times and I made a point of
chewing more thoroughly. In April I started to have a “heavy” feeling in my
stomach at times. This was mostly a
distraction, not uncomfortable, but definitely different that any sensation I’d
felt before. It was irregular in timing. I cannot say that it occurred right
after eating or followed any set activity - maybe toward evenings. We heard that the stomach flew was going
around, and Mary seemed to have symptoms similar during this period, but lacked
the swallowing problem. The “heavy” stomach sensations decreased by May. I
still felt it once in a while but it was pretty light – haven’t felt it at all
now for several weeks.
On Tuesday, May 8, Mary and I were having lunch at the Lucky Wishbone. My favorite dish is the three-piece-all-white fried chicken (two large wishbones and a breast). Mary usually eats one of the wishbones but declined so I consumed all three. I thought I chewed adequately and didn’t notice any back up, but a big drink of water went down real hard though, and it hurt. Then I started gurgling and turned very pale - scaring the holy heck out of Mary. Water was sitting on top of my chicken and nothing seemed to be going up or down. I spit some into a napkin - clear water and white chicken fragments. Mary wanted to know whether she should call 911. I said “no” and left her to pay the bill while I retreated to the parking lot to spit up more water and chicken. She stopped twice on our way to meet a friend (to walk our dogs), and I spit up more chicken and water. I was alright by the time we got to the dog play area.
I got an appointment with my Primary Doctor, Timothy Miller at Providence Family Medicine Center, and he ordered a Barium Swallow. That revealed an irregular growth at the junction of my esophagus and stomach. That lead to a Upper Endoscopy on May 31 by Dr. Shannon who then ordered a CAT SCAN the following day, and then the call came.
My primary physician looked over the report and concluded I have a Stage One or Stage Two adenocarcinoma. That is an early stage of a type of cancer that starts in the inner lining of the stomach. He said the oncologist could pin-point the staging more exactly. I have an intake appointment with the Oncologist at Alaska Oncology & Hematology the June 25 and the first working appointment three days afterward. I’ll know more then. Meanwhile, Mary and I are going camping for a few days and hope for some sunny weather.
GO TO: Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
My High School Graduation - June 6, 1958
I was ambivalent about getting out of high school. I liked the social part of it: attending ball games, the after-game dances (at which I never danced); and the teen canteen that opened for a couple hours after school and on weekends. I belonged to the Hi-Y, ran cross-country and high jumped during track season. The municipal swimming pool attracted me during summers. I swam nearly every night those last two years. Brian Cossell, the number-one high jumper on the track team (I was a distant second), and I were into diving, and chanced a number of fancy flips off the three meter board.
The canteen was my favorite during school session. The place occupied the second floor of a building on the corner of Buckeye and Walnut of the town square. The canteen opened its doors for a couple hours after school. I started going there in my junior year after Don left for college. It lay only two blocks from the Moose Lodge, where Mom and Dad worked, and closed about the time they headed home. The canteen, one big room on the second floor, had a free jukebox, a dance floor (on which I never danced); card tables, ping pong, and a couple of snooker tables. I was pretty good with a pool cue, and so was often sought after as a snooker partner.
I was indifferent about academics though. I took four years of math and science, and even had a semester of Latin before deciding, rightfully, that it was a waste of time. I enrolled because a high school counselor told me Latin was required to get into college. That might have been the case a century earlier, but colleges had moved on, but apparently failed to inform my counselor. The misinformation was an example of the crap we were often fed in the 1950’s. I have no memory of ever taking a book home to study, but still managed a grade point average placing me in the upper half of the class (barely). I didn’t get interested in learning until I’d been in college for a couple years. If the university had been anything like high school, I’d have probably dropped out, but something seemed to have sparked my interest about then.
I remember few specifics about my high school graduation in 1958. We held it in the gymnasium, a facility that filled eight thousand seats during basketball games. I don’t remember if it were at capacity that particular night, but four hundred and fifty of us graduating seniors sat on folding chairs on the main floor while proud parents, family and friends perched above to watch a tradition that probably hadn’t changed for generations. Six family members attended for me: Mom, Dad, brother Don, Grandma Frank, and my Uncle and Aunt, Joe and Gail Frank, who had come up from Connersville for the happy occasion.
Each row of graduates stood on cue and filed to the right forming a long line that snaked its way onto the makeshift stage. A dignitary clasped each graduate’s right hand as he thrust a diploma into the left, while uttering a perfunctory “congratulations“. The procession continued across the stage, off the far side, and back to the assigned beginning. I managed to hook a size twelve shoe on the leg of one of the folding chairs as I entered our row and was mortified to see the chair wobble along in front of me for a couple of noisy steps. The main speaker droned on for period, but none of his imparted wisdom lodged as it passed between my ears. And then it was over. We went home.
There were probably graduation parties, but I had not heard of any and received no invites. I wasn’t exactly a loner, but I was extremely shy. I went to most of the events but tended to hang in the background - the proverbial wallflower. I remember years later, at our twentieth high school reunion, several told me they thought I was probably the most changed of the class - they remembered my shyness, of how I could turn crimson so easily.
But I had my own party that night. I recall being so pumped that I went out for a walk after midnight. It was one of those magic evenings in June with clear starry skies and shirt sleeve weather. I felt invigorated with the thought that I‘d crossed a major threshold of life. I walked over much of the town, fearlessly through Crown Point Cemetery, around the town square, south along Washington Street, by closed stores, by factories, and by dark houses. I walked alone through the world till the light of a new day began to glimmer.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Road Kill on a Dark Country Road
I really liked driving country roads on pitch dark nights. The universe seemed to shrink to a singularity as the headlights exposed a road that unfolded in quick time with a blur of shadows on the periphery. The blinking center line and the engine hum combined to cast a hypnotic-like spell. One such night was in the fall of the mid nineteen sixties. I was heading home to Kokomo from Smithville, a small town where I taught in southern Indiana. I skirted Indianapolis by taking county roads west of the city. It was after midnight and most other cars had bedded down. I was deep within myself when a sudden intrusion broke the trance. A fox stood frozen in the middle of the road, and then a light thud sounded as the car went over it. I’d never hit a fox before, and I had no wish to view a dead one, but I slowed to a stop, turned around and went back.
I don’t know why I stopped. I had never bothered to before. I knew positive outcomes are greatly diminished when hard projectiles collide with soft flush. Trying to miss them seldom succeeded as they were too soon in harms-way. Besides, I’d seen road-kill enough to know what it looked like. I had converged with birds, ran over rabbits and squashed squirrels. This one would register as just another sad ending. One of many.
I hit a skunk once. Its redolence chased after my car for miles. Its ghost lingered for days. Another time, when driving through desert country at night, I kept seeing these giant jack rabbits. They sat by the side of the road, on their haunches, tall and slim, like fence posts. I thought they were hallucinations. It was my second night without sleep and I’d already witnessed several impossible events, so I knew they weren‘t really there. I enjoyed the spectacle though, and started counting the specters until number fifteen ran under my car producing a racket that rattled me from my revelry.
One collision bothers me to this day, a dog I hit in southern Indiana. We were driving through gently rolling hills. I crested one to see a young pup, nearly grown, just off my side of the road. It was on the shoulder, preoccupied with something, probably an earlier road kill. Its home, the only dwelling in sight, lay directly across the road. The dog, a Sheppard breed with light brown hair had its back to me. I eased into the oncoming lane. I thought the car would pass by before the dog knew we were there, but tapped the horn at fifty feet out as a warning. That startled the young dog, and it bolted for home. I honked with more insistence but it kept converging with me. I swerved to the very edge of the road but the dog ran blindly into my front wheel. I saw its spinning body reflected in the mirror as it skidded back across the road and came to a stop where it had started. There was no use going back. The same thought haunts me whenever I recall the incident, “It would have lived if I‘d not honked”, but I couldn’t go back and undo it.
The headlight shown on the fox’s twitching body. Its position in the middle of the road made me wonder if I had swerved to miss it, but I didn‘t remember. Surprise! The fox was alive. Its head rose, bobbed, and then lowered. I don’t think it was aware that I stood over it. A closer inspection revealed it to be a mature young Red Fox with the classic bushy tail. I had barely grazed its head. A small part of it scalp was torn loose, but there was no other apparent damage.
What to do? I had stopped, found it still alive, and now had a moral dilemma lying at my feet. If it could get some rest in a safe place it might recover. But it was not likely to get it laying in the middle of the road. I took my handkerchief, placed it over the wound, and carried the fox to the car, lying him on the floor board of the passenger side. I sat behind the wheel for a while looking at him. He quieted. I didn’t know whether he was sleeping or dying. I started the car and headed toward home.
I drove on for half hour when the handkerchief suddenly came rising off the floor, a specter floating upward through the dark. Was it coming after me? I turned on the dome light and saw immediately that the fox’s eyes were shut. It was comatose and wreathing in pain. It laid down again, and I turned on the dome light now and then just to check, but it didn’t move the rest of the drive. When I got home my parents helped me prepare a box with a towel in the bottom. We placed it by my bed and Mom asked what I was going to do. I told her that if it was having trouble in the morning I would put it out of its misery.
Morning came and the fox slept peacefully with its nose tucked under its bushy tail, so I loaded the box in the car and took it to a veterinary. I called a couple hours later and the office told me the vet had not touched the fox as he did not know its background. I explained the circumstances, that it was not rabid, and most likely a very healthy animal before I hit it. They called back in late afternoon saying I could pick up the fox. I don’t remember the fee so it was probably reasonable.
I have no memory of seeing or dealing with the fox thereafter. I likely headed back to my teaching job a day or two later, leaving my parents holding the bag… with the fox in it. It recovered rather quickly, but I don’t know how long they kept it as they had no cage. I suspect its stay in Kokomo was rather short.
Dad owned a lot on Palestine Lake at which he liked to visit and putter around. He’d go up to cut weeds, clear underbrush, and toy with the idea of building a small cabin, which he eventually completed. The lake was on state road 25, only sixty miles north of Kokomo so he could get there in an hour. He met an old guy who lived on the lake that was interested in having the fox. Dad said the man was a natural, had the fox eating out of his hand in moments, so he left it with him. Then someone poisoned it not long thereafter.
I don’t know why I stopped. I had never bothered to before. I knew positive outcomes are greatly diminished when hard projectiles collide with soft flush. Trying to miss them seldom succeeded as they were too soon in harms-way. Besides, I’d seen road-kill enough to know what it looked like. I had converged with birds, ran over rabbits and squashed squirrels. This one would register as just another sad ending. One of many.
I hit a skunk once. Its redolence chased after my car for miles. Its ghost lingered for days. Another time, when driving through desert country at night, I kept seeing these giant jack rabbits. They sat by the side of the road, on their haunches, tall and slim, like fence posts. I thought they were hallucinations. It was my second night without sleep and I’d already witnessed several impossible events, so I knew they weren‘t really there. I enjoyed the spectacle though, and started counting the specters until number fifteen ran under my car producing a racket that rattled me from my revelry.
One collision bothers me to this day, a dog I hit in southern Indiana. We were driving through gently rolling hills. I crested one to see a young pup, nearly grown, just off my side of the road. It was on the shoulder, preoccupied with something, probably an earlier road kill. Its home, the only dwelling in sight, lay directly across the road. The dog, a Sheppard breed with light brown hair had its back to me. I eased into the oncoming lane. I thought the car would pass by before the dog knew we were there, but tapped the horn at fifty feet out as a warning. That startled the young dog, and it bolted for home. I honked with more insistence but it kept converging with me. I swerved to the very edge of the road but the dog ran blindly into my front wheel. I saw its spinning body reflected in the mirror as it skidded back across the road and came to a stop where it had started. There was no use going back. The same thought haunts me whenever I recall the incident, “It would have lived if I‘d not honked”, but I couldn’t go back and undo it.
The headlight shown on the fox’s twitching body. Its position in the middle of the road made me wonder if I had swerved to miss it, but I didn‘t remember. Surprise! The fox was alive. Its head rose, bobbed, and then lowered. I don’t think it was aware that I stood over it. A closer inspection revealed it to be a mature young Red Fox with the classic bushy tail. I had barely grazed its head. A small part of it scalp was torn loose, but there was no other apparent damage.
What to do? I had stopped, found it still alive, and now had a moral dilemma lying at my feet. If it could get some rest in a safe place it might recover. But it was not likely to get it laying in the middle of the road. I took my handkerchief, placed it over the wound, and carried the fox to the car, lying him on the floor board of the passenger side. I sat behind the wheel for a while looking at him. He quieted. I didn’t know whether he was sleeping or dying. I started the car and headed toward home.
I drove on for half hour when the handkerchief suddenly came rising off the floor, a specter floating upward through the dark. Was it coming after me? I turned on the dome light and saw immediately that the fox’s eyes were shut. It was comatose and wreathing in pain. It laid down again, and I turned on the dome light now and then just to check, but it didn’t move the rest of the drive. When I got home my parents helped me prepare a box with a towel in the bottom. We placed it by my bed and Mom asked what I was going to do. I told her that if it was having trouble in the morning I would put it out of its misery.
Morning came and the fox slept peacefully with its nose tucked under its bushy tail, so I loaded the box in the car and took it to a veterinary. I called a couple hours later and the office told me the vet had not touched the fox as he did not know its background. I explained the circumstances, that it was not rabid, and most likely a very healthy animal before I hit it. They called back in late afternoon saying I could pick up the fox. I don’t remember the fee so it was probably reasonable.
I have no memory of seeing or dealing with the fox thereafter. I likely headed back to my teaching job a day or two later, leaving my parents holding the bag… with the fox in it. It recovered rather quickly, but I don’t know how long they kept it as they had no cage. I suspect its stay in Kokomo was rather short.
Dad owned a lot on Palestine Lake at which he liked to visit and putter around. He’d go up to cut weeds, clear underbrush, and toy with the idea of building a small cabin, which he eventually completed. The lake was on state road 25, only sixty miles north of Kokomo so he could get there in an hour. He met an old guy who lived on the lake that was interested in having the fox. Dad said the man was a natural, had the fox eating out of his hand in moments, so he left it with him. Then someone poisoned it not long thereafter.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
The Do-It-Your-Selfers
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| The Do-It-Your-Self Cabin as finished in 1981 |
I don’t believe there is a government agency that issues certificates of Do-it Yourself, but I could have qualified for one by high school graduation. I came from a family of such creatures. My parents were born when most people drove horses, when “fast food” was a carrot plucked from the garden, and when the aroma of fresh baked bread wafted through homes. They entered their teens as the country sank deeper into the Great Depression, and had barely reached adulthood when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Mom quit school in 1930 to help her family. Dad worked his way through college. Hardship tempered their youth, instilling in them an independent self-reliance. I like to think they passed a small portion on to me.
Dad and Mom introduced brother Don and me to everyday fix-it tasks shortly after we left diapers by mentoring with example rather than instruction. My brother and I witnessed them doing things around the house from an early age. I remember Dad standing between floor joists as he remodeled our kitchen, and of him moving an inside wall a few feet to enlarge a room. Mom and Grandma cooked all our meals, did the laundry in a tub with a mounted roller-wringer, and made their own laundry soap using reclaimed cooking lard. They taught us persistence eventually gets rewarded, that if you tinker long enough with something and didn’t get electrocuted, or cut a finger off in the process, then you could eventually fix it, or get the job done.
Don and I became Dad’s gofers by age ten, learning the name of tools and how to use them by fetching and watching. We entered our apprenticeship as teenagers. Our school was an old building the family bought in 1953. It was a derelict whose upper floors had gone empty for decades. Brother Don and I got the job of rebuilding the old boiler that sat in the basement. We were then promoted upstairs to remove generations of wall paper, help repair broken plaster, paint rooms, wire, and plumb - all under Dad’s direction. It became ingrained in us to try to fix or build things on our own. To this day I will call a plumber or an electrician only after having exhausted alternatives.
Fast forward twenty years to a time when I sat in a skiff drifting in a beautifully protected cove in Seldovia Bay, Alaska. Another teacher and I were commercial fishing for halibut that summer. The cove, calm and serene, struck me as the most idyllic place I’d ever seen. The thought flicked through my mind of how neat it would be to have a cabin there. But I didn’t own the land, it was not for sale, and besides, my immediate need was a boat, so I replaced the fleeting image with a vision of boat building.
Dad and Mom introduced brother Don and me to everyday fix-it tasks shortly after we left diapers by mentoring with example rather than instruction. My brother and I witnessed them doing things around the house from an early age. I remember Dad standing between floor joists as he remodeled our kitchen, and of him moving an inside wall a few feet to enlarge a room. Mom and Grandma cooked all our meals, did the laundry in a tub with a mounted roller-wringer, and made their own laundry soap using reclaimed cooking lard. They taught us persistence eventually gets rewarded, that if you tinker long enough with something and didn’t get electrocuted, or cut a finger off in the process, then you could eventually fix it, or get the job done.
Don and I became Dad’s gofers by age ten, learning the name of tools and how to use them by fetching and watching. We entered our apprenticeship as teenagers. Our school was an old building the family bought in 1953. It was a derelict whose upper floors had gone empty for decades. Brother Don and I got the job of rebuilding the old boiler that sat in the basement. We were then promoted upstairs to remove generations of wall paper, help repair broken plaster, paint rooms, wire, and plumb - all under Dad’s direction. It became ingrained in us to try to fix or build things on our own. To this day I will call a plumber or an electrician only after having exhausted alternatives.
Fast forward twenty years to a time when I sat in a skiff drifting in a beautifully protected cove in Seldovia Bay, Alaska. Another teacher and I were commercial fishing for halibut that summer. The cove, calm and serene, struck me as the most idyllic place I’d ever seen. The thought flicked through my mind of how neat it would be to have a cabin there. But I didn’t own the land, it was not for sale, and besides, my immediate need was a boat, so I replaced the fleeting image with a vision of boat building.
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| Boat building 101, building a jig |
I bought plans for a 22 foot double-ender with a small cabin. A sorry fact soon became apparent - I had more confidence than experience. There are some endeavors in which its prudent to tread lightly, at least in the beginning, and boat building is one. The first line in the directions stated simply, “Loft the plans”; the second followed with “build the jig”. What the hell does “loft the plans” and “build the jig” mean? Those questions sent me to the local book store, to find further instruction on the subject.
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| Boat builing 101, Lofting the Plans |
“Loft the plans” meant one draws the measurements out full scale. Most boat builders draw them on the floor. I connected six pieces of plywood and lofted the plans onto them. The jig is the structure on which the boat is assembled. The plans called for fourteen boat frames with the dimensions taken from the lofted plans. I mounted each finished frame on the jig, and the jig aligned them in the correct position to one another. It took me two days to make the first frame but just two hours to complete the last. That is a short version of my life. I’ve done many things, but did most of them only once, and never became accomplished at any. The skeleton of the upside-down boat slowly took shape. The keel came next. I looked through my wood pile to discover the board had gone missing, I was stymied. I began cutting and laminating pieces to fabricate the keel when I discovered the land on Seldovia Bay was for sale.
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| The Cabin, front view at end of summer, 1979 |
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| The Cabin from the water, end of first season, 1979 |
I worked alone most of the summer. The pre-cut cabin assembled without a hitch, and the framing was completed by August when my parents came to visit. The original Do-It-Yourselfers helped me put on the wood siding and roof. I finished the gable over the door after they left and put tarpaper on the roof. That is how I left it at the end of the first year.
Dad visited the following summer. He fished, helped wire the cabin and install the metal roof. Mom came the year after to help insulate it. I did most of the work, but I had help at crucial times, help from friends, my parents, and my wife, Mary. No man is an island, but its good to be able to do-it-yourself
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