I'll Have a Breakdown With a Xanax Chaser

"To weep is to make less the depth of grief."
—William Shakespeare

Today was my implosion day. I've had plenty of explosion days since Steve's original diagnosis in March, but those blast out of me and they're over in a few moments. Emotional implosion takes a lot longer to work through.

It started with Steve calling, thinking that he had a doctor's appointment this morning when, in actuality, it's on Monday afternoon. It's a fairly big thing for him, as he's still working on moving from the bed to a wheelchair; still only one hand to use.

I had had a tiff the day before with the convalescent hospital folks. They were adamant that I bring them a check for $50 as soon as possible to cover the two-block ride to and from the doctor's office (and not even in an ambulance, but in "medical transport"). Since the check was made out to the transportation company, the desk at the hospital wouldn't give me a receipt for it, and wanted me to wait until the transport company got around to faxing one over ("There's nobody there now," explained the receptionist at 11 a.m. on a Thursday: the fact that I cannot find them anywhere online makes me think it's probably somebody's brother driving a modified VW Microbus).

After I explained to Steve that the appointment was Monday afternoon, I could tell he was not feeling good about getting something so simple so wrong. There was a little pain in my heart that he is in a situation that is so monotonous, so limiting, so stultifying, that he's slipping on facts like that.

About 10 minutes later, a woman from Dynamic Metric, a "digital marketing" company called. They have been sending me their e-mail newsletters, unsolicited, almost daily for the last month. The fact that they are ripping off mailing lists from the chamber of commerce and bombarding everyone with offers of "free eSeminars" shows how little regard they have for Internet business ethics or taking the time and money to develop a genuine target audience: I'm the last person in the world to use online marketing to "grow my business." And yet they bombard me with their aggressive, pushy and blatantly black-hat online techniques.

"Hi. Could I speak to Mark?"

"This is Mark."

"Hi. This is Karen from Dynamic Metric; how are you doing today?"

Without a beat, I replied, "Take me off your mailing lists. Good-bye," and hung up. So my day started with worry about my husband's deteriorating mental condition in hospital and anger at this obsequious telemarketer. (I known damn well she was calling because no one is signing up for her "free eSeminar.")

So the day started shitty. I got up, showered, sat down to check out where the household bills stood (since Steve has handled the lion's share of them these past eight years). Most of them are hooked up to online Bill Pay on Steve's bank account. We have connected accounts so we can transfer back and forth, but we can't access one another's Bill Pay services. so I signed on as Steve and tried to cypher out what had been paid, what hadn't been paid, what was scheduled for automatic payments, etc., etc. And at some point I started crying.

Finally, that well-built and expertly crafted bubble of brave ebullience burst, and everything fell apart in my head.

Being emotionally mature (well, mature), I realized it would be awhile before I would have another such breakdown, and so I had better make the best of it: I played Barber's Adagio for Strings, followed by Rutter's Requiem. Just my luck, there were only two tissues left in the Kleenex box, so I ended up blowing my nose with paper towels.

After 20 minutes or so and some rehydrating, I calmed down and returned to the bill paying. I tried to sign on to Steve's bank account via my iPhone so I could make a mobile deposit of a check I found on his desk. The bank did not recognize my "device" as matching up with his account, so it asked me in what town his mother was born. Even carrying around his wallet, that was information I didn't have, so I called him but he didn't answer, so I left a message. About 10 minutes later, he called back.

Just talking to him again got me going, and the waterworks returned while I was on the phone: I miss him so much. The house is so lonely without him here. It's been two weeks since I've been able to hug him, much less touch him without fear of causing pain, and it will be weeks more before I can have him back home with me. As I hung up, I hoped that he didn't feel dumped on.

Robert Bailey, the salesman for the chamber directory ads, called later and was wondering why I hadn't updated the information on the ads—which ones were in, which were approved, which needed to be built. I reminded him about my situation and Steve, and asked him what he needed to know. He wanted to know if Kaiser Permanente had sent in their ad.

So I opened my files and gave him a rundown of each and every ad that was in, which ones had final approval, and which needed to be built by me. I rattled them off, as I am very organized with my clients' stuff, and he sounded genuinely impressed. So I told him, "If you have any question at all on ads and I haven't sent the updated information in, just call me and I'll keep you updated. At some point I'll get this info on the spreadsheet and back to the chamber for updating."

Around 4:30 in the afternoon I stretched out for a short nap, slept until 5:30, and then went over to the hospital. Steve was snoozing when I got there. Kit was assuaging Ed in the next bed, and he was grousing, as usual (although after she left he was more than willing to ask me for help getting his tissues within reach for him).

Ed plays a radio all day long and the content is exclusively "easy listening" (what I call "elevator music"). It's simply assumed that everyone else wants to hear it. So while I was visiting with Steve, he finally picked up the television remote and turned the TV on (Ed hates television, just like he hates computers and most of the modern world, I'm sure).

"Aw, Christ!" he yowled from behind the privacy curtain.

"Fuck off, Ed," I answered in a blunt and authoritative manner. There were two or three beats of silence.

"At least turn it down," he grumbled.

"That I agree with," I said, and Steve brought down the volume. When a commercial came on, I said, "Muting the commercials will help a lot, too."

Ed is scheduled to be discharged on Monday. We will be very happy when that happens, because, at times, I'm more than ready to bitch slap him for his nasty attitude. I'm crossing my fingers that Steve will have the room to himself for a while before they fill Ed's old bed. And when someone new comes in, Steve will have seniority, as Ed did. If a decent sort of person arrives, hopefully they will respect that and cooperate rather than trying to dictate and dominate (as Ed does with his wife and attempts to do with everyone else).

The sun had set. Steve and I sensed that we were both getting bored with "visiting," so after a kiss goodnight, I left and drove home, cried a little bit more, and took a double dose of Xanax. Right now, I'm feeling pretty mellow.

I look up at the clock and there's only an hour left in the day. Another 24 hours passed, never to return. Why are we so mystified by the past and the future: They really don't exist, you know, and only the future can ever become something we can anticipate and experience. The past is gone, with only nostalgia lessons to be gleamed from its memories.

Box o' Food Just No Good

For the first time in my life, I tried Hamburger Helper. Perhaps I was feeling daring. Perhaps because I'm eating alone these days. Perhaps because I had this wicked cheap coupon for three boxes.

Yes, three boxes. Actually, two of them were Hamburger Helper and one was Chicken Helper (with the same zaftig white glove on each box—no doubt the love child of Poppin' Fresh and the Platex Gloves hand model): Sweet & Sour Chicken Helper, Three Cheese Hamburger Helper and Stroganoff Hamburger Helper. I cooked the Stroganoff.

It was fairly brainless. The results were dismal. If I'd taken 10 extra minutes I could have made the dish from scratch and it wouldn't be sitting in my stomach, a chemical clod daring to be digested. I've always eschewed food stuffs and mixes out of a box (especially cakes, cookies and brownie mixes), and now I am once again reminded why.

Things are really lonely around the house with Steve in "the home." It's only about a 10-minute drive from here, and I try to get over there twice a day (though sometimes I only make it once). Steve is looking really good, and you can tell little bits of mobility are returning as the bones heal. I think we've both pretty much emerged from the emotional devastation of this whole experience (although Steve has most of the physical recovery still ahead of him).

His major frustration right now is being unable to move much of anything. He has his one good hand (the right, and he's left-handed) and he's unable to move the other arm at all, so there is very little he can accomplish. I can't bring books because he can't easily hold them and turn the pages. I mentioned downloading the Kindle app for iPhone, since he does have that with him, but he didn't seem to enthusiastic about the idea; he had the same reaction to my suggestion of a DVD player, or mentioning the fact that he can download movies on his iPhone and watch them with his ear buds in so as not to disturb his roommate, Ed.

Ed also broke his hip. He has a studied crotchety, sour old-man façade, but he's really a pretty nice guy. This evening his wife was visiting and I finally got introduced: Her name is Kit. I told her the tale of the Kitties in my family (great aunt, aunt, sister, niece) and how the name's passed down, a sibling naming his or her first female child after his or her sister Kittie. Ed's wife's is a family surname, Kitson, but the generational thing is still true.

It's really a relief to be on speaking terms with everyone in the hospital room. They know I'm Steve's husband, and I'm not shy about kissing him goodbye when I leave. Ed's a retired architect, and he loves to complain about how computers are ruining the art and craft of design. He may be a technophobe, but I do see him eyeing Steve's iPhone with jealousy, as there are no phone extensions in the rooms.

I'm feeling slightly a shambles: the house needs a good cleaning, I haven't had a decent meal in a week, and all I can think about is getting Steve back home, with a walker or not, because I am so crazy-lonely for him. Having other folks drop over just isn't the same thing as being with the person you love.

The cats still yowl every evening for Steve. The get up on the couch where he usually sits and circle round and round, like dogs making a nest for the night; after a bit, they hop down, get a bite to eat, make a pit stop at the litter box, then head back upstairs to sleep.

In the studio, I'm starting design work in earnest on the chamber of commerce directory, but it's slow going. It's very important to take time in building the master template, since the entire book relies on it for visual consistency. Building type styles and graphic styles and the element library is important, so that revising a style updates all 96 pages. Along with that, I have a new website I'm building for a local poet, which should be a lot of fun and super artsy-craftsy.

My friend Jessie is coming over on Saturday moring, and we're taking a danish and coffee brunch over to Steve's room. I'm really looking forward to that, since she brings such great energy with her, and I'm hoping Steve will get infected by it. I'm sure she'll bring great danish, as well.

Not much else to report. It's been almost two weeks since Steve's slip and fall. I'm hoping that means only four to six weeks more away from home. Still, that will be around Halloween. At least we'll start the holiday season with my honey home.

If anyone wants to send Steve a card or some flowers, the address is:

Californian-Pasadena Convalescent Hospital
120 Bellefontaine St.
Room 15-D
Pasadena, CA 91105

You can also give him a call on his cell phone: 818-807-7077.

I know for positive certain he would love to hear from you. If you'd rather send things here, I can ferry them over with me when I visit.

Lifeboat

John Hodiak and Tallulah Bankhead on a lobby card

I'm thinking of the Alfred Hitchcock film now, a World War II propaganda piece that takes place all in—ready for it?—a lifeboat. It's the only film with Tallulah Bankhead that I can remember, and its characters are as two-dimensional as propaganda symbols need to be.

Not that it's bad writing: John Steinbeck wrote the script, though later tried to get 20th Century to remove his name, since they had distorted key characters and incidents to turn it into the palatable propaganda it is.

But if you look underneath the Nazi baiting and patriotic chest beating, it's also an intimate film about life: its values, virtues, vices, shortcomings and possibilities: As many layers of understanding in art as in life.

I had that experience this evening sitting in Steve's hospital room at Huntington Memorial, waiting to transfer him in the ambulance.

But let's back up and catch up on the zaniness of the week:

The broken hip was repaired in surgery on Sunday. I showed up and sat for four hours: seems the surgeon overslept or something, and the procedure didn't start on time.

I learned my lesson. Show up about 15 minutes before the surgery is expected to be completed: Sitting through the whole thing in the waiting room is maudlin and a waste if time: even if your loved one dies on the table, you're not going to hear about it right away.

No, its wisest to find out when they arrive in the recovery ward, then plan your entrance about two hours after. You'll still sit through hours of drugged snoring, and when your loved one comes to, they won't remember you were there, even if they hold an extended conversation with you.

On Monday, Natalie, who handles post-care arrangements, gave us four options:

1. Stay at the hospital while receiving physical therapy (but Medicare would not cover the $180 room cost);
2. Transfer to a local extended care facility that would provide the physical therapy needed (20 days covered by Medicare w/remaining stay at 20% copay;
3. Transfer to VA extended care in Long Beach; or
4. Return to home after installing adaptive devices.

No rush: we didn't have to make a decision for a day.

Surgery on the broken shoulder occurred on Tuesday. Fighting back the guilt, I timed my arrival for 3 p.m.: Still spent hours watching Steve sleep. At one point, his blood oxygen content monitor went off (very loudly) and he woke up, looking around the room as the nurse came in to fix it. He looked at her. She began firing questions at him:

"Do you know where you are?" she asked him. His eyes wobbled around, taking in the room. "No," he replied.

"Do you know what your name is?" His head bobbed a tad. "No," he said.

"Do you know who I am?" He looked at her with mild affront. "I have been taking care of you all week." His sniffed. "No."

"Do you know who that is over there?" she asked, pointing to me. Steve's gaze bobble-headed over in my direction. His eyes focused a bit and he smiled. "That's Mark," he said. "He's my husband." And with that he fell back asleep.

I was stunned to realize I penetrate that far into his psyche and his consciousness: He couldn't remember who he was, but looking at me brought him together, made him happy. The feeling is mutual. It brought tears to my eyes to realize how strong love is, the kinds of primal pathways it carves into our heads, and the spiritual, emotional and psychic strength it provides.

Wednesday, Steve was in great spirits, all things considered; the staff were telling him he would be discharged in the next day or two. We had decided on local extended care, since we can afford the copays, and six to eight weeks of round trips to visit him in Long Beach seem infeasible to me. Natalie found a bed in a facility just two blocks from the hospital.

Thursday and Friday Steve got more and more agitated: they kept changing the discharge dates; they were starting to talk about Saturday or Sunday instead.

On Friday morning, Physical Therapy got him out of bed and sitting up in a recliner. I visited about 2 p.m. He said as far as he knew, they were transferring him Saturday morning, so I told him I would put together a set of clothes, toiletries, etc., for his new digs and drop them by around 6:30 or 7:30. I said my good-byes and went home.

A not long after, Steve called to say they were moving him tonight, and he needed his stuff as soon as possible. Having just cleaned out a neglected cat litter box, I was not in a good mood to start with, and I snapped about it. Steve started crying and apologizing for what he's putting me through.

Hell, I'm the whiney baby ballerina man; I'm going through stuff, yeah, but Steve's the one who bears all the inevitability and suffering here. I'm just sharing a slice of it; interfacing with it, we would have said in the 1980s, but not having to own it.

I got the clothes and toiletries he requested together, put them in a shoulder bag and drove off to spend my last $8 on valet parking ($7 plus $1 tip; with the self-parking at $6, why not valet?).

I got up to Steve's room and sat down. There are so many people who come and go in the room, it's rather confusing; I'm sure even Steve didn't know who all of them were. In all that hubbub, that's when it happened:

While we were waiting for the ambulance to arrive (they take their time on non-emergency runs) I looked over at Steve and I realized who contented and fulfilled I was, sitting here with someone I really loved and just sharing the moment; all the incredible physical and emotional and spiritual layers of what has gone past, what is happening and what is yet to come.

I'm not even sure he was aware of what I was feeling; like I said, he's the one with the real troubles: I am Goofus to his Gallant as well as yin to his yang.

Very like Steve's room, except his is warmer,
sports green walls with white leaves

After several technical delays and remedies, the paramedics showed up to take Steve by ambulance the two blocks to the Californian-Pasadena. I arrived there first (since I had no paperwork before leaving, save giving the valet my card). In a few minutes the ambulance arrived, and we got Steve situated in his new bed. He has only one roommate (not a jolly-looking fellow, but perhaps friendly; it's hard to tell when people are really ill). We shall find out.

As for me and my days, the house is terribly lonely without Steve. I look around and remember a time when I still didn't feel quite at home here, before marriage was a possibility in our lives, when the cats still looked suspiciously at me, the longterm interloper in their domain.

Now one cat has died, replaced by a young female named Patty. The other cat is now old, and has actually chosen me over Steve as his favorite person. They both look at me nightly with an accusing gaze that says, "What have you done with him? Did you put him in a burlap bag and throw him off a bridge into the river? We heard that happens."

So while Steve contemplates six to eight weeks of physical therapy, I contemplate six to eight weeks alone in this house. I have work to keep me busy, but the thrill of absolute control of the remote wears off after a week or so. At least there's a timeline penciled in before us. Goal: getting Steve back home and mended.

And the saga continues…

Nose Plugs With My Dip, Please

Steve's in the hospital again. This time it's not the Long Beach VA facility, but Huntington Memorial Hospital right here in Pasadena. The drive's a lot shorter, but the parking costs $6.

Steve was supposed to start another round of chemo last Tuesday, but on Monday he asked to go to the Emergency Room at Long Beach, because he was feeling so dizzy and wobbly. He had fallen several times over the previous week.

He was admitted to the VA hospital for transfusion and, by Tuesday afternoon, the medical consensus there was that the problems were caused by a combination of postural hypotension (standing up too fast makes your blood pressure drop) and anxiety (an M.D. finally uttered the word).

I have kept suggesting that he make a point of walking up and down the stairs a couple time a day, just to keep from becoming atrophied. After he started falling and passing out when standing up, I suggested he stand up at the couch every so often (like whenever ads came on) to "harden" his system again. He agreed these were all really great ideas, but did nothing about them.

Finally, today, I took out the kitchen timer (it's a little chrome tea kettle), set it at 30 minutes, put it by the TV and told him, "When it goes off, you get up, set it to 30 minutes, and sit back down." When it was presented that way, he simply did what he was told, and it seemed to go fairly well.

Another thing I had insisted on was his return to AA meetings, especially the Friday night meetings, because he has so many friends in that group. And I wasn't going to take him; he had to ask someone to take him. He ended up calling Bob McBroom (his ex and a really sweet guy), who picked him up at 7:20.

The meeting starts at 8 p.m., then there's a speaker for about an hour, then group sharing, and things wrap up around 9:30. I got into my robe, since I figured Steve would be pretty worn out after the meeting.

A little after 9 p.m., the buzzer from the front gate goes off. It was Bob: Steve was laying on his back on the sidewalk, looking Kafka-esque. His legs had buckled and he fell. He was pretty sure his left arm and leg were broken. I called 911 and went looking for Steve's Medicare card, which he said was on his desk.

I couldn't find the card, and by the time I got back outside, they were working on getting a back board under him. I didn't have his card, but I did retrieve his "hospital bag" (a small shoulder bag with two books for reading, a fresh pair of underwear and his cell phone charger, among other things). I knew this was going to be more than a treat-and-release situation.

About midnight, Bob dropped me off at home, I got the car and drove back to the hospital, making the mistake of not noting in which parking structure I had parked. I still had my visitor's badge on, so I got right back in. By that time, the nurse had been in and said that Steve was being admitted and was on a pre-operative regimen (no food or water).

Around 1:30 they finally administered some morphine, and Steve dozed off. He woke up about 2 a.m. and told me to go home. When I got outside the ER, I couldn't remember from which direction I'd come. I walked to the parking structure Bob had parked in, but it didn't look familiar. After about 20 minutes of wandering around the buildings and parking structures, I found the car.

I'll try to keep you updated here about things as they happen.

A scene from "Who Frames Roger Rabbit?" comes to mind here, I'm not sure why: the villain has Roger by the throat over a barrel of "dip" (acetone and benzene; the only way to kill a 'toon), and he asks Roger "Any last requests?" to which Roger replies, "Yeah; nose plugs would be nice."

Crazy Healers

I used to chastise my mother for having a stint in the hospital and never bothering to mention it to anyone. She would look askance and say, "It was only a few days." Now I understand what she meant and why she didn't send out mass e-mails about it.

Steve had chemo last Tuesday and this Tuesday he wanted to go to the ER and get a blood transfusion. The side effects of the chemo were rougher this time around: he was looking a little yellow; his energy and appetite had been dismal every since the treatment, not to mention the nausea and vomiting. So we got into the car and I gladly drove the 40 miles to Long Beach VA.

Now, most of the people who read this blog have visited our home, so you have an idea what that's like. But in referencing our experiences at the Long Beach VA facility, I'd hazard to say any reader has driven past it, much less stopped in for treatment. This being so, I've adapted their standard map to indicate the places we go in the facility on a regular basis. And, yes, it really is as massive as it looks. It sits right next to Long Beach State University's campus.

During the drive, Steve apologized again for "making" me drive down, and I told him this was not a problem: I feel frustrated and angry that I can't do anything for him, so when there is something I can do to really help, I'm glad to do it, and it makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something. Then came the ER.

Like most emergency rooms, the one at the VA is usually overwhelmed by the influx of patients, and separating folks out and getting them the attention they need (usually including admission into the hospital) is a intricate task.

When we got there, Steve ended up on a gurney in the hallway while I sat next to him and listened to the charge nurse begging the staff on the inpatient wards to please prep the beds they had so ER could start sending patients up.

One energetic and fully psychotic fellow was down the hall moaning and hollering, all nonverbal. At times he sounded exactly like Gene Wilder in "The Producers" whenever someone tried to steal his blanket.

We ended up sitting there for nearly three hours before we actually saw a doctor, got blood drawn and had the results from the lab confirm what we already knew: Steve needed a blood transfusion. We had walked through the doors at 1:30 and it wasn't until 4:30 that it was finally confirmed that they were admitting him, and I could return home without fear of stranding him in Long Beach.

Steve texted me at 7:15; he was still in the ER, but they had started his first unit of blood. The Moaning Melvin down the hall had gone hoarse with all his wailing and was now doing impressions of Chebacca. Steve called me a bit later, but cell reception is very spotty in the ER, so it sounded like he was calling from an alien bar on Jupiter, all the background noise garbling in with his voice.

It was 10:15 before Steve was actually admitted onto the ward. He gave me a call after, and this time I could hear him (being that he was on the 8th floor and in a windowside bed). The next morning, he called to say he was being released, probably about noon; about 11:30 he called again to say, "Come pick me up."

When I arrived about an hour later (the usual one-way time for the trip), I found him hooked up to a full IV bag with a sheepish look on his face. "I tried to call you but you'd already left. Right after I talked to you, the nurse came in with this magnesium sulfate infusion that was ordered this morning but didn't show up until just after I called." It was going to be another four hours for this transfusion.

The room was really crowded, with all four beds occupied, so I decided to go down to the Patriot Café, grab a sandwich for lunch and cool my heels. I sat out back on the patio, as the temperature was a balmy 80-something, and ended up dozing off in one of the comfy upholstered settees under an umbrella.

We ended up leaving the hospital about 4:45. I was just glad to get home. And it never entered my head to call anyone or drop an e-mail and let people know Steve was in the hospital, because he was never in any danger. We're comfortable with the situation so everyone else should be.

I think I'm beginning to understand getting older a little better through all this.

Hot Town, Summer in the City

One thing I really hate about Pasadena is the hot, muggy summer days that we get. Luckily, most of this month has been a tad milder than insufferable. But then, I'm highly sensitive to emotionally irritating things these days because there are so many of them and their parade through our lives seems so chaotically consistent.

Our first cake from a real cake bakery

Here is the only photograph taken at our fifth wedding anniversary party (thanks, Roberto). I kept the invitation list small: Cousin Robin and Evan attended (Robin was my Best Man and Evan photographed our nuptials — see our wedding album on Facebook); also a couple of our gay married friends (all married in 2008), and my good pal Jessie (back in California from a stint of overseas teaching assignments). I kept it small in case we had to cancel.  The photo is, obviously, the anniversary cake: white chocolate raspberry cake with chocolate filling. (I would not use this place again, as the woman in charge had never heard of chocolate ganache).

It was a very casual event. I asked everyone to bring finger foods and I supplied the drinks, party favors and cake. I wanted to keep things loose, as planning ahead is not easy these days; everything depends on where we are in Steve's treatment course and how he's feeling on any given day. In fact, he had an appointment in Long Beach the day before the party (which was a surprise party), and he had been talking about perhaps getting admitted to the hospital for a transfusion. While we were in the waiting room, he said he felt better and didn't need the transfusion. I said, "Well, everyone who's coming to the party tomorrow night will be really glad to hear that."

I didn't want him to feel obligated to attend the party if he really needed the medical treatment, and I didn't want the knowledge of the party to affect that decision, because I know it would. He's always been one to consider everyone else's feelings and needs in making his decisions, and now is the time for him to start getting really selfish about his own needs in everything.

We were married on Aug. 8, 2008 (auspicious 8/8/8), a couple of months before Prop 8 passed (not so auspicious). Then the economy tanked, and within a year I was laid off at The Reporter. I can honestly say the one thing that has brought true happiness to my heart in the intervening half-decade is our marriage and the foundation it provides us. And seeing the weekly slick nothing that The Reporter has been reduced to, I'm glad I wasn't kept on, although the money was very nice.

Looking back on it, things haven't been so wonderful: None of my expectations have been realized, plans and structure have been frustrated or stonewalled. But then I see that things have kind of flowed into a place where we're able to maximize taking care of Steve: he's retired, I'm working on my own schedule out of my own office, not making much money but still involved in graphic design and not beholden to an employer. And the bills are getting paid for the most part.

We haven't been to our cancer support groups meetings (Thursday evenings) in about a month now. First we were on vacation, then the oncologist's appointments fall on Thursday afternoons (we usually don't feel like attending after shlepping to Long Beach and back), and our anniversary party took precedence one week. So I'm hoping that we can get back into the swing of it today. The leader of my support group gave me a call during dinner on Monday; I was busy cooking so I let it go to voicemail.

There are still milestones occurring in Steve's treatment. This last Friday, he had a blood transfusion scheduled and I had a migraine when I woke up, so he drove himself down to Long Beach and had a volunteer down there wheel him the quarter mile from the valet parking (very nice) to the infusion clinic. The transfusion worked, as all his blood work was satisfactory, and he started his third round of chemo on Tuesday.

He's starting to react more intensely to the chemo. He has nausea and vomiting, is weak as a kitten and sleeps for most of the two or three days after receiving a dose. My job is hounding him to eat high protein (or at all), and he's been pretty cooperative. The nausea subsides but never really goes away. He has anti-nausea medication, but the side effects are as bad as the occasional nausea, so he takes it sparingly.

The chemo treatments are scheduled about three weeks apart, and the doctor keeps close tabs on his blood counts in between to head off any depletion of blood cells (white and red, as well as platelets). I keep looking for some kind of routine in the treatment, but his oncologist says there is none: things go according to how he responds each session.

One bright point: the liquid is collecting in the pleural cavity no longer. X-rays have shown that autopleurodesis has occurred, and there is no longer any need for the chest tube. In fact, the last time we attempted to drain, we got less than 0.2 liters, and I was freaking out because air bubbles were being sucked up when Steve inhaled (none breached the chest wall, luckily).

This was the last "secondary" medical problem to be resolved (there was also the necrotic small toe on his left foot). With each of these secondary problems came medications that caused reactions with the chemo and suppressed Steve's bone marrow and blood counts. Hopefully, he won't have to get as many transfusions now that those drug interactions are gone.

I got an e-mail from a fellow chamber of commerce member, a family law/estate planning attorney who is in practice with her husband here in Pasadena. I had suggested trading out some web design work (their present site is, quite frankly, atrocious; one of those "build your own" jobs), and they were receptive but not functionally responsive. This was all well before Steve's diagnosis in March.

The current e-mail kind of initiated the process, and we now have an Estate Planning Questionnaire to fill out. Again, this is not a happy time for us, but all these things seem to be occurring to facilitate everything we (and Steve) are going through right now. And I'll have a new job for the portfolio (they want to design from the logo on up, so the work will consist of print as well as web.

I've got two weeks until the Chamber of Commerce Directory starts active design work, and I'm trying to tidy up the website for Cable International Art and Antiques, get some smaller projects out of the way for one of my favorite clients, Joy, and initiate designing for the attorneys. It will all come together well; the trick is to keep on top of the moment without neglecting the consideration of what's coming down the road.

For me, I will feel blessed when we exit the summer season (usually late October or early November) and get some rain and cold nights: I miss having a comforter on the bed. It's been so warm in the evenings that we sleep with just a sheet, and the ceiling fan is usually running overhead to keep things as cool as possible.

And with fall will come Thanksgiving and Christmas. Last year we didn't put up Christmas because we were out of town. This year it all comes out as splashy as possible and ripe for making memories.

Celebration is very important these days.

Another Vacation

60th birthday balloon

Just a couple of months ago, I was writing about our vacation to Eureka. Then everything hit the fan.

Since then, a major priority has been simply to reach some kind of stasis, some kind of routine, and one has not presented itself. Things are just too complex, too many cooks in the kitchen, as it were.

Dr. Klein, the oncologist, is holding off on the next round of chemo because Steve's immune system seems to be hit hard by the treatments. First it was the platelets, which were mitigated once they found the antibiotic that was causing the contraindication. Last consult session with Klein, she called up afterwards and asked Steve about the medication other doctors were giving him. Sure enough, one of them has, as a side effect, a depletion of bone marrow and the production of red blood cells (Steve's current problem post-chemo). He's stopped taking that, and we're going to see how it affects his immune system.

Ken and Leonard in Cambria

Meanwhile, last month we saw a window, an opening of time when it was almost guaranteed that Steve would be feeling good and we'd have the opportunity to get out of town for a couple of days. So we took the leap of faith and set up the trip.

We left Pasadena on Thursday, July 25, around noon and headed up the coast. We stopped at our traditional spot (IHOP in Goleta) for the usual mediocre fair (we both had omelets with pancakes on the side). We arrived in Cambria at about 5 o'clock and actually had very little problem finding Ken and Leonard's place.

Turkey in the pine needles

Ken and Leonard are friends who recently moved up to Cambria to retire. I have a long and uninterrupted love affair with Cambria, ever since my high school days, so it's a special treat for me that we have friends we can stay with up there.

We kicked back for a while; I recall a short nap and then we were off to Robin's in the Village of Cambria for a very nice dinner. (I had the braised duck breast with a cranberry-apricot couscous which was really delicious).

Linn's Quesedilla

Ken and Leonard live in the beachside area of Cambria (west of the Pacific Coast Highway), up in the hills surrounded by coastal pine forest. The population density is probably close to that of the Hollywood Hills, acre for acre, and while there are homes over the entire hillside, there is little intrusion, visual and auditory, from the close proximity of nature. In fact, deer and wild turkeys are among their boldest new neighbors.

Linn's Chicken Pot Pie

We stayed in Cambria through Friday and until Saturday afternoon. They were wonderful hosts, driving us around, showing us the sites, giving me a chance to catch up on the changes that had taken place in town over the years.

Ceramic
Totems

On Saturday, Ken and Leonard had a wedding to attend, so Steve and I hung out "downtown," and I had to take him to Linn's for lunch (which always includes a piece of their wonderful pies). This is the original Linn's, which started out at a roadside farm stand selling Olallieberries. When I lived on the Central Coast in the 1990s, they had a restaurant in downtown San Luis Obispo which I used to frequent for lunch.

Ken's "Favorite Spot"

The best thing I remember about Cambria (besides the company) was the relaxation and the walking and browsing the shops. I was concerned about how much walking Steve could stand, even fresh off a transfusion a couple days before.

Surprisingly (for Steve as well as myself), he held his own and realized, I think, that he has more stamina and energy than he gives himself credit for. Also, there are some days when he's doing fine, full of energy and practically his old self. Then there are days when he's simply worn down and feeling the chemo's effects on his system.

View of docks and Morro Rock

When we left that afternoon, one-third of our mission had been accomplished: Relax, unwind, get to know Ken and Leonard better, and get Steve thinking like a regular person and not a "sick" one. I even noticed at dinner the night before in Morro Bay that he was right in the thick of things and happy to be a part of it all.

Steve & the Birthday Boy

So Saturday afternoon we bid farewell to Cambria and our wonderful hosts and headed down to Grover Beach for the second third of our visit, which was to spend some time with my sister Kittie and her husband David. And since they don't have a guest room, we stayed at the Holiday Inn Express on Oak Park.

The b'day spread begins

For dinner that evening, Kittie and David picked us up and took us out for my birthday dinner at Marisol at the Cliffs in Shell Beach. The food was delicious and wonderfully presented.

Sunday we drove down to Avila Beach, which has been completely rebuilt along the beachfront. There, we browsed around and Steve got me a new pair of flip-flops as my birthday gift.

Susan likes the Hat

At 3 p.m., we headed over to Kittie and David's house where we had a pot-luck-type birthday party with a few close and old friends. Kittie had gotten a pink champagne cake from the Madonna Inn (a sort of family tradition when going overboard on cakes). Again, a small but significant group of people whom I haven't seen in a long time. There were a few small gifts (I had said none, unless something screamed to be purchased as my present), but it was the company that meant so much.

We headed back to the motel, loaded down with leftovers that became dinner. Steve had reserved the handicapped room, so the tub was really big and deep, and I took a really hot-hot bath before retiring for the evening.

We slept in until 10:45 Monday morning, packed up and checked out. We stopped at CJ's on the way out of town for some lunch, then headed home.