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It’s Really Nothing.

Author: February 27, 2015

It’s probably nothing.medicine

A year ago I could say that. A year ago if I’d discovered a small lump in my armpit I would have thought it’s probably nothing and forgotten about it. I’ve had lumps before. They went away. I’m pretty sure they were nothing. The body is a quirky machine. Sometimes little things go wrong, get discombobulated, then fix themselves. Besides I never get sick. Or at least that’s what I used to be able to say. Now I find a small lump in my armpit and it doesn’t matter how small it is. My mind immediately starts flashing red neon signs that say LUMP! ARMPIT! LYMPH NODES! CANCER!!! My wife was there to reassure me it was a skin tag, a little bit of flesh that got lost on its way to replace an old layer of epidermis. Or maybe it’s just a small collection of cells that said, “Let’s get wacky!” This is benign. It’s like the cells having a little too much to drink at aparty and ending up on the roof screaming “I can see the Islets of Langerhans from here!” Cancer, on the other hand, is when cells have a psychotic break and decide they’re going to climb into the aorta with enough weaponry to arm the entire pancreatic military and take out everyone they can, but that’s another story. The skin tag is annoying even though it’s small, so small, in fact, that I only notice it in the shower when I’m washing my armpits. It’s so small you wouldn’t notice it if I waved to you while wearing a tank top, and not just because I’ll never wear a tank top. microscope On the one hand I’m relieved. On the other hand I’m annoyed that something this minor would choose now to pop up. I would be a lot less happy if it were something major, but really I just want to call a truce with my physiology. I want a break. It hasn’t yet been a full year since I was first diagnosed with cancer. It hasn’t even been a year since the leg pain that was the first sign started. And it hasn’t even been three months since my last major surgery, which I sincerely hope really will be my last major surgery. It’s just too soon. I know cells have to burn off some steam once in a while, but, as their supervisor, I’m not inclined to grant even a short vacation right now. If some of them want to get drunk and go crazy right now they need to go find another body to live in. I’ll never be aslaid back as I once was, but in a year or so I’ll be a little more relaxed. Things are just still a little tender at the moment, and my body, of all things, should understand that. You’ve got a pot of spaghetti boiling over on the stove so it looks like an octopus trying to escape. The sauce is smoking, and you’re pretty sure it’s burned to the bottom of the pan, and it’s thrown little red flecks all over your white shirt so you now look like you’ve stabbed someone in the jugular, and you’re kicking yourself for not putting on an apron because tomato sauce is magnetically attracted to white fabric. The mail you casually threw on the hall table just slid off and catalogs skidded everywhere, the refrigerator is running, and the dog, who’s been barking nonstop for the past hour, is now peeing on your shoes. And he’s giving you that look that says, “I TOLD you I needed to go out!” It's like this, but worse. In a sudden frenzy you get the spaghetti and the sauce off the heat, put the dog outside, wipe up the floor, catch the runaway refrigerator, and pick up the mail. Your heart is racing, you’re breathing heavily, and your pulse is pounding in your ears. Then the phone rings. Still frazzled you answer with “WHAT DO YOU  WANT? WHO IS THIS? ANSWER ME BEFORE I RIP YOUR KIDNEYS OUT THROUGH YOUR NOSTRILS!” And your mother-in-law who called just to ask how you were doing is barely able to break through her catatonic shock and say, “Nothing!” It was a similar feeling that had me yelling at my armpits in the shower. I can’t see into the future, but I know that, in spite of my generally positive prognosis, there’s a chance my cancer will come back. The doctors may have used the word “cured”, but it’s never something that really goes away. My body could turn on me at any time. I just hope that if it does it’ll be in five years or ten. With enough breathing room I hope I’ll be able to respond calmly and rationally instead of having a total, even if temporary, meltdown that left me lying naked on the bathroom floor wondering if it’s time to cash in my retirement account and start the farewell tour. It was just a little too much too soon. Yes, there is a part of me that wishes that instead of a skin tag it was really cancer, not cured but steaming right ahead, and that I just yelled it into submission. A feeling of lost control is part of the life-threatening illness package. I want to feel like I’m back in charge and that this time around I didn’t need no stinkin’ chemo. This time, I want to believe, I showed that cancer who’s really boss around here, but realistically I know it was really nothing. surgery

Fun With Cancer, The Weekly Essay

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Author: February 20, 2015

February 20, 2015

It was snowing. I was in fifth grade, and my teacher, Mrs. Turner, quickly gave up on trying to teach us anything. There’s no point in saying anything to a bunch of ten and eleven year olds when our heads are being drawn, as if by magnetic force, to the window. The large white flakes drifting down turned us into a bunch of flakes. She sent one kid to the supply room to get the TV on the large rolling stand. She then picked another lucky kid to put on his coat and hat and go out with a ruler to measure the depth of the snow. She’d do this at half-hour intervals until our buses were called or our parents came. Until then she plugged in the TV and turned it on PBS. The only thing that could draw our attention away from the windows was supposedly educational animation.

On the screen a badly animated boy, distinguished as such by his overalls and short hair, looked straight at us and said, “I need a new videogame.” That sounded pretty good to me. I would have liked a new videogame too, especially an Atari system like my friend David. I also would have been happy even with an old one. At that point there wasn’t a big gap between the latest Atari system and the older ones that just had Pong. “No,” a badly animated girl, distinguished by her blond pigtails and pink dress, also looking straight at us corrected him. “You want a new videogame. You need new shoes. Some things you want, and some things you need. A new videogame is something you want. New shoes are something you need.”

So. I sat corrected. I didn’t need a videogame, new or old. I could live without one. Did I need new shoes? The ones I had were nicely broken in. That was always a problem. I would always get new shoes even while the old ones were perfectly comfortable. Part of the sole of my right sneaker was coming off, and the shoelaces had broken and been knotted back together a couple of times, and there was a big gouge down the outside of my left sneaker, and they’d both started to get a bit pungent from the time I underestimated the depth of a puddle I was walking through, but they were comfortable and mostly getting the job done of protecting my feet from the elements. I might want new shoes-although I didn’t at the time-but I couldn’t honestly say I needed them. Then I started thinking about what sort of shoes I would need. Did I really need sneakers, or did I just want them? I wasn’t sure I needed anything more than the most basic form of foot protection. I could probably get by with shooting a couple of squirrels with my BB gun, skinning them, and making a pair of moccasins. That was a little beyond my skill level at the time. I hadn’t even tried shooting a squirrel, and I suspected they’d be harder to hit than the targets I nailed to trees. I also didn’t know where to begin with cleaning and skinning a squirrel to turn it into leather. I’d probably be better off settling for some tree bark strapped to my feet with vines. I wasn’t even sure I needed that much, though. If I walked around barefoot long enough my feet would toughen up, like a Hobbit’s. I’d be at an increased risk of tetanus and hookworms, but I couldn’t decide whether I needed to be free of tetanus and hookworms or whether it was just something I wanted.

 

Having left the station at full steam this train of thought quickly steamed into clothes. As long as I was inside and things were nice and warm I wasn’t sure I, or, for that matter, anyone else really needed clothes. I wasn’t comfortable going bare-chested, but I wasn’t sure whether that discomfort was a want or a need. Then there was a whistle stop at buildings. They protected us from the elements, but did we need to protection, or did we just want it? Some people a few eons ago got the bright idea to leave equatorial Africa, where things were nice and warm and decided they wanted to go north. Was their journey really necessary?

 

On the surface the show seemed like it was teaching a simple lesson about the difference between wants and needs, but it was really reminding me of something I’d already learned, or had intuitively grasped. There are no simple lessons. Everything’s a lot more complicated than grownups wanted to let on. The people that make videogames need a job just as much as the people who make shoes, and they both contribute to the economy. Prioritizing one over the other threatens both. Even if we can agree on what the basic necessities are civilization doesn’t exist just to give us food, shelter, and clothes. It was the beginning of my understanding that money, however useful it is, is ultimately a fictional construct, abstract tokens of exchange that represent relative values. That got me wondering about the ulterior motives of the show’s producers. Maybe they didn’t want to teach us that we wanted videogames but needed shoes. Maybe they wanted to sow distrust and suspicion of commerce and market forces with the intent of eventually bringing down the entire world economy. Their plan may have been to return humanity to an idyllic hunter-gatherer existence. Or maybe it was to weaken humanity as a whole, making us an easily manipulated unwashed mass full of tetanus and hookworms. Maybe they were communists. Maybe they were anarchists. Maybe they were anarcho-syndicalists intent on exposing the violence inherent in the system. And they were working fertile ground. We were a bunch of ten and eleven year olds. We knew about repression. I personally felt the sting tyranny when I was denied a new videogame.

The Weekly Essay

Try The Caviar Cluster

Author: February 13, 2015 0 Comments

February 13, 2015

Wexler Candy Company
Valentine’s Day Deluxe Assortment Focus Group Testing
Session CRM-114

Sample 1
Participant response:
Part.2: Oh, I’ve had these before. These are really good.
Part.5: What the classic caramel lacks is a crunch factor to punch it up a bit and make it stand out a bit more.
Part.3: I like it, but it sticks to my teeth too much.

Conclusions: Mixed responses, but overall positive. Recommend continuing to include the classic Maryland caramel in this year’s selection.

Sample 2
Participant response:
Part.7: I love the little sprinkles on the dark chocolate. I just wish they wouldn’t fall off.
Part.2: The round ones are soft on the inside, right? I like those. Sometimes those caramel things are hard to chew. I’ve had fillings come out. Really I have.
Part.3: I feel funny.
Part.1: I like the texture of the inside. Fluffy. Cool, it’s pink! What are these little spots? This is really good.

Conclusions: Overall responses were positive except for Part.3. Emergency services got him to the hospital in time and legal affairs is arranging a settlement. Other participants liked this enough I think it’s worth keeping.

Questions: Do we want to risk including the Dragonfruit whip after what happened? What are the odds? Check with the FDA, see if we need to update warning to "Contains nuts, peanuts, and dragonfruit". We don’t want a repeat of the mocha chewing tobacco debacle.

Sample 3
Participant response:
Part.6: I’m, uh, I’m not a real big fan of nuts, you know? I mean I’m not allergic or anything. Not like that other guy. Hey, does he still get paid?
Part.5: Did you consider white chocolate? That would be a subtler flavor playing off the saltiness of the cashews, really bringing it out.
Part.4: Hey, you know what you should call this? "Cashews Clay"! Har!

Conclusions: Overall positive response. Add the cashew cluster.
Questions: Forward "Cashews Clay" idea to marketing. Possible boxing tie-in?

Sample 4
Participant response:
Part.1: I’m sorry, I don’t care for this. It’s not very sweet.
Part.7: Yeah, if this were the first thing I pulled out of the box it’d be a real turnoff.
Part.5: Maybe it’s us. We might be better off with a sugar-free sherbet or ice as a palate cleanser instead of just bottled water.

Conclusions: Withdraw Bordeaux truffle.
Questions: Put it in the carb-free collection?

Sample 5
Part.1: What is this? I’m afraid to put it in my mouth.
Part.2: (spitting out sample): It tastes like moldy wet onions and smells like raw sewage.
Part.4: Is this a, what do you call it, a control? I just call it nasty.
Part.5: Is this something avant garde?
Part.6: I like the taste, it’s kinda sweet, and custardy, but I don’t know if I can get past the smell.
Part.7: This greenish color is almost as big a turnoff as the smell. Are we supposed to eat it or thin paint with it?

Conclusions: Discontinue durian fruit cordial immediately.

Sample 6
Part.1: This is different. Kind of salty. Is it peanut butter?
Part.7: Yeah, I think it’s peanut butter, but there’s something different about it.
Part.5: It has more umami than you’d expect from a traditional peanut butter, and a spiciness that plays well off the chocolate. The texture is unusual, with a kind of melting quality that’s very nice.

Conclusions: The gravy cream is a success.
Questions: Participant 5 watches too many cooking shows. Guys, can we screen for this sort of thing?

Final conclusions: Implement changes immediately. Have marketing prepare a press release.

Prep the next focus group. This afternoon we’ll have them testing the new line of chocolate-covered sushi.

Not Non-Fiction, The Weekly Essay

Accessorize Me

Author: February 6, 2015 0 Comments

All I needed was a couple of pairs of jeans, so I drove out to the almost abandoned mall by the interstate. The place is mostly boarded up and empty, except for one lonely Sears store on the far side, an anchor store that continues to survive even though no one ever finds it if they don’t already know it’s there. The ship has gone down, but the anchor is still doing its job. The men’s section is right at the front even though I’m pretty sure the nine remaining customers are women, and seven of them are widows. The decision to put the men’s section right at the front was probably made by the same guy who decided the large appliances section should be in the basement. You can get a great discount on a refrigerator if you’re willing to get it up the escalator yourself, but that’s another story. I found the jeans which are always in wooden cubby holes along the back wall, organized by waist size and inseam. Theoretically, anyway, since among the regular sized ones I always seem to find a pair with a 54-inch waist and a 28-inch inseam, which makes me want to get away before the potential buyer shows up. The shortest jeans are also at the very top, so tall guys have to bend down, and those of us who are short are, I guess, expected to scale the cubby holes like it’s a climbing wall. The decision to put the shorter jeans at the top may have been made by the guy who put the appliances in the basement, or it may have been made by the deranged haberdasher responsible for men’s fashion. Sometimes as I’m browsing, and I do like to browse through the clothes, I carry on imaginary conversations with this person.

Me: What the hell is this?

Haberdasher: Scotland is very big this year.

Me: It looks like a wool factory ate a case of haggis and threw up on this table. There’s nothing here but sleeveless argyle sweaters.

Haberdasher: They’re thirty percent off!

Me: That’s because no one’’s buying them. You might as well be selling kilts. Actually I’d buy one of those if you had the Murray clan pattern. If you do sell kilts don’t take the thirty percent off. I don’t want to be arrested for indecent exposure.

I did find a couple of things I liked and a few pairs of jeans that fit, so I went to the checkout to stand in line behind seven widows. The woman directly in front of me—I’m not making this up—wanted to exchange the underwear she’d bought the week before. The woman behind the register didn’t know how to handle exchanges, so had to call someone else over. It gave me time to wonder why clothing stores sell boxes of chocolate truffles at the register. The message seems to be, “Feeling fat after trying on clothes? Have some chocolate!” Finally after the woman operating the register, whose nametag said she was a Customer Assistance Specialist, called over the Assistant Account Manager, who had to call over the Primary Account Manager, the underwear was exchanged and I was able to pay for my jeans. If only it were that easy. When I buy almost anything else in a store—potato chips, stuffed aardvarks, C-4 explosive—there’s the usual exchange about how we’re both fine today and it’s good to be fine, and aren’t we having nice weather, and once I’ve handed over my cash or swiped my card I move on. When I’’m buying clothes the conversation has to go like this:

Customer Assistance Specialist: What’s your phone number?

Me: It’s unlisted.

Customer Assistance Specialist: Maybe I have it in our system. If you tell me what it is I can look it up.

Me: It’s unlisted and I want to keep it that way.

Customer Assistance Specialist: Do we have your email address?

Me: Don’t email me, I’ll email you.

Customer Assistance Specialist: You can get 2.5% off your next purchase.

Me: Thanks, but not today.

Customer Assistance Specialist: Do you have a Sears credit card?

Me: No.

Customer Assistance Specialist: Would you like one?

Me: Not today.

Customer Assistance Specialist: You’ll get 1.7% off your next purchase.

Me: My wallet is overstuffed already. If I add anything else I’ll have to get rid of something important, like my Commander USA fan club card.

And then my receipt is printed and with it comes a ream of coupons that expire in two hours.

It’s an old cliché that men don’t like to shop for clothes, but I think it’s really more complicated than that. I like getting new clothes. I’m not a fashion-oriented kind of guy, but I like being able to wear something new into work once in a while. Really it’s not the shopping that I hate. It’s the accessories.

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The Weekly Essay

The Way Ahead

Author: January 30, 2015 0 Comments

January 30, 2015

“I was cured all right.”
-A Clockwork Orange

 

So where do I go from here? Everyone’s experience is unique, but in my case beating cancer was the easy part. A few brief bouts of nausea, a temporary allergy to sunlight, anemia, and fatigue were as bad as the side effects got. Surgery wasn’t fun, but it went smoothly. When all this started in June 2014 I thought things would change significantly. I wasn’t sure how they would change, but I thought it would be dramatic and obvious. Instead everything went so easily it’s tempting to feel like nothing’s changed, least of all my outlook. I’ve always been an optimistic guy. The doctors helped me maintain that by telling me I could look forward to being cured. People with some other forms of cancer, if they’re lucky, go into remission, which merely maintains the status quo. The cancer could come back at any time. When I heard the word “cured” I thought it would mean I’d go back to being like I’d always been. Before the cancer I could say “I never get sick.” It was a time when I wouldn’t know my general doctor if you put him in a lineup of people who looked nothing like him. When I decided to see him about the pain in my leg that had been keeping me up at nights for a couple of months I hadn’t had a checkup in three years. I’d volunteer for medical experiments and the people doing the tests loved me because I was a medical blank slate: no allergies, no major medical issues, and not even any minor ones. I still have my tonsils, my appendix, and I’ve never had a broken bone. If I’d known then what I know now when the doctors told me I’d be “cured” I would have asked, “Like a ham?” And maybe they’d say yes, because it is sort of like that. Everything has changed. I’m still an optimistic guy, but I’m changed. There’s a cloud that I’m aware of every minute of every day. I will wear a medical bracelet listing my allergies and other issues for the rest of my life. I will have regular screenings for the rest of my life. I can’t take it for granted that the headache, the stomachache, or the persistent leg pain will just go away anymore. It’s a lesson I’m still processing. I’ve read about people in near fatal car crashes, or who just barely escaped disasters or other life-threatening events. They walked away feeling like the bravest person in the world, but a few days, or a few weeks later they’d have a complete meltdown. We don’t always respond immediately to trauma. In my case I was, metaphorically, in a car wreck that went on for six months. I was able to walk away from it because I had help, especially from my wife, who, metaphorically, was out there directing traffic, but as the only one in the car I need to, metaphorically, drive more carefully from now on. Hindsight is 20/20, but it’s only useful if we apply whatever it was an experience taught us, and I need to be more conscious because the phrase “the rest of my life” has taken on greater significance.

 

The narrator of The Stranger by Albert Camus says, “Either way you’re going to get it.” He’s talking about two possible paths through a town, each of which has its problems, but also metaphorically about life and death. Whatever path you take the destination is the same. When I was young I thought that very profound. I’d never really confronted death, so I thought it was all that needed to be said about death, and life. Because death was distant and abstract it could be romantic. Dylan Thomas, Edgar Allan Poe, and Emily Dickinson were all special, I used to think, because they died young. I even thought of them as almost lucky. It was an attitude I eventually outgrew, long before I’d outlived all of them. I realized that even if their reputations had fallen if they had lived longer that didn’t make death a better alternative. There’s no shame in old age. This was a conclusion I came to even while death was still an abstraction, something I’d experience through the loss of some friends and family, but that I didn’t think I’d have to face, or even think about, one-on-one until I was closer to the end of my allotted three score and ten. There’s physical death, which, with some exceptions, we experience only once, but there’s another kind of death, the kind that comes when an experience transforms us. It’s a kind of death we all experience as we age. I’m not the same person I was ten years ago, although I can’t put my finger on what exactly changed. Sometimes, though, it’s less subtle. I’m not the same person I was a year ago, and I know exactly why. I’m a long-time Doctor Who fan, and one of the things that’s always appealed to me is the Time Lord’s ability to regenerate. On the point of death he survives by becoming a completely different person. I always liked that, but never realized the significance. We come through traumatic events, especially those that make us aware of our own mortality, a different person. Like the Doctor I have all my memories and everything I had before my own regeneration, and like the Doctor I’m going through a settling-in period, a period of asking, “Who am I?” It’s necessary to get to know this new me, but it’s also an opportunity to make changes, which is even more important. A metaphor that non-Whovians might be better able to relate to is the caterpillar that becomes a butterfly. It’s a cliché, but only because it’s so damned accurate. The butterfly is still the caterpillar, but completely transformed. The butterfly can do things it never could before, but it’s also got new, and bigger, responsibilities. It has wings, which are fragile, and in flight it will be more exposed than it ever was as a caterpillar, but it will also see a bigger world. I have to accept new responsibilities, but I’ve also gained a whole new perspective. If I look behind me I may even have wings.

Fun With Cancer

The Year That Was (Part 3 of 3)

Author: January 23, 2015

deathtarotUnlike most of the other cards the next one didn’’t have any figures, just a dark swirl. I could make out a tiny sailing ship just at the edge of the center.

Hilary said, “”The Maelstrom means forces of nature working against you. It could be a storm of events that shake up your life or force you to change your plans. This card may also mean that others come with you. Like you bring them along, like a crew of a ship. This is interesting. It’’s paired with the Queen of Wands. With her present you’’ll be able to come through whatever storm you’re facing.””

July-Michael and I invited Chaz and his girlfriend to join us in renting a beach house for a week, but they’’d hit a rocky spot in their relationship and didn’’t want to come. So we invited Simon along, since he’’d loosened up a lot. We also thought he needed to get away from the office. Who knew a tropical storm would arrive the same day we did? Michael had to cancel his plans to troll the beach for “babes”, and we all had to cancel our fishing trip. One day I braved the storm to visit the small aquarium at the other end of the island where I petted stingrays and watched seahorses glide about. Most days I was content to sleep late, have a bagel for breakfast, and watch the rain-spattered windows melt sea and sky together into an abstract study in gray while I worked. At night we piled into the car and went to one of the three restaurants. Michael flirted with the waitresses while we drank beer and gorged ourselves on fried pickles and oysters. The morning we left we woke to a clear, sunny sky. I stood on the patio and could see porpoises curling over the water.

““The spreading tree is life, rejuvenation, renewal, or even new growth. Putting down new roots, maybe, if you move somewhere else. The Page of Cups is reversed. That’’s loss and confusion.””

“”That sounds like a contradiction.””

““You can’’t take the cards so literally.””

August-It was time to take the glass I’d saved to the recycling center. As I emptied the box under the sink I was racking my brain. How did I go through six bottles of olives in a month?

I could read the next card, which showed an old robed man with a staff climbing a hill. “”The Hermit,”” I said. ““That sounds like me.”” Hilary nodded. ““The Hermit is isolation, loneliness, but also inner contemplation, questioning, and discovery.”” She tapped the card next to it, a hand holding a sword with a crown over its tip. “”The Ace of Swords means strength in solitude. These cards really enhance each other.””

September-I got home late and picked up the mail off the floor. Among the bills and catalogs was an envelope from my high school reunion committee. I paused, realizing how many years had simply slipped by. It wasn’’t the worst time of my life, but I didn’’t feel any nostalgia for high school either. After moving halfway across the country I’d lost touch with almost everyone I’’d been to high school with. I turned off my phone and locked it in my desk drawer, then locked the door of my apartment and went back down the steps to my car. I turned down a back road that briefly ran parallel to the interstate on-ramp, then turned off through woods, into darkness. The oldies station on the radio played songs that were new when I was in ninth grade. Soon there were black hills on one side of my and the river on the other. My headlights beamed into nothingness. Saturn was directly overhead. I could be anywhere, anywhen.

Hilary reached up to the final row. ““The Queen of Wands reversed means chaos, disorder, anger. She’’s paired with The empress who brings wisdom, generosity, and helpfulness.””

““So kind of like order out of disorder.””

““Something like that. This is an obscure and difficult pairing.””

October-At first I thought it was the radio, then I remembered I hadn’’t turned it on. I strained to listen, then stuck my head out of the shower.

““Hello? Is someone there?””

Panic ran through my like an electric current as I heard movement outside the bathroom, then a knock. I grabbed the shower head. The door opened, and I heard a lilting, slightly accented voice.

““Hello. It’’s just me.””

I ducked back behind the curtain. “”I’’m in the shower, Mrs. Schwarzherz!””

““Did you have a date last night? I saw you come here with someone, and from downstairs it didn’’t sound like one of your friends.””

““This isn’t a good time!””

““I heard thumping and thought it might be your bed. I hope you used a condom.””

“I’’ll talk to you later!””

““I left you some peanut butter raisin cookies on your counter. They’re on a paper plate, so you don’t have to return it right away.””

I hit my head against the tile. ““Get out! Please get out of my bathroom!””

She’’d already left.

A bright yellow orb glowed from the upper corner of the next card. A nude figure knelt down next to a pool. It was hard to tell with the card upside down from my side of the table, but I thought the figure was scooping up water into a jug, or possibly pouring it out. ““The Star,”” Hilary said, ““means renewal, cleansing. It’’s also the myths that help us make sense of the world, that give us order and comfort. The Ace of Pentacles is reversed, meaning the status quo is reversed.””

““Sounds like I’ll be sitting at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving again.””

November-One of my six-month dental checkups was always scheduled a few days after Halloween, a mistake I’’d made years earlier and never gotten around to correcting. I blamed a succession of cavities on my weakness for leftover candy, although there might have been a conspiracy by the American Dental Association. Yet I looked forward to seeing my regular hygienist, Janet, who was bright and friendly. As I was settling into the torture chair she told me one of her earlier patients had been a hockey player. I said, ““You know, I went to a fight once and a hockey game broke out.”

““Wait, what?”” Janet stammered then laughed. “”That’’s backward. Okay, I get it. Has anything been bothering you since you were last here?””

““Well, that whole situation in Russia has me pretty concerned.””

Janet held up her pick and mirror. ““Open your mouth and shut it.”” Once the cleaning was done she patted me on the shoulder. ““All right, rinse and spit and you’’re good to go.””

“”I’’m clean?””

““Yep. Everything looks good. You’’ve got six months to come up with new jokes.””

On my way out I popped a caramel in my mouth.

““Death.”” Hilary sighed.

““I thought the Death card just meant change. Not actual death.”” I didn’’t know much about the Tarot, but I’’d heard that somewhere.

““Sometimes. It’’s all about placement. And it’’s paired with the Ten of Swords, which means being overwhelmed. Depression, darkness. I’’m sorry. There’’s just no good way to read this combination.””

She began putting away the cards, leaving the last two. I turned them around to study them. I could see what she meant about the Ten of Swords. It showed a figure lying face down, pinned to the ground by swords in his back. Blood seeped from his wounds. Overhead a black sky seemed to push down. The Death card was also intimidating. A scythe-wielding skeleton against a sickly yellow background looked up at me. Its wide round eye sockets and exposed teeth seemed to be laughing at me.

““I see what you mean,”” I said.

““Yeah,”” replied Hilary. ““Any way I look at it it’’s bad.””

December-I’’ve always prided myself on being a skeptic, and yet as the year end approached I started to feel uneasy. Things seemed to have fallen into a pattern over the previous months, or was I just imagining that? It didn’’t help that things at work, and outside of it, were going so well. I got all my holiday shopping done early, and even sent out cards for the first time in years. I also accepted every invitation I could. I helped Malcom and Lynne decorate their tree, celebrated the first night of Hanukkah with Maya and Kim, went to a Solstice party with Chaz and his girlfriend, and had tea one afternoon with Mrs. Schwarzherz. We nibbled stale ginger snaps while flurries skittered by the window. I drove back to my old home to spend Christmas with my parents, then got back in time to go to Simon’’s New Year’s Eve dinner party where we ate Cornish hens and played Trivial Pursuit. Everyone else faded out around ten o’clock. I didn’’t want to admit I was anxious. As I drove a slightly drunk Michael home I thought about getting him to spend the night on my couch, but then he played songs on his phone and sang along. Badly. At home I huddled in bed and read until I heard fireworks outside and my bedside alarm clock chimed. The next morning I slept late, and woke to streams of bright sunlight. Nothing had happened. I was still here. What a coincidence.

Not Non-Fiction, The Weekly Essay

The Year That Was (Part 2 of 3)

Author: January 16, 2015 0 Comments

Hilary moved her hand along to the bottom left hand row of cards. She pointed to one of a young man in a motley blouse and tights. He looked like he was stepping off a cliff. “”Things start with The Fool. Anything could happen to you. This is a card of untapped possibilities, but also a lack of awareness. He’s paired with the Three of Pentacles, which represents coming into a small fortune through luck.””

January-Kenny, the assistant editor who, thanks to nepotism, had risen above his level of incompetence, had shelved my piece on Yellowstone for six months. Finally he exercised his right of first refusal and refused it, and asked if I could do something on local gamer culture. I’’d just heard that the last video game arcade in the area, a relic that operated more like a social club than a business, was closing. It was being forced out by the closure of the mall where it had been since the ‘80’s. I covered that. I also sent the Yellowstone piece to an editor friend at another magazine. He liked it and put the check in the mail.

She went to the next pair of cards in the row. It was turned toward me, so I could see it was a nude couple. The card was titled “The Lovers”. ““Since this card is reversed,”” said Hilary, ““it means rejection and disappointment. But the Nine of Cups with it means a gathering, like a party.””

February-Malcom and Pat invited me to join them for dinner at Marko’’s on Valentine’s Day. Then they also invited Chaz and his girlfriend, then Lydia and Rose, and they asked if Kelee could come along too. We laughed about a small crowd of us making reservations for a table on the biggest couples’ night of the year. As we were chatting over desserts I felt someone’’s arms around me and a soft, beery kiss on my cheek. I turned around. There was a handsome young man in a suit standing behind me. He took a step back. “”I’’m sorry,”” he said. ““I thought you were someone else.””

““The Plague,”” said Hilary. ““I guess you know what this one means. It’s disease, but it can also be disruption, or a sweeping change. The Two of Wands with it means futility.””

March-All winter I’’d avoided getting sick. I’’d gotten the flu shot, washed my hands regularly, kept a bottle of antibiotic in my pocket and used it until my skin cracked. Then during a wave of cold that broke the early spring I woke up with a hundred degree fever. For two days I dragged myself around my apartment in a haze. I moved back and forth between my bed and couch, barely conscious enough to even follow daytime television. Mrs. Schwarzherz from downstairs brought me some of her special soup. It smelled like feet. As I was pouring it down the sink I felt my fever break.

““Next is The Knight of Swords, who’s brave, but also reckless. He’’s paired with The Lightning Struck Tower.””

““That doesn’’t sound good.””

““It’s not always bad. Sometimes it can mean a revelation, or something unexpected.””

April-I was more than a month late getting the oil in my car changed. There were no openings on Saturday, so I made an appointment and left the car at the shop on Monday morning and took the bus to work. I picked up the car in the afternoon, and was halfway home before I realized one of the technicians was asleep in the backseat.

Hilary raised her eyebrows. ““You have the Ace of Wands paired with The Devil. You’’ll feel impulsive, but directionless. You’’ll suffer indecision and instability. If you’’ve made plans they’’ll go wrong.””

““I hope I don’t have anything big planned then.””

May-Every Friday I had the same thing for lunch: clam chowder, bread, and a large green tea. On a whim I decided to change my order.

““I’’ll have the broccoli cheese soup.””

The woman at the register looked behind her then turned back to me. “”Sorry. We’re out of broccoli cheese today. Would you like something else?””

““Ummm……”” I was suddenly overwhelmed by the menu behind her head. I looked to the left and all I could see was cherry pastries and chocolate chip cookies. There were fifteen people in line behind me, and I could feel thirty eyes burning into my skull.

““I guess I’’ll have a clam chowder.””

““Do you want chips or bread?””

The word “chips” was right on the tip of my tongue, but I stuttered. It took me a moment to recover, and I blurted out, “”Bread!””

““You want a drink?””

I looked at the drink dispenser. The bright labels blurred together, while the metal tabs hung like tongues laughing at me. What did I want? I looked at the menu. Drinks? What drinks? Starting to sweat I said, ““Green tea.””

““For here or to go?””

I could hear fifteen exasperated sighs behind me.

““Don’t worry,”” Hilary smiled. “”The Hanged Man isn’t as bad as it sounds. It’s a change in perspective, a different view. The Page of Cups with him means laughter, humor, a bright outlook. This looks like it will be a happy time for you.””

June-Chaz, Simon, and I were standing around the water cooler when Kenny came in. He looked at us. “”I see you’’re all working hard.””

““We were just talking about that freak snowstorm,”” said Chaz. ““Did you see it? Just came out of nowhere.””

Kenny looked at him then at me.

““Yeah,”” I said. ““Covered the whole area. Really dusted the trees.””

Simon cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. Please don’’t spoil this, I thought. We’’d let Simon in on it, even though he preferred to stay out of doing anything.

““I don’t get it,”” Kenny muttered, and went to his office. A minute later he stomped out again.

““You jackasses better get in there and clean every one of those styrofoam peanuts out of my office STAT. Including the ones all over my fichus plant. I shouldn’’t have to tell you never to go in there. And never open my window. Ever.””

As we were picking crushed styrofoam out of the carpet Chaz hissed, “”Or I’’ll tell my uncle!”” in perfect mimicry of Kenny’’s nasal voice. We cracked up, and Simon, who’’d come in to help us, surprised us all by laughing and throwing handfuls of packing peanuts in our faces.

Not Non-Fiction, The Weekly Essay

The Year That Was (Part 1 of 3)

Author: January 9, 2015 0 Comments

egyptianIt was in that brief lull between Christmas and New Year’’s that I decided to see the psychic. I’’d been by the business, a small former home perched on a hill between a small car dealer and a strip mall, every day on my way to and from work. In the evenings the red neon hand with a blue neon eye in its palm would be lit, and I’’d think, I should try that just for fun. I called and made an appointment. I wasn’’t sure what to expect—; incense and scarf-covered lamps and candles, crystal balls and skulls, chimes made of strange gewgaws all seemed too cliché to be real. When I stepped in I found that, if not for the Zodiac poster and framed papyri of Egyptian gods, it could have been a small tax accountant’s office. I wondered if she also did a booming business from early January through early April.

When Hilary, the owner and resident psychic, introduced herself, I wasn’’t surprised to have my semi-serious image of a dark-eyed woman in a bandana with hanging gold bangles draped in a long, flowing dress completely dashed. She wore a long sweater, black jeans, and her eyes twinkled behind wire-framed glasses.

“Most people just go for the basic reading,”” she explained. That was the $10 one I’’d seen advertised outside. “”It’’s a numerological reading based on your name and birth date, to give you an idea of where you are and where you’re going. It’’ll say a little about what’’s to come, but it’’s pretty general.”” I bet it is, I thought skeptically. There’’s a reason you’re doing this and not winning the lottery every week. But then I chided myself. Keep an open mind. This was supposed to be fun, and I had neither the skills nor the desire to do an exposé. I wasn’’t even entirely convinced she was a fraud. As I looked over the list of services she offered–card readings, past life regression, romantic advice, reiki healing, business and home cleansing and protection— I thought most of her customers just wanted a sympathetic ear and to be told they were all right. She probably wasn’’t that different from degreed therapists, and at least as helpful.

“This time of year I offer a big special, an overview of the year to come. It’’s a cast of the cards that goes month-by-month, highlighting big events to come in your life.””

I decided to spring for that. There’’s no time like the present to think about the future. And if I could sell an article about it I could write it off as a business expense. Hilary took my name, birth date, and credit card. Then she took a purple velvet pouch and produced a deck of oversized cards. ““Hold these with both hands, close your eyes, let your fears and desires infuse the cards. Think about the future.””

I wasn’’t sure how long I was supposed to hold them, and had a little trouble focusing on the future since she was also charging by the hour. I let about thirty seconds of the future tick into the present then the past then handed the cards over. She began dealing them across the table in pairs, twenty-four cards in all. Once that was done she began turning them over. She let out a low whistle.

““What is it?””

Hilary gave me a very serious look. ““You have Major Arcana in every month. You’’re going to have an interesting year.””

I remembered hearing that there was a Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.” Then I remembered that a Chinese friend of mine told me he’’d never heard any such thing. I braced myself to find out how interesting the year to come was going to be.

sword

Not Non-Fiction, The Weekly Essay

If You Have To Ask You Can’t Afford It

Author: December 12, 2014 0 Comments

December 12, 2014

From the Klay & Vellum Catalog:

Item: Woolly Mammoth
Your cavemen ancestors hunted the fearsome Woolly Mammoth. Now thanks to a scientific breakthrough you can too! Your own personal Woolly Mammoth will be delivered right to your doorstep. Once it’s arrived you’re all set to hunt the great Woolly Mammoth with a gun, bow and arrow, or the old fashioned way with your own stone-tipped spear (sold separately, see page 54.) Tusks are optional.
K+V is not responsible for any damage to property or personal injury, including death or allergic reactions to mammoth hair, skin, or meat. Gift wrap not available.

Item: Rocket Sled
An elegant bright red nosecone gives way to a sleek, tapering chrome fuselage and beautifully curved fins, making this retro-styled rocket launcher beautiful as well as functional. Able to achieve speeds of up to MACH 1 it comes with 500 miles of track and enough fuel for three trips. Fuel refills and additional track are also available.
Customer Wile E. Coyote of roadrunnercatcher.net says, “Finally! A rocket sled that works the way it’s supposed to and doesn’t flip over, fly backward, knock me over a cliff, fall on top of me, and explode. Thank you, K+V!”
Express delivery only.

Item: Edible Outerwear
We know it sounds crazy, but as soon as our CEO bit into a sock and said, “Tastes like chicken” we knew we had something special Now we’re bringing it to you! Indistinguishable from regular clothing this new line is made from special fabric that’s completely edible and so tasty you won’t believe it. Never have to worry about your favorite foods staining your favorite shirt, because they’ll be one and the same. Never worry about having to sneak snacks into movie theaters or having to pay extra fees to bring your own food on an airplane. Pants shown are available in chocolate or whole wheat. Jacket shown is available in sage, blueberry, oyster, licorice, and rhubarb cherry plaid. Shirt shown is available in vanilla, lemon, key lime, strawberry, and bleu cheese paisley.
Sizes: S-9XL

Item: Personal Hospital.
Having trouble finding just the right healthcare? Wish you didn’t have to wait when you go to the doctor’s office, or sit in a waiting room full of sick people? Tired of having to go all over town for your ear, nose, and throat appointments? Ever wished you could redecorate and warm up your hospital room? Well now with this unique, limited-time item you can. It’s your very own hospital. Comes complete with wards for general practice, radiology, an infusion ward, transplants, physical therapy, dentistry, and veterinary practice.
Medical staff and personnel sold separately.
Ground delivery only.

Item: Time Machine
Imported from Belgium, this new time machine is, unlike other models we’ve tried, user-friendly and easy to use. The controls are straightforward and can even be customized depending on whether you prefer North American date notation (Month/Day/Year) or European (Day/Month/Year). The localized singularity drive also provides up-to-the second accuracy, and easy neutron flow reversal allows for quick maneuvers through time eddies and loops. Download the optional app for your phone or tablet to take advantage of additional remote functions. Entertain your friends with stories of (spoiler alert!) things to come, and educate your children with a real taste of the past.
Adult supervision recommended. This is not a toy. Temporal paradoxes can unravel the entire space-time continuum.
Order by December 27th to guarantee December 24th delivery.

Not Non-Fiction, The Weekly Essay

Under the Knife

Author: December 5, 2014 0 Comments

December 5, 2014

“Oh my goodness, this one’s pregnant!”

Ms. Swisher was leaning over my shoulder looking at the starfish I’d carefully dissected. In hindsight she was one of the better science teachers I had, although I didn’t appreciate her at the time. She was a passionate teacher and enthusiastic about science, and biology in particular, which was remarkable for someone who’d been facing rooms full of surly teenagers for decades. We were given a choice of animals to dissect in ninth grade biology, and I’d chosen the starfish because starfish are cool. Also in my career as an amateur scientist I’d dissected frogs, crickets, crawfish, clams. One thing remained consistent across the phyla: their insides didn’t look anything like the textbook illustrations. Even the ones that hadn’t been embalmed had wads of gray or yellow indistinguishable stuff where certain organ systems should be. It’s why I never became a doctor. Well, it’s one of the reasons. Another reason is that I never wanted to be a doctor, and that’s one of those professions that you should only go into if you’re really passionate about it. I’d hate to be in the middle of an operation thinking, “Man, I’d rather be selling urinal cakes to coffee shops right now,” and oblivious to my patient flatlining, but that’s another story. So it didn’t surprise me that while the textbook illustration of the starfish had everything clearly marked and different organs in different shades of blue, red, and green its real insides looked like three different brands of Dijon mustard. The distinctions were clear enough that I could at least make a good guess at what was what, but it was Ms. Swisher’s years of experience that allowed her to know at a glance that the starfish’s gonads, which, like its digestive, nervous, and other systems, were spread throughout its entire body, were swollen.

There was a model of the human body at the front of her classroom, one of those with lopped off arms and legs, as though someone had tried to turn a corpse into a broken Greek statue, and the skin of the trunk cut away to reveal everything from the lungs to the liver. All my years of experience with dissection had taught me was that if I were cut open my viscera wouldn’t be that neatly color-coded, separable, easily removable, and made of plastic. We couldn’t have played football with a real liver. Well, now that I think about it, I guess we could, but there’d be a lot more fumbling.

When I started my journey with cancer I was told there was a fifty-fifty chance the chemotherapy would take care of everything, that there would be no need for further treatment. The coin was tossed and came up tails. Now there’s one more bridge to cross. I hope it’s the last one. The surgery is called a retroperitoneal lymph node dissection. In layman’s terms the surgeon’s going to cut me open right down the middle, shove most of my organs out of the way, and yank out my lymph nodes from my nut to my navel. When I was young I had nightmares about the thing that lived in the attic threatening to stab me in the stomach. Now it feels like that nightmare is coming true, although I’ll be asleep for the three to five hours the surgery takes. And I’ve met my surgeon, and I’m about as reassured as I can be. He’s a good guy, very smart, and passionate about what he does. He’s also done this operation several times, so he’s got plenty of experience. It’s good to know I’ll be in the hands of someone who knows that when he opens me up it won’t look anything like the textbook illustration.

Fun With Cancer