Space Invaders

No, not the old video arcade game where you could zap the invaders with your laser cannon.

I'm talking about those people that seem to have to be right up in your face to talk to you. I mean, literally, IN YOUR FACE. Which, in itself, is bad enough, but when their breath smells like what two warthogs in heat smells like (don't ask why I know two warthogs in heat smell like - I've been advised by legal counsel not to explain), it transcends discomfort and winds up triggering your flight or fight response. Much like you'd experience if you encountered a dangerous animal. Or a United States Congressman. Pick flight, since fight only brings you in even closer contact with them.

Who ARE these people? You know almost immediately when you've encountered one - a conversation starts with a reasonable, respectable buffer zone between you, then they start slowly, inexorably advancing on you, like a zombie (who hasn't lost their ability to speak, sadly). You back up a step, then they close the gap by two steps, like the round boulder from Indiana Jones' Raiders of the Lost Ark. Or the perfume/cologne snipers in your larger department stores - and why is it illegal to punch those little scent assassins? I just don't understand our justice system. But, I digress. Back to the face-talkers.

Why does it always seem that these face-talkers are always taller than you? So that you can count the cavities in their upper teeth before passing out (see warthog reference, above)? Or is it that you can now admire their luxuriant nose hair up close, which is often so out of control that you'd have to get in their with a commercial-grade weed whacker to make a dent in that National Geographic-level foliage? Maybe they shouldn't clean it up - perhaps the next wonder drug may come from that nasal rain forest. They could be hiding the next erectile dysfunction or hair loss drug - you know, the important drugs, not something frivolous like a breast cancer drug. Could be there's even an endangered lemur or two hanging out in there as well. Better safe than sorry and save the napalm.

There's only a few sure-fire methods of getting away from these space invaders...and I'm going to share some with my readers. One of my favorites is to fake a stroke - very effective, but since you can only use this once on a person (unless they're really stupid - not an unheard-of complimentary trait of space invaders), it should be saved for a space invader that's a relative stranger. Unless, of course, it's at Thanksgiving or some other family function, where it doubles the escape value. Another way is to explosively vomit on them. I'm talking full-on exorcist-level projectile vomiting. Works every time, and can be used again on the same person; just blame it on food poisoning, or eating White Castle or Hot Pockets. Or you could fire Tic-Tacs rapid-fire into their mouth - c'mon, they're so close you can hardly miss - until they get the message.

Or, of course, you could also just fire a laser cannon at them from your space ship. Peace.

The Fan - A Cautionary Tale of Bad Behavior and Porta-Potties

Fans. The lifeblood of any sport. Without fans, there would be no arenas, multi-million dollar salaries, sports agents, televised sports events, etc. No superstars, nor their DUI's, arrests for illegally carrying guns (sometimes shooting others with them, sometimes shooting themselves), fines for testing positive for controlled substances. Speaking of televised sports events, I'm not referring to things like bass fishing, curling, or even golf - those are sports events in much the same way that Monsanto is an organic agriculture firm. I really can't understand why anyone wants to watch these things, let alone do them. They are basically 98% waiting for something interesting to happen; something I don't desire on a sports channel. This is why we have C-SPAN (okay, that's 99.95% waiting for something interesting to happen). And no activity involving a broom can ever be considered a sport - I'm talking to you, curling. That's just housekeeping. With rocks. On ice. Meh.

And fans come in many varieties: good, bad, indifferent and truly embarrassing. Good fans, predictably, even though desirable (especially to be within earshot of), would be, by definition, boring. They cheer for their teams, don't argue calls, never criticize the coach and wish only the best for the other team. I say "would be", because they do not exist, at least in my experience. They may have all committed suicide. Bad fans, however, are out in great quantities, are MUCH more interesting, and come in different varieties:

The "referee" fan. This guy knows more about the rules of whatever game he's watching than any human being, ever. They have super-vision, allowing them to see what we mere mortals (and the trained referees) missed. Unsurprisingly, their own team never commits a penalty, foul or similar infraction, but the opposing team is guilty on virtually every single play. This is also the same fan, who, after having watched their kid play soccer for the last 15 years, STILL does not understand the concept of the offside penalty, and hasn't even heard of "advantage" - but they will gleefully scream offsides after every goal by the opposing team, as if it will magically erase the score. When asked why they don't go and get their referee license since they know the sport so well, usually tell you they don't have the time, which is code for: I can't pass the licensing test.

The "connected" fan. They are the opposite of the "living vicariously through my children" fan. Easy to spot, these fans either have their heads buried in their mobile devices or are deeply involved in a conversation (having nothing whatsoever to do with the sporting event they are attending) with another "connected" fan. Truly gifted connected fans can do both simultaneously. They are thereby able to claim that they attend their children's games, without the annoyance of ever having actually watched any of them. These are the fans who are completely unaware that something has occurred until the cheering or booing begins, and then are suddenly interested: "What happended?" "Your son just broke both his legs trying to bicycle-kick the ball." "Oh, I'm sure he'll be okay - excuse me, I have to look up what a bicycle-kick is." These fans don't really bother anyone else, and are usually taken care of via karma. Karma, at least in the soccer games I've attended, is when this fan, sitting 5 feet from the field of play in their folding chair while their attention is focused on their phone, gets hit soundly in the side of the face by a soccer ball traveling upwards of 900 miles per hour, usually knocking the parent to the ground and disintegrating the phone. Typically it will have been kicked by the fan's offspring; atypically, while the child performs a bicycle kick.

The "living vicariously through my children" fan. We all know this guy (it's usually a guy, but sometimes it's a woman, and for some reason, they're actually worse) - it's all negative criticism with no positive feedback: "How could you miss that catch?", "Hey, why don't you open your eyes?" "C'mon, get up, you're not hurt - if you can't see bone, it''s not broken!", etc. It's a pretty safe bet this kind of fan SUCKED when they played, but convinced their kids they themselves were the equivalent of Peyton Manning when they played. If they played at all. They pray their kids never run into one of their former classmates, otherwise the jig's up: "Your dad? On the football team? Seriously? He was always too high to play!". They are bellicose, to the point where they appear not to even require inhaling; it just is one long endless stream of profanity-laced criticism. They are totally focused on the game, and have trained themselves not to blink for long periods of time so as not to miss a single moment of play. Almost every statement begins with, "When I played...". No one likes to be near them, except, of course, others of their ilk, but everyone else will do almost anything to be away from them, including, but not limited to, sitting atop the porta-potty. Get a few of these fans in the same spot and there will likely be suicidal drownings in those porta-potties. But not at curling matches - they usually just wander out onto the ice into oblivion. Those medieval Scotts knew how to handle adversity in a socially acceptable way. Peace.

Bunco - A Man's Perspective

My wife hosted Bunco at our house the other night. Bunco is a dice game 12 women play under the guise of playing a dice game. What it really is is an excuse to get together. And eat. And talk. And talk. And talk. If some dice get thrown during this 3-4 hour event, well, you know, sometimes that's gonna happen. It's really about having a good time - if you're a woman. If you're a man, it's basically the 5th inner circle of hell.

Don't get me wrong - I love women. Especially my wife. But no one ("no one" being code for: man) wants 12 women in their house at once without their accompanying spouses. Said spouses are required to constantly distract their women by doing normal ("normal" being code for: disgusting) men things, such as groin-scratching, burping and even more odorous and odious bodily functions. Without the husbands there, 12 women will focus on the one guy there, and you don't want it to be you. It's kind of like the interns following the doctor around on rounds to your room: "Here's Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith thought it would be a good idea to operate a chainsaw while chugging a case of beer. How's the groin feeling today, Mr. Smith? Which one of you would like to change his dressing?".

I'll go into a detailed explanation of the rules of Bunco for you: there aren't any. At least not that I could discern. Oh, I'm sure there are official rules, somewhere, but I couldn't figure out what they were. A lot of time seemed to be spent getting the ladies to move from one table to another, signaled by the ringing of a bell, which is totally ignored. You see, there's 3 tables set up with 4 ladies at each table. After a round of Bunco is completed (we just don't have enough space here to explain THAT), some of the ladies from each table are supposed to move to one of the other tables, while others remain at their present table, but have to move to a different seat at that table. It's much like musical chairs, except everyone's on crack. And deaf.

If one of the ladies can't make it to a Bunco night, the other players can either play a "ghost" at the missing chair, or better yet, get a substitute player. Sometimes, the extremely gullible husband of the woman hosting Bunco will be invited to play. Don't do it. Make up an excuse - changing the oil on the car, re-siding the house, shaving your head with a cheese grater - anything. I'm joking, of course - it wasn't that bad. But it does now rank lower than the cheese grater. And they call you a "dice monkey". I'm serious.

The scoring in Bunco is interesting and seems to depend upon the phase of the moon, the average speed of an English swallow in flight and pi. There can be ties, which are settled by swordplay. Just kidding - if there was swordplay involved, men would be playing this. Depending on your definition of the term "swordplay", dice may not even be needed. (You'll have to Google this if that doesn't make sense to you - don't make me go there.) The game ends when all the food is gone, or the number of Bunco's scored is greater than the square root of of dessert, whichever comes first. Peace.

Jimmy's Facebook guidelines

Okay, moving away from the cancer theme.

I'm on Facebook. A LOT. Also, as part of my job responsibilities, I teach social media to our real estate agents, so I've done quite a bit of research on this to be able to sound lucid, and I think I have a pretty good handle on good practices. The following is NOT part of what I normally teach, just my observations on some some things people (at least those over the age of 25) should stop doing on Facebook, IMHO.

Do NOT like your own post, comment, or uploaded pic/video. We know you like it, because, duh, you posted it, didn't you?. Liking any of the aforementioned makes you a tool. It's like complimenting yourself, which is narcissistic, unless you're a member of Congress; then it's okay. I'm smart enough to know that. See? That was me, being a tool. Don't be a tool. Develop some tool-radar.

Drama posts - just say no. You know what these are; those cryptic, vague cries for attention. They're easy to spot: "I'm having the worst day", or "Something terrible just happened", or "Nobody will ever love me", or some variant. Don't post them, and whatever you do, don't ever respond to them - that's what they want, and you're just enabling that behavior. Well-meaning responses are typically: "Oh, no, what happened?", "Oh please call me", "I'm here for you", etc. Warning: if you keep responding this way, they will keep posting these types of desperate, attention-begging posts. If you must respond, please do so in a way that makes them stop. Here's some suggested responses: "You know you still owe me money, right?", "Call me, the test results are back and we need to tell your wife to get tested", or "I have an investment opportunity you can't afford to miss, but only for the first 100 people who private message me". Those may sound callous, but trust me, the sooner we get these people to stop posting drama posts, the happier we'll all be. Trust me.

Selfies - those photos you take of yourself with your phone, usually in a mirror, to be used, in theory, as a sexy profile pic. Couple of tips on this one, starting with turning off the flash - that's just distracting. Let's try not to do this in the bathroom (yes, I know, that's where the BIG mirror is), but if you must, let's keep the shots of the toilet in the background to a minimum. More critically, let's keep it to zero if someone's actually using it. Nobody wants to see that, although there are entire websites devoted to just those kind of selfies. Making a duck face (excessively pursing your lips) is fine. If you're 13. And have low self-esteem. Otherwise, you just look silly (see: above). They do, too, but they're 13, so, you know, it's okay.

Take a decent photo if you're going to post it, for Pete's sake. I shouldn't have to figure out if that's a picture of your kid at the waterpark or a three-toed sloth giving birth. Tag it with who's in it and a location - don't make us guess, it's awkward: "Oh that's a lovely shot of possibly your child whose name I can't remember in some place I don't recognize". And if your camera does not take good pictures in low-light situations, stop posting them. I've seen people post pics that seemed to be taken in a black hole, only darker. You may know that it's a shot of your wife in the movie theatre, but to us, it's just a unfocused, disembodied head, floating, apparition-like, in an even darker room. That's just spooky.

Food photos. Stop. Just stop. Seriously. Nobody cares anymore. If it's a remarkably exotic meal with an outstanding presentation - fine. That's not something most of have seen/will see, so that makes it interesting. I've seen about a billion pictures of burgers and fries - I believe we all know what they look like by now - we got it, thanks, no more visual aids are necessary. Same thing with shots of soup, chili  and/or meth cooking on the stove - I try scratching my screen, but, nothing, no aroma at all. Maybe it works on the new iPad Air, but on a laptop, nothing. It's frustrating, so stop it. It's almost like you're saying, "Look at this delicious food I'm making that you can't have". The people who comment that it "looks so good"? They're just your friends humoring you, but they're thinking what I'm thinking.

I trust you liked this latest blog post. I think it's excellent.

Hope your tool-radar went off. Peace.

Road to Recovery

Part of my recovery is to walk - basically as much as I can, and I do. I walk all around my small town, which allows me to see things you normally don't see while driving. Interesting things. Confusing things. Scary things.

What's scary? The things people do while driving. Can't tell you how many people are using their cell phones while driving, but that's no surprise. Some are blatant about it, holding their phones right on top of the steering wheel; some keep it in their laps, because someone driving while smiling at their crotch fools...well, no one, really. I've seen people eating, drinking, even shaving. How that woman got her leg up on the dashboard, I'll never know. Maybe I don't want to. And the eating - really? Soup? You're eating soup while driving? Cereal? Seriously? What's next - barbecuing while driving? I'm actually surprised Keurig hasn't come out with an automotive one-cup coffee machine yet. My favorite is when they do all these at the same time. Usually I see this from my vantage point of hiding behind a telephone pole or sturdy tree for safety, because these people are really scary, and I refuse to die by someone else's stupidity; I insist I die by my own stupidity (and I've come close).

What's confusing? Why the high school kids suddenly lose the learned skill of crossing the street safely. I mean, some of them look like insurance scam artists hoping for a payday. They don't even look before crossing, often from between parked cars, or even better giant SUV's (crosswalk? what's a crosswalk?); it's like they're TRYING to get hit. I mean, c'mon, kids, your SAT scores can't be THAT bad. You have so much to look forward to; crushing college loan debts, a position in the fast food industry, living with your parents until you're 40, the latest release of HALO, etc.. I've talked to my daughter, who is a senior, and she's equally perplexed. Personally, I blame the Pythagorean theorem; I remember it causing some suicidal thoughts in high school. I even think we lost a kid to calculus one year. Math kills.

What's interesting? Basically, people, again. I find people fascinating. I've seen people, on my walks, who refuse to make eye contact, clutch their bag a little tighter, even cross the street (of course, that only makes me want to cross the street to see what happens next) as I approach them. I mean, I'm mid-50's, gray hair, wear glasses, 5' 7" tall, usually have a smile on my face - I don't believe I offer that an intimidating a presence. And this was even happening immediately after my surgery, where I was shuffling along at a blistering pace of possibly 10 yards an hour, basically slow enough for the old school zombies to catch and devour me (remember, I'm now prostate-free, so, you know, less calories). The current zombies move much faster, something I'm not happy about as your ability to run fast is inversely proportional to your aging process. But I'm not worried about the zombies getting me because I'm a realist. I'm pretty sure it'll be the shaving, cereal-eating, texting and mascara-applying driver in the weapons-grade Hummer.
Peace.

Leakage? I don't have no stinkin' leakage...

When they remove your catheter, 7-14 days after surgery (9 days for me), they send you home. In. A. Diaper. Thaaat's right - a diaper. I can't imagine why some men equate this surgery with losing your manhood. There's absolutely nothing emasculating about having to wear a diaper. Except there is. Totally.

Them: Here, put this on.
Me: What is it?
Them: It's a diaper.
Me: I know. I'm just trying to determine if I'm hallucinating. Do I really need to wear this?
Them: Well, you've been catheterized for 9 days, and you'll need to relearn bladder control. These will help you get home without ruining your car seat.
Me: That's very thoughtful.. Can I have a pair without Hello Kitty on them?
Them: Man up, cowboy. Here's take some of these, as well.
Me: What the hell are these?
Them: They're sanitary pads. Do you know how to use them?
Me: You may have noticed, since you just removed my catheter, that I'm not female. So, no.
Them: My apologies.
Me: S'okay, the thong probably threw you.
Them: Yes...thongs and sanitary pads are probably not the most efficient combination.
Me: Understood. I don't often get to show my junk to others while my wife is present, so I saw this happening completely different in my mind. Wrong again. Say, these things look like giant Swiffer wet mop pads. Surely I don't wear these WITH the diaper - seems like major overkill...
Them: No, the diaper is just to get you home and are recommended for sleep  periods. You can use the sanitary pads during the day - if you find you're not leaking too much, you may even want to try using one of your wife's pads since they're smaller and more comfortable. (this last part said with a smile)
Me: So my goal is to go from diapers, to sanitary pads, to my wife's female-parts pads? I actually buy those for my wife at BJ's - do I want wings or non-wings, flexi, regular or super, scented or unscented, etc...
Them: Are you being serious?
Me: I'm standing here in a diaper and thong. I'm shocked you're still paying attention to me at all.
Them: This isn't the worst I have seen.
Me: I'm not sure what you're paid, but I'm certain it's not enough.
Them: Thank you. Perhaps you could put some pants on now.
Me: We're talking about me wearing diapers and using my wife's monthly pads. We are well past the point where either of us should be embarrassed, wouldn't you say?
Them: True. But I do find the Hello Kitty print distracting.
Me: Touche'.
Peace.

I'm catheter-free!! (and no longer allowed on the couch)

Yes indeedy, the catheter has been removed. I'm thrilled, but also feeling somewhat vulnerable. How could this make me feel vulnerable, you ask? Picture this - I'm taking one of my recuperative walks. I get accosted by a bad guy. I'm still weak, stomach still distended and sore, and I'm not supposed to be exerting any force that exceeds lifting anything heavier than 5 pounds. I'm pretty much helpless.

But, had I still had my catheter and accompanying bag, I could swiftly detach the bag from my leg and smack my assailant across the face with it. It would likely burst when it strikes him. That's right, he's now covered in someone else's urine. He doesn't recover from that, he doesn't continue the fight - basically, he'll have to set himself on fire to ever feel clean again. There's really no other option.

Think of how society could benefit from this - instead of tasers, police would have catheter bags. Instead of tear gas - urine mist. Instead of nuclear payloads, fit a missile with several hundred gallons of urine. Tea party members of Congress acting like adolescents - well, you get the idea. We could even rate the strengths - vegan would be mild, asparagus eaters would be moderate, those not hydrating enough: commercial strength. Labeling them shouldn't be an issue since Monsanto's not involved.

This could trickle (sorry) into so many areas of our lives. At a sporting event? Maybe a MLB game, but dreading the incredibly long lines at the restrooms (not to mention the unsanitary conditions), and also not wanting to miss any of the game? Problem solved. What about tailgating? Now you won't have to miss one of your buddies vomiting into the back of someone else's pickup truck before the game even starts. It's all good. When I think of all the money parents spend on karate lessons for their kids, when a simple catheter solves so many problems - self defense, bed-wetting, having to stop every 30 minutes on car trips, hell, just the amount of time saved cleaning bathroom toilets (for families with boys) would be worth it. I can't believe no one has thought of this before. You're welcome. Peace.

Post Surgery Post (see what I did there?)

The ninjas have been officially evicted. Pathology results in early next week, but all looked good and went well. For those with lower TMI limits, now might be a good time to stop reading, although I have spared the rest of you accompanying pics.

Possible side effects of the surgery: some swelling in the groin area. That's like saying if you run into a burning house you may experience heat. Holy crap. The boys look like they were on a McDonald's diet for the last 3 years. If your groin could be termed obese, mine is morbidly so. And the color - oh my, you don't find this shade of purple much outside the eggplant display at a farmer's market. It's like the Elephant Man and Barney had a child, and it became my groin. Needless to say, there's discomfort involved, but the good news is that can helped by elevating them. They suggest a rolled towel. I was thinking of a wheelbarrow. I'm exaggerating; I'm sure a softball catcher's mitt would work, and be eminently appropriate.

Let's move north. Anesthesia has a side effect of putting your digestive tract to sleep. It needs to reboot, to start itself back up, otherwise you have a whole new problem to deal with. What it really does is turn you into a 90 year-old man, looking forward to a good bowel movement with the same excitement as a 6 year-old on Christmas morning, who finds out his parents are actually masochists who wrap empty boxes, delighting each time their precocious child registers that look of confusion and disappointment. I was that 90 year-old. I was that 6 year-old.

To help this digestive reboot along, they recommend both small, frequent meals and walking as much as possible. Neither of which I'm in the mood to do. The eating? I have no appetite at all. The walking? You must not have read paragraph 2. But I do both anyway, since I'm a good patient and I know this will help. Someone told me their husband thought they saw me walking the other day; he told her I looked like I was limping. I didn't have the heart to tell her on the phone I was actually waddling, nor why. I imagine in a few more days I'll be looking like the Penguin from Batman. Quack, Quack. Peace.

Buh-bye, Cancer

So this my last day with cancer. I'll be having surgery tomorrow and they're doing it robotically. That's right, robots - which, if you think about it, are just precursors to terminators. True, they're really, really early model terminators: pre-Schwarzenegger versions.

These robots will probably be more like a Sheldon Cooper version of terminators; really smart but not much of a physical threat. But still - robots. How cool is that? Although, robots against cancer - not much of a fight, is it? Poor cancer, you never had a chance. But I will not be sorry to see you go.

You have to appreciate how cancer multiplies recklessly, takes over other systems, destroys everything it can until, if not removed, finally consumes the very host that sustains it. It's like Congress that way, only not as bad. Or evil. Or selfish. 2014's coming up folks...let's not forget the Congressional approval rating is currently below that of... cancer.

But back to me-  it's my last day to use cancer as an excuse. And I have been. Seriously - for everything; at work, at home, during traffic stops, etc. I know that sounds callous, but it works.
"Sorry I'm late, but... I have cancer."
"Oh, did you want that last piece of pizza? I was going to eat it, because, you know... cancer."
"Sorry I was doing 75 mph in the shoulder, but..." well, you get the idea. Even my daughter was jumping on the bandwagon:
Me: "I won't it make to your game today, Sweetie, because..."
Her: "I know... cancer." You have learned well, grasshopper. My eyes well up.

So, day before/of surgery instructions/fun. Eat light - got it, I'll forego the slice of anemic tomato on my triple cheeseburger with bacon. I can sacrifice. Stop taking NSAIDs (Aleve, Motrin, Advil, etc.) because they can cause bleeding. Wouldn't want any bleeding in surgery - got it. I notice marijuana's not on that list. Not that I use it, but - good to know. "No eating or drinking after midnight the night before your surgery." Oh well, so no marijuana and subsequent ravaging of the supermarket's cookie aisle @ 3AM - got it. Again, not that I use it. Marijuana, not the supermarket. Hey, quick digression: here's a tip to let you know if someone knows ANYTHING about what they're talking about (this applies to many things, but especially those things technological): if they put "the" in front of it, they don't know much about it. Witness: "Is she on the drugs?" "Oh yes, I use the Facebook all the time." "I don't like the Obama." You're welcome.

Wait a minute - back up here. No coffee in the morning before surgery? Are you freaking kidding me?!?!? No no no, Memorial Sloan-Kettering - now you've gone too far. I must have my morning java. It's the secret elixir that makes me human each day. My wife tries not to make eye contact with me until that first sip. She's a very wise woman.Without coffee, you shouldn't even be operating on me - a veterinarian should, and only then after having  tranquilized and muzzled me. There better be something caffeinated added to that IV. Just sayin'. Peace.

Pre-op is Like Foreplay

Pre-op is like surgery's foreplay. There, I've made it pretty easy for you to decide whether you want to keep reading or not. C'mon, my last post was about Viagra - is this really a surprise as a follow-up? Note: my blood pressure measures higher at Memorial Sloan-Kettering than any place in the universe. I keep telling them that I'm a boring 120/72 kind of guy everywhere else, and they always ask, "Are you nervous?" Now why would I be nervous ?

Running out of arms

Seriously, is there anything more entertaining than a day full of answering the same questions over and over again, and being poked, prodded, pricked, X-Rayed, MRI'd, etc.? I contend there is not. But do I really need an 8 hour day of this for a 3-5 hour surgery? Apparently, yes. Good thing they keep asking you your name and date of birth, because at one of my 4 appointments, I was greeted with, "Hi, Mr. Fernandez!" Oh crap. Me: "Um, nooooo, I would be Mr. Rose." Them, cheerily: "Well, it's a good thing I asked!" Why, yes indeedy, good for you. Note to self: write my name all over my abdomen. With a Sharpie. Maybe even the name of the procedure. And my date of birth. Possibly my wife's cell phone number if clarification is needed once I've been sent to la-la land. Maybe end with "remove prostate, not penis". Color me concerned, as this IS the #2 cancer hospital in the country.

Then there was the "consent" doctor, who signs off on everything to make sure I'm okay for surgery, even though all my tests are not yet completed at this time. He seemed genuinely perplexed at the number of surgeries/injuries I had, and wanted me to list them, complete with dates. I can't remember what I had for dinner last night, yet I'm supposed to remember ~20 surgeries, broken bones, dislocations, etc.. But the kicker was when he mentioned I still had my MRI to do (no surprise there), and that they would probably be doing the MRI with a rectal probe (BIG surprise there). Very, VERY long pause. Me: "I'm sorry, but did you say... RECTAL probe?!?!?" Him: "Yes, that's the best way for them to look at the prostate, I'm sure that's what they'll be doing. It's no big deal, after all the things you've been through." No big deal. Reassuring. I withheld the fact that there's been so many visits to my rectum by so many different people in the last couple of months, that it should soon appear as a tourist attraction on Yelp.

So, for those of you who stuck around long enough, how is Pre-op like foreplay? It lasts longer. No one tends to fall asleep during it (well, not if you're doing it right). It really does help you for what comes next. And, it tends NOT to involve scalpels. As for my blood pressure measuring higher at MSK than anywhere else? I'm thinking hearing the words "rectal probe" may have something to do with it. Peace.

Viagra - Yeah, I Went There

I was prescribed Viagra pre-surgery to increase blood flow to the area, which can aid in healing and reduce complications. At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it. That said, these things are friggin' expensive! I'm surprised there's not more 50+ year-old crime out there (excluding Wall St and Congress, of course). Ask your doctor if Viagra's right for you? Nah - ask your attorney if you can afford it. B&E becomes B&E&E - Breaking and Entering and Erect. Lovely. Should make for an interesting bus ride to the prison.

The stated side effects are interesting: dizziness, nausea, ringing in the ears, blurred vision combined with a raging erection. Sounds very much like college. And what an attractive specimen we may become, lurching about, falling over, zombie-like, all the while we're pitching a tent in our pants. Now it sounds like a typical Match.com first date.

My prescribed dosage is 25 mg, which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that the pills are 100 mg oval pills. OVAL. Try cutting an oval pill into 4 equal parts with a knife (see pic) without winding up with a shard of Viagra embedded in your eye. That is not an emergency room visit you want to be involved in, my friend; those ER nurses will talk about THAT one for years. It will, however, not likely eclipse frozen rodents as the leader of foreign objects removed in an ER.

Redneck pill cutter

So, to the question you've been dying to ask...no, none of the side effects happened, not even the intended effect - at least not an urban legend-level effect. Maybe because it's just a quarter of the regular dosage, but I didn't feel anything different. Now you'll have to excuse me, I have walnuts to crack. Look Ma, no hands! Peace.

Catheter the Great

Cancer's one of those things that most people keep private. But when the majority of people are unaware of what's going on, no one wins. It's like Congress that way. But not me, and that's one of the reasons I blog about it - ignoring it doesn't make it go away, and blogging about it may help someone. It certainly helps me.

Ok, so back to being snarky about this whole cancer thing. So far we've covered ninjas, Kegel exercises, pelvic floors, erectile dysfunction and incontinence. Let's face it, that's a whole lot of fun right there. I mean, throw in an infection and we're talking PAR-TY. But what's a real party without a catheter?

Every guy reading this just shifted uncomfortably in their seat (psst, it doesn't go in your seat, guys). It's an interesting juxtaposition: minimally invasive surgery/maximally invasive bladder control. Like anything there's pros and cons. The pros? Pretty much limited to the one: the fact that you can relieve yourself at any time, without moving. Anytime. While eating, watching TV, having a conversation, even walking. I'm serious - you can simultaneously urinate while driving - no more rest stops!! Women won't understand this, but improving your door-to-door time for men is our holy grail. You know what I'm talking about. Try to do any of those without the use of a catheter and you'll likely be arrested, slapped, asked to leave the restaurant, lower your trade-in value, etc. It's basically stealth urination. They should give these things to spies. Maybe they do - how would we know?

The cons? There are many, starting foremost with: eww. Secondly, they insert a 115 foot tube into your manhood! Okay, it's not 115 feet long, but if that's the part that concerned you, then I submit you are not a male. It will be (or at least SHOULD be), the first time something has gone INTO that particular part of your anatomy. That's just wrong. Anywhere. Anytime.

I've had this pleasant experience a few times in conjunction with surgeries. Sometimes they do it while you're still under, other times after you've woken up. Do yourself a favor and request it be done while you're in a semi-coma; this is not something you want to be a cognizant party to. It's much better to wake up and wonder, "Hmm, I wonder where that tube goes?". Don't worry, the nurses are used to the anguished screams of discovery. It lets them know you're awake and also that you have, indeed, discovered you've been catheterized.

It's really the removal you need to be concerned with, and, more importantly, the current state of emotion of the nurse who will be removing it. Catch them at a good time, i.e., they've just been told they're getting a raise and shorter shifts, and they will gently and tenderly remove it, telling you what a big, brave boy you are while they do so. Catch one that has just learned her husband has been sleeping with her sister, and she will likely pretend she is starting a 27", gas-powered, 6 forward gear snow thrower. If you were the one above who focused on the length of the tube instead of it's entry point, I'll spell it out for you: You're the snow thrower. Ouch. Peace.

Cancer's a "Curve Ball" - Really?

This one won't be humorous; this post is a needed venting.

It's okay if I decide to make light of my cancer and joke about it; it's okay if my close friends and family do as well (double standards are one of my top pet peeves, so if I'm going to dish it out, I have to take it, too.) It's even better when people tell me I'll be fine, I'll beat it, or some variation of that, because it's obvious it's meant to be positive, uplifting and to wish me well.

What's not okay is when someone callously dismisses your cancer as a "curve ball in your life", acting as if it's no big deal. That is taking insensitivity to a whole new level, in my opinion. There wasn't a hint of compassion or concern, it was meant as dismissively as it sounds. The utter lack of empathy shouldn't come as a surprise to me, since it has always been totally lacking in this person, yet I still stared at the written words (yes, she actually put that in writing), shocked by their coldness.

I'm not sure, knowing that, why I expect better from this person, but there you have it; when you're optimistic, you get disappointed. It comes with the territory. Sorry, but I just needed to get that out. I promise I'll be back to sarcastic and snarky in my next post. Peace.

Kegel All the Way Home

Radical Retropubic Prostatectomy (RRP) is a very large term for removing a very small organ. Like any surgery, there can be unwanted side effects, but this one includes, among others, incontinence (oh joy) and erectile dysfunction (oh joy joy). These are usually temporary, but could be longer lasting, even permanent. Yikes. The good news is that I can help my recovery immensely and reduce the risk of these nasty complications by doing Kegel exercises.

Women are probably more familiar with Kegel exercises than men. This is understandable, because for men to exercise something, it better be able to grow larger and be tattooed, otherwise it's not worth the effort. This also explains our reluctance to exercise our brains, good judgement and, of course, caution. Yes, doing so would reduce ER visits nearly by half, which would be good for our gender, but bad for the economy. So, you're welcome, glad we can do our part in the recovery.

The Kegel muscles are a part of the "pelvic floor", two words most men would never think to combine, let alone exercise. I checked my Bowflex manual; no mention of Kegel muscles (or pelvic floor, for that matter). No such free weight exercise, either; at this point, I'm still not convinced Kegel exercises exist. Enter Google. Google tells me I can "find" my Kegel muscles while urinating, by "shutting off" the stream. This was obviously written by a woman, since for a guy, once we start, we have absolutely no desire to stop. In many ways this is very similar to our behavior towards sex, including the length of time it takes us to do either. They are also supposedly the muscles you use to hold in a fart; again, something no real man would ever willingly or knowingly do, so no point of reference here, either.

But I'm a "good" patient, so I've been doing these exercises since I read about them. My pelvic floor muscles are now capable of crushing my own prostate (kind of a do-it-yourself RRP). It also strengthens your sphincter - so I'm ready for my next DRE (digital rectal exam). And I promise you - someone's gonna lose a digit. Peace.

Ninja Cancer post #2

MSKCC (Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center) visit was interesting; the surgeon upped my Gleason score from 7 to 7.5 (who knew they used fractions?) and recommended a Radical Retropubic Prostatectomy, which is a minimally invasive robotic surgery that will remove my ninja cancer-ridden prostate as well as the surrounding lymph nodes. Still getting my head around the removal of an organ being considered "minimally invasive"...

Even though the bone and CAT scans were negative for the ninjas metastasizing, they are recommending a pelvic MRI to both verify those results and aid in the surgery. Which brings up an interesting question: can I have an MRI without the implant in my right leg (and rod in one of the fingers on my right hand) being forcibly removed by the magnetic pulses? Because I'm guessing that would probably sting.

I showed them this picture on my phone, and suddenly everyone there forgot about my cancer and wanted to take a look at it. I guess when your day has you looking at nothing but prostates, genitalia and anuses, an implant that looks like it's from the front end of a '58 Chevy becomes something of a novelty. And yes, I said anuses, because even though they are urologists, apparently a DRE (that's Digital Rectal Exam) MUST be performed on each visit, and yes, it IS as pleasant as it sounds. I can hardly wait for the next one, but they could at least buy me dinner first.

The good news is both implants are what are considered "MRI-compatible", so there's no threat of them flying out of my body. I'm scheduled for the surgery the first week of October, so it's a waiting game for now. Time to get into surgery shape and prepare for ninja removal. Peace.

Those Sneaky Ninjas

This wasn't supposed to happen. I followed the plan: I exercised, kept in shape, didn't drink, didn't smoke, ate healthy (hell, I went vegetarian for almost a 10 year period in my 30's, and to this day I probably have no more than one small serving of red meat a year), meditated, did yoga, lifted weights, didn't do drugs, yada, yada, yada.

And yet, still, the cancer found me. Apparently it stalked me silently, ninja-like, profiting on my laziness with getting a physical, content as I was in the knowledge that my lifestyle required no validation from any medical professional that I was the picture of health. It grew, again silently, stealthily, with not a single overt symptom to indicate that there was now a ticking time bomb deep within my temple, the machine I call my body. Those crafty little cancer ninjas.