tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10183221673707382752024-03-13T15:24:48.449-04:00100 Days PlusLife after a blood and marrow transplantMickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-28227917712362764382023-12-15T21:27:00.000-05:002023-12-15T21:27:12.917-05:00Merry Christmas 2023<p> </p><div><h4><b id="docs-internal-guid-cd7e7d47-7fff-8ea2-417d-df14bb583bd8" style="font-weight: normal;"><p style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10pt; text-align: left;"><b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #274e13; font-family: "Proxima Nova", sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy Day +4680 and</span></span></b></p></b></h4><h2><b id="docs-internal-guid-cd7e7d47-7fff-8ea2-417d-df14bb583bd8" style="font-weight: normal;"><p style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10pt; text-align: left;"><b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #990000; font-family: trebuchet; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Merry Christmas to You All!</span></span></b></p></b></h2><p></p><b id="docs-internal-guid-cd7e7d47-7fff-8ea2-417d-df14bb583bd8" style="font-weight: normal;"><span> </span>We usually find a way to print these updates and mail them with our Christmas cards, but 2023 has been an interesting year. <br /><br /><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidrMEdzNhM7OXVg3IBMTCM-0hoQzsFI19ofICnzaB5ycqoOh0b5b9ZYjZy7TXZ0gk9Nny_VVv4KZ78nv-cM4VTXgqV63g1vOyLvNTFEMrCSwOUe_ozcCTUTliVQ4p8WBdXZtrtdn_yFLwmmbVPbC9JQpPittNBCenqetIx3Chmv7B1GDkqt6ChPGby2k/s282/pencilmein.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="282" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidrMEdzNhM7OXVg3IBMTCM-0hoQzsFI19ofICnzaB5ycqoOh0b5b9ZYjZy7TXZ0gk9Nny_VVv4KZ78nv-cM4VTXgqV63g1vOyLvNTFEMrCSwOUe_ozcCTUTliVQ4p8WBdXZtrtdn_yFLwmmbVPbC9JQpPittNBCenqetIx3Chmv7B1GDkqt6ChPGby2k/w200-h197/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </span>Gemma
Larisa McKellar was born January 5, 2023, about 3:30 PST. She debuted
at 7 lbs 5 oz of wiggling cuteness. Michael and Stefanie are proud
parents. We are proud grandparents! Gemma is rapidly approaching her
first birthday, and will experience the wonder and confusion of having a
birthday within approximately a week of Christmas and New Year's.
Because my birthday is in January, I have a fair notion of what it's
like when your folks have to find you a birthday present during the time
that they're still busted from Christmas.<br /><br /><span> </span>Our
first child, Heather, is starting a new job with the police department.
She will be working in the records department. Their oldest, Eli started
his freshman year at Iowa State University and Rose is a senior in high
school. Both are accomplished musicians and top students. Chris
continues to improve.<br /><br /><span> </span>Andrew and Kris are still
in Iowa. Daren is working and Raine is in his senior year of high
school. Amanda is upstairs at home and makes her living streaming
online. She is always available to explain to me how and why I am wrong.
That used to be my function for my Dad. It’s a unique experience to be
on the other end of that equation. Also, it's good to have someone
younger in the house. <br /><br /><span> </span>Marian remains in good health, despite a stroke (Nov. 2021) and a bout with colon cancer in 2019. <br /><br /><span> </span>April
17th was a day full of surprises. After wandering around, doing
housework (for men that means vacuuming), I called up the stairs for
Marian to drive me to the hospital. I was having a classic heart attack!
I walked into the hospital and announced that I was having a heart
attack, and shortly thereafter, I was (not) enjoying my second ambulance
ride to Marquette. When I came home on April 25th, I had seven shiny,
new stents and some more medications to take. I did 25 weeks of cardiac
rehab, and I now carry Nitroglycerin pills. <br /><br /><span> </span>Thanks
to the kind help of a local friend I made the trip to Wausau, WI to see
a pulmonologist for an evaluation and pulmonary function study. That
news wasn’t cheerful. My FEV1 (lung capacity) has dropped from 25% to
19%. Now, I have to work on proving him wrong as well. It’s good to have
goals.<br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-cd7e7d47-7fff-8ea2-417d-df14bb583bd8" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-cd7e7d47-7fff-8ea2-417d-df14bb583bd8" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span><b>Merry Christmas Everyone.</b></span></span></b></span></div>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-86532967121550736182019-01-30T13:17:00.002-05:002019-01-30T23:09:57.074-05:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2900<h2>
Frosty Milestone</h2>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBtH1jySpY0/Tf7Hs1G4doI/AAAAAAAABLw/6k0Q8VwqmpA5jCM3hCblNsar9ybbAg3swCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/grumps_mom_mes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1141" data-original-width="1429" height="255" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBtH1jySpY0/Tf7Hs1G4doI/AAAAAAAABLw/6k0Q8VwqmpA5jCM3hCblNsar9ybbAg3swCPcBGAYYCw/s320/grumps_mom_mes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was born when I was very young.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Counting days was not one of my habits until I was confronted by my own mortality. I started by counting days until my next round of chemotherapy. I continued when I could no longer withstand chemo’s onslaught and I was given eight months to survive until a suitable stem-cell donor could be found. Next, I counted days of preparation until my immune system was fully non-functional and the transplant could take place. <br />
Finally came day zero: February 21, 2011 -- my <i>rebirthday</i>. Once again, I began counting -- 100 days full of milestones: bottoming out, engraftment, appearance of my brand new immune system, and my introduction to <i>acute </i>Graft versus Host Disease. It was a busy time and I kept my mind busy by counting days and writing about my present journey and my past journeys. <br />
After 100 days (and a few extra days for testing, paperwork, and administrative stuff) we went home to continue counting days and waiting for <i>chronic </i>Graft versus Host Disease to come knocking. My old friend (and nemesis), cGvHD, has come a-knocking at my door far too often to ever be welcome and he nearly always takes something with him. We wrestle, he and I, every day. <br />
And so, I still count days and I still feel grateful to wake in the morning and to slip peacefully away into the world of sleep each night; where I am unencumbered by the steely chains of cGvHD. I thank God for each day, and try to remember that every precious moment with family and friends is mine to share if I wish. Recently, I was reminded that, although those with enough hate or enough wealth might cut short my remaining days, they cannot use them -- live them -- not one second.<br />
The content of my days, my thoughts, my memories, my joys and regrets...those precious moments are mine. Although some wish I would shut up, I can’t help but share them freely -- be they bright and cozy and warm or dark and painful and cold -- because once given, they live on beyond my count of days.<br />
<i>Today is 2,900 days since my blood and marrow stem cell transplant.</i><br />
<br />
<b> Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-48262893404512708262018-08-17T22:56:00.000-04:002018-08-17T22:56:58.376-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2734<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
How Do You Say No?</h2>
I have never been certain where they get our name, address, and phone number, but charities and non-profits from hospitals to sheriffs, and from anti-disease to religious organizations send mail and call us regularly. Our discretionary funds are limited and spoken-for. My mail rule is simple -- the glitzier the package, the less likely they are to get a positive response. Why give money to spend on extravagant advertising? We try to screen calls and politely decline. Mostly, the organizations comply and mostly they call during the day -- <i>but not all.</i><br /><br />Once again, tonight, I was backed into a verbal corner by an unrelenting pitch person from a charity. This group has been calling for weeks and have tried at all hours, from early morning to mid-evening. I can see their name on the phone (and on the TV, if I am watching something at the time) and I've been screening those calls. Tonight, the call came in without the usual name and we were waiting for a return call from a relative, so it was answered and passed to me because the caller asked for me by name. <br /><br />She seemed like a nice person, and she said something about my being hard to reach. I laughed and said that I am sometimes hard to reach on purpose. That was the first hint that this was not going to go well.<br /><br />At this point, she launched into her pre-programmed spiel about the great need for research to help those afflicted with a certain condition. I could be a great help by contributing, and could they send me a reply card for a simple donation of $100.00? A payment schedule could be arranged. And...<br /><br />At this point, I cleared my throat and politely suggested we stop the script at this point, because we have already made our choices for the charities and organizations we can help support, given we are on an income which is simultaneously fixed and shrinking...<br /><br />As I took a breath (I have to breathe often because of my lung problem), she jumped back in to stress how important their work is and how flexible they can be on payments...<br /><br />Gently interrupting, I spoke a little more forcefully, with my best wheezy voice, and said that we would not be taking on any more contributions at this time, but will keep them in mind for the future. I was going to say good night as it was well after 9:00 PM.<br /><br />Well then! Could they send me a card to agree to a very small contribution of just $20.00? After all, this terrible condition could strike anyone in my family or friends and the cost of their medical needs and research...<br /><br />Less gently, I interrupted again, and said that the cost of my medical needs is also increasing and my income is going down as my insurance costs are going up -- in fact I had just received a notification from my car insurance company of yet another rate increase. So no, I would not be adding an additional expenditure to our list of charities. I took a breath...<br /><br />She came back with a reminder of how prevalent the problem is and certainly, I would be willing to sign a card for a minimum payment of $10.00 -- and maybe I should tell three people close to me that I love them for they are likely to get this problem...<br /><br />Believe it or not, I growled. <br /><br />There was silence on the line, whilst I counted to ten and tamed the beast that prednisone always creates -- it takes months for the pudgy face and belly and the junkyard dog to go away. After my count, I quietly said I was sorry, but no, there would be no contribution. I said "Thank you for cal..." and I hung up in the middle of my own sentence.<br /><br /> They never believe that you would hang up on yourself.<br />
<br />
<b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-33549323759141046612018-07-02T15:33:00.000-04:002018-07-02T15:33:11.583-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2688<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Fireflies in the Darkness</span></b><br /><br />I need to explain the source of my hyper-politicism and more than usually curmudgeonly language. It's called Prednisone. I am tapering off the steroid, but it's not yet gone from my system and my nerves are still buzzing and snapping -- fireflies in the darkness. <br /><br />My deepest desire has always been to live as large as life. I harbor no thoughts of being <i><b>larger than life</b></i>, or a retiring soul, complacent in a tiny corner of my appointed box. I want to fit my life -- just the right size. Life, unfortunately continues to change the size of my box and even attempts to push it off the table. And, of course, there is always someone who wants to steal my box -- usually while I'm busy scoping out someone else's...<br /><i><br />This is where my old pal, Prednisone, wants to play</i>. The steroid is a useful, even necessary part of treatment for conditions like mine, which involve a lot of inflammation. In the hospital, bags of this stuff hang near my bed, bathing my innards with the solution. In my case, the side-effects are well known. My nerves tense and conglomerate until they are one very large nerve, and <i>everyone gets on it</i>. That nerve is fast and furious. Response time is zero -- too fast for me to control or even slow.<br /><br />I have learned that it is not the "roid rage" that I so often hear about. My description would be <i><b>roid reaction</b></i>, instantaneous and not well controlled. It's the verbal outlash that you immediately regret and wish you could take back. It's the sudden, emotional reaction to something I read or hear, but it contains all the fire of a lightning strike in one uncontrollable blast. Like superelastic rubber, the harder you strike it, the harder it strikes back. <br /><br />Well folks, I've been living in that box for the last couple of weeks. This morning, I took a peek over the side and saw the tracks of my big boots where I've been trampling about again. Clint Eastwood tracks were everywhere. He once said: "I tried being reasonable, I didn't like it." To those on whose toes I left Eastwood tracks: Sorry.<br /><br />Perhaps Lord Byron said it best: "Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication." My take on that quote is that life itself is intoxicating -- get drunk on life.<br /><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Secrets and Fears</span></b><br />
<br />I must not forget the secret side-effect of such steroids: Fear. Death-cold, goosebump inducing, "someone just walked on your grave" grade fear often accompanies such treatments. I've experienced night terrors that I swear loosened the connecting tissues to my bones and apparitions that made my soul shudder. However, once you've faced death for real and found Faith as your armor, you breathe easier for you never feel alone.<br /><br />One must understand fear: It walks through walls, be they emotional walls, rock walls, or border walls -- walls do not stop fear. Fear lives only in your mind, you cannot buy it off and you cannot legislate it away -- and yet, you can share it with those ready to accept it. Like fire, it feeds and propagates. You cannot control fear or save it or box it up for later, but you can generate it as terror.<br />
<br />
How do I deal with fear? <br /><br />Prayer is essential. Trust me, it helps. And I add in one kinda strange exercise I learned while reading a science fiction classic: <i><b>Dune </b></i>by Frank Herbert. In <i><b>Dune</b></i>, a group called the Bene Gesserit recite a Litany Against Fear. I find it's imagery poignant and exactly what I need. Two versions appear in <i><b>Dune</b></i>, with minor differences. This is the Gom-Jabbar version:<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Litany Against Fear</span></b><br /><br /><span style="color: #0c343d;">I must not fear.<br />Fear is the mind-killer.<br />Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.<br />I will face my fear.<br />I will permit it to pass over me and through me.<br />And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.<br />Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.<br />Only I will remain.</span><br /><br />Thanks for reading along. Stay safe and free of fear.<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-72657832489446092772018-06-28T23:01:00.000-04:002018-06-28T23:01:52.070-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2684<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
Want to be an Ambulance</h2>
I was watching a cute video this afternoon, a dog listened to an ambulance passing his place, and then he began to howl and to imitate the ambulance sound -- not very well, but after all -- he IS a dog! The video was titled: <i><b>When I Grow Up, I Want to be an Ambulance</b></i>. After staring at his fuzzy, earnest face doing his best to be an ambulance, my heart went out to the fellow and I suddenly felt a strange sort of empathy for his plight. He wants to help, and he does his best with his limited tool set.<br /><br />Recently, I had several opportunities to feel the need to be an ambulance myself. First, was the night of the storm. I could tell that terrible things were happening outside, after all, it just doesn't rain like that around here very often. We were lucky that our house is up here in Florida Location, well above any flood plains and far above any ravines opening on the hills down to Lake Linden below us. The nearby wetland area absorbed most of the water falling on our hill and only about two inches of it ended up in our old basement -- just enough to shut off the water heater and ruin a few stored boards and boxes. Nothing we could not afford to lose out of laziness -- they were supposed to be on blocks or pallets.<br /><br />I wanted to be an ambulance -- to run out the door with my lights flashing and my siren roaring so that I could be a first-responder and help my neighbors down the hill. But, no. Instead, I went into the hospital myself with an organizing pneumonia and after an apparent TIA (Transient Ischemic Attack) -- a mini-stroke that left me coughing and babbling the word "brain" over and over for the balance of the day. Two and a half days, I remained in Intensive Care as my system slowly inched its way toward normalcy. My SPO2 was down around 80% (dangerously low) and my CO2 level was a bit too high -- probably causing the TIA.<br /><br />I'm home again and just finished a course of very strong antibiotics to kill the pneumonia. Home oxygen is once again part of my life. I am still chaffing to be an ambulance and help folks with their recovery, but my efforts all exist within the confines of my oxygen tube and nasal cannula. If I want to roam a bit, I have to suit up with my fancy oxygen tank and sporty short cannula, and take my tank for a walk. Some ambulance, eh?<br /><br />Maybe I should just howl a bit. I'm certain Dante would join me, and we can be ambulances together...<br /><br /><b>Mick</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-14777872483193623892018-05-25T19:57:00.000-04:002018-05-25T19:57:09.215-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2650<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<h3>
Bronze Age Redux</h3>
It was Wednesday, May 26, 2010 at about 9:00 AM, when I received a call at my workstation. I was working on a project for the Keweenaw National Historical Park under one of those federal programs that train seniors for jobs that don’t really exist. A few hours earlier, I’d stopped by Aspirus Keweenaw Hospital for a serious blood test, to determine if I had type II diabetes. The symptoms were all there...had been since January...and the fatigue was overwhelming. <br /> I was worried. When blood began to appear in my eyes and distorted my vision, it seemed prudent to get a diagnosis and deal with it. So, it was with trepidation I accepted the call. <br /> The nurse practitioner told me to get my butt over to the hospital immediately. They had an ambulance waiting for me...I had leukemia. Thus began my now eight-year journey.<br /> Tomorrow is the Bronze Anniversary of my diagnosis and marks eight years surviving Philadelphia chromosome positive, chronic myeloid leukemia. I have entered my <span style="color: #783f04;">Bronze Age</span>.<br />
<h3>
Betwixt and Between</h3>
As I enter my bronze age, I leave my stoned age behind. I am taking no regular pain killers now, and fewer drugs that leave me dizzy or wobbly. I begin the long wait for my iron age, when once again I will have the strength to lift and wield a cast iron frying pan. However, despite the Sumerians, Gilgamesh, and the Amorite Code of Hammurabi, I find it most ironic to have my bronze age in the Copper Country.<br /> All really bad jokes aside, I am pleased to note in passing that tomorrow I will be an eight-year cancer survivor. I shall celebrate with a cup of Earl Grey and a toasted English muffin with homemade blueberry jam. <br /> The above commentary came about as I was pondering the Code of Hammurabi, known for its harsh punishments, wherein literally an-eye-for-an-eye edicts appear, that are literally carved in stone -- a four-ton stele of diorite. However, the code incorporates, for one of the very first times, the idea that a person is innocent until proven guilty. It’s a precept often abandoned by our own court of social media.<br />
<h3>
One Final Thought</h3>
Although the age will be bronze, alas, I will remain pale as fresh milk. Like the vampires of old, I cannot long tolerate the touch of old Sol and must remain in the shadows, or bring my own shadows with me.<br /> I am thankful for all who sent thoughts and prayers. Your thoughts reassured me and your prayers convinced God to let me go on complaining and kvetching. Thank you.<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-92069937394204542852018-05-15T13:21:00.001-04:002018-05-15T13:21:33.429-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2640<h3>
Tangle Trap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</h3>
I had a dream last night. Marian and I had gone to Marquette for my
appointment at the hospital with a pulmonologist. He would be reading my
pulmonary function studies as the tests are done to track the
progression of my bronchiolitis obliterans, i.e., GvHD of the lungs. <br /> As we were leaving the waiting room, we had a chat with a young couple from Houghton. She was pregnant and having some difficulty breathing, but it wasn't serious. What was serious, was the condition of their car, apparently the victim of a runaway end-loader that nearly totaled their Cooper Mini. They badly needed a ride to Houghton, so we offered a lift home. Marian would wait with them, and I would toddle off to get our car and bring it around.<br /> My steps were not particularly buoyant, because my visit with Dr. Saari had not gone as planned. There were indications that my left lung was failing and recommendations were sent to my primary doctor that I should have a full panel of X-rays and maybe a CT Scan. I was focused on this news as I rode the elevator to the ground floor of the hospital. I stepped off the elevator, directly into a construction area -- what appeared to be a warehouse or steel-framed space, filled with end-loaders, welders, workmen in hard hats and overalls, and girders being lifted by what appeared to be a steam crane. My ears must have popped, because the sound was muffled and distant, as though I had cotton stuffed in my ears. <br /> I saw men in double-breasted suits and fedoras talking by a wooden stairway to a suspended office space, and headed in that direction. I turned around to place the elevator door in my memory, but it was gone, replaced by a large hole, partially filled with a huge form being filled with concrete...a footing?<br /> When I looked back, the men in fedoras were gone, but I could see shadows of people moving in the office. So, I toddled over and slowly climbed the stairs. I knocked on the door with a frosted glass window. When no one answered, I opened the door and walked in. Men in fedoras were standing around a desk, occupied by a young man in a plain wool suit, typing on an old Olivetti upright typewriter.<br /> I closed the door and turned around again...and was standing in a 19th century bedroom or hotel room, complete with pitcher and basin on a stand, floral wallpaper (which looked different every time I noticed it) and a four-poster bed with nightstand and oil lamp. Fog or mist blanked windows framed in heavy brocade curtains. Flickering light was provided by wall sconces -- gaslights by the look of them. <br /> Already occupying the room were two women and a baby. The women wore period traveling clothes and seemed in a rush to pack and leave. One portmanteau was open and a few items were on the bed. The baby was in a dresser drawer filled with towels and never moved that I could see. One woman was older -- perhaps 50 years old or so, with mostly gray hair. The other woman was ancient -- shriveled and stooped, white hair billowing about her wizened face. They ran back and forth to the baby and to the bed, talking a stream of nonsense in what I surmised was some form of German. At least it sound like German. I could not be certain, because the sound of their voices seemed to be coming from a great distance. Point in fact, they seemed a tad transparent and took no notice of me.<br /> I spoke to them and received not even a flicker of recognition. I tried to touch the younger woman, but my fingers slid off as though a shield interfered. I could not interact with them, so I decided to leave.<br /> When I turned around and reached for the door, I was surprised to be staring at a large dresser, a highboy with many drawers. A quick search showed a door in the opposite corner of the room, so I quickly walked over, grabbed the knob and pulled. <br /> On the other side of the door was another door which opened the other way. I opened that door and found a third door. The tenth door was locked. It seemed to be made of black oak and had a huge brass door lock. No amount of pounding, kicking, and shouldering had any effect whatsoever. It was immovable. <br /> I needed to reassess my situation, so I closed the ninth door and reached for the eighth. In doing so, I nearly stepped off the stairway to the office, almost falling to the floor ten feet below. I was out of the room!<br /> Looking about me, I discovered the construction site gone and I stood in a garage, facing the doors to the elevator. In the polished reflection of the elevator doors, I could just make out my reflection. Indistinct and wavy, I haunted the surface. But, my eyes were clearly reflected and my irises were black as midnight and gave me the shivers. I started screaming.<br /> Police were called, and I was transported home, refusing to go back into the hospital. Six months had passed since I toddled off to get the car. A whole lot of searching had been done and no trace was found until I appeared in front of the elevator doors. My story was met with blank stares and smothered sniggers. I felt wretched and misunderstood. <br />Anger burned me from the inside and I shrieked...<br /> I woke up from my dream, shaken and cold. Upon standing next to my bed, I looked into the bedroom mirror and my eyes looked weird. My soft brown eyes were hard black. I quickly looked away and back again. My old eyes stared back at me. <br /> Sometimes, dreams can feel too real.<br />
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<b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-6826859820772742702018-04-05T21:14:00.000-04:002018-04-05T21:14:22.550-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2600<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
Memories...For Sale?</h2>
I remember this sign that used to stand by the Houghton city limits as we drove into the area for the first time. It was the early 1960’s and we would not have believed that by 1967, we would move to this Copper Country.<br /> 1967-68 was not a happy school year for me. I was a senior in high school, transplanted from a Westland, MI super school to Dollar Bay, the smallest accredited school in the State of Michigan. Culture shock was the word of the day. Still, I wonder if my memories of that time are accurate.<br /> <b>I had a dream last night.</b> It was the same dream I’ve dreamed several times in the last week or so. In my dream, I’m a new medical doctor, a GP starting my practice in a small town very much like any in the Keweenaw. Working in a small town hospital, I was treating a wide variety of injuries, illnesses, and problems. I was also becoming involved in a great number of lives in my community, and with my coworkers. <br /> In the story, a coworker is involved in a bar fight. He starts the fight because he is drunk and because he is a malcontent with stacks of chips on both shoulders. He gets injured when he is pushed out the front door of the bar by a young man whose wife he is propositioning. Both men arrive at the hospital because my coworker slipped on ice and tangled with a guard rail and the pavement in the parking lot. The young man was tripped accidentally by a drunken fellow in the tavern and hit his head on the foot rail around the bar. This is how the evening ends.<br /> The next day, all is changed. All the patrons at the tavern say the young man's wife came on to my coworker and her husband blindsided him as he tried to leave. The young man hit his head when my coworker took him down with a single punch...what a man!<br /> The story goes and and I discover that SMS (Subjective Memory Services) is a private memory conversion company for the hyper-rich, and can alter perceptions and memories of events to the advantage of their clients...like my coworker. <br /> In the dream, I am one of the folks whose medical conditions short circuit their devices and I begin to see and recognize situations where facts on one day become different on another day, and people don't notice and don't care. We fight on, trying to find a way to fight the hyper-rich's control of the media, and their technology to affect memory.<br />
<h3>
For Real?</h3>
I wish I could say I have dreamed up solutions to these fantastic threats. My fears are most probably driven by recent attempts to subvert media outlets by those with the money to buy them outright and to financially coerce journalists. Fears often show up as monsters in dreams. Are the monsters real? I will never be part of the 0.1% who control most of the wealth of the world, so I will never be party to their power plays and will likely never look into the eyes of the monster.<br /> Oh, by the way, today is the 2,600th day since my transplant -- and I'm still alive and kicking. I have also discontinued the last of my pain medications, the acetaminophen, and I'm dealing with the pain in other ways -- or just living with it. Sometimes the pain and electric tingling serves to remind me that I am alive. <br /> Thanks to all who think about us and pray for us. It keeps me going to know you are there. And thanks for reading about my dreams.<br /><br />God bless,<br /><br /><b>Mick </b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-51922165759279416342018-02-21T14:10:00.000-05:002018-02-21T14:10:09.214-05:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2557<h3>
Seventh Milestone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</h3>
Seven years ago today, right about the time I'm typing these words, lifesaving stem cells from my brother Kevin were introduced to my weary and worried person. Months of chemotherapy leading to several days of conditioning, left my bone marrow barren and my immune system in shambles. Two small bags of stem cells were hooked up to my port and I waited while they slowly dripped into my heart for distribution throughout my system. <br /><br />No fanfare. No photos. It didn't take very long. I went back to our room at the transplant house and waited. <br /><br />Did I mention that I smelled like creamed corn for two days? That was interesting.<br /><br />I've treasured the fact that my miracle was such a low-key event. After all the hazmat gear of the chemotherapy sessions, the machinery of the testing and scanning, and the endless hours of solutions dripping into (and out of) me, the simplicity of the transplant was almost pleasant. It was, of course, an irrevocable step taken in desperation. My blood would no longer be MY blood -- it would be my brother's blood -- and that blood would take on a life all its own. <br /><br />In various ways, the blood in my body would reject me and attack me in confused fury. It attacked my skin, my liver, my kidneys, my eyes, my mouth and GI tract, my teeth, and my lungs. At the same time, my new blood was generally unwilling to respond to foreign invaders, requring multiple hospitalizations and re-vaccination for childhood diseases. I required cataract surgery, removal of my gall bladder, and treatment for skin cancer. I still take 12 medications.<br /><br />However, seven years later, I am still here -- alive and writing this depressing narrative! My new normal is unlike anything I could have predicted. That CML would change the course of my life never occurred to me as I was busy making retirement plans. I've learned that, although I need to plan for a future, I need to be flexible enough to absorb a sucker punch and resilient enough to come right back and make necessary course corrections. I also learned to live each day as though it might be my last. I try not to waste time on worry. <br /><br />Guess what? I am happier now than I can remember, because I know I can take a punch. Like my old Timex watch, I can "take a licking and keep on ticking." <br /><br />Thanks to everyone who helped us and sent so many (recently maligned) thoughts and prayers. It all helped.<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-5120326040076322282018-02-02T16:10:00.000-05:002018-02-02T16:10:31.691-05:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2538<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;">Call Me Sunny ⛅, Sonny!</b></h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;"> <i>Let me tell you about this morning's dream.</i> Today was the latest I have risen since my days in hospital, where I was in bed most of every day. My dream was difficult to flee this time. I truly wanted to stay asleep and enjoy the sensations of peace and warmth. <br /> You see, I was a star 🌟, like our Sun, but in human form. Although it felt as though I had a nuclear fire 🔥 at my core, it didn't burn me to cause pain, but infused every cell of my being with warmth and light. Overwhelmed with joy, I would explode into a massive ball of brilliant fire, but not destroy anything, just become a momentary burst of sunlight. Gold and silver streams of joy would burst forth, and whenever someone was touched by them, they paused and smiled...just a little.<br /> As I walked about in the snow, I felt the snow melt away and luxurious green grass and feathery moss appeared to cushion my feet. My feet were perfect, unscarred, and felt everything because I wore no shoes. Having known only pressure and pain for all but 18 months of my life, the experience was overwhelming. </b><b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br />
<h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;">Exploration and Investigation</b></h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;"> Although it was snowing like gangbusters, the flakes evaporated as they touched me. I could feel their feathery, chilly caress, a gentle summer breeze on a warm afternoon. The sounds were exhilarating. The hushed whisper of the snow, the rattling of the pine boughs in the wind, and the enveloping fairy cries of life all about tickled my ears. The rushing, hissing, whining, and roaring of tinnitus was gone, as was the patient thrum of my beating heart, and the distinct grinding of bones as I moved about. I almost heard silence for the first time.<br /> Hunger and thirst were behind me, and yet I still breathed. I sensed that I no longer needed to take a breath, but found some comfort in being able to do so without the pain and distress, so much a part of my daily life. I felt no pain at all, though I could touch things. I soon learned not to touch people, as they apparently could not see me, and it caused them distress. For a time, I simply watched them go about their self-important tasks and selfless expressions of love, as they worked, worried, wished, worshipped, and wondered. <br /> Few of the folk I haunted were happy. Although most had everything necessary for comfort, sustenance, companionship, and safety, few were satisfied and even fewer were happy. There were moments when individuals and couples would suddenly shine brightly and these ephemeral sunrises were common enough, but they seldom lasted more than a moment as the burning lights within were once again hooded and shut away -- even from each other.</b><br />
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<h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;">Shadows</b></h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;"> There were shadows moving among other living folk. <br /> These individuals and groups of individuals seemed to drain light away from others around them. There were no shadow couples, as even within groups, they shared little and what light touched them was deflected or absorbed. They carried their own personal winter with them.<br /> Still others seemed broken, their light flashing and surging, and then suddenly dimming -- even plunging into shadow. I came to think of them as distress beacons flashing in the night. Often, shining folk would congregate about such a beacon and seek to share and stabilize. Sometimes, no one helped and the beacon spun off flashing desperately in the distance. </b><br />
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<h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;">Fireflies Everywhere.</b></h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;"> Small flashing points of light drifted about, usually in the orbit of an individual or group of folk. It didn't take long to sense these were pets and other animals. They seemed to have a symbiotic relationship with folk, their tiny sparks adding to the glow of their compatriots.<br /> Larger glowing orbs appeared and disappeared constantly with and among the folk around me. It took a moment to realize they were just like me. Gazing and watching, flaring and shining, occasionally touching living folk. Often, they concentrated on the shadows, but just as often had little or no effect on the path of the shadows or the darkness around them. Sometimes, occasionally in the immediate vicinity of a shadow, sudden flashes and explosions of light would erupt. Instantly, I knew it was others discovering their light.</b><br />
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<h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;">Coming Home</b></h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-85ba4d68-5852-0c18-1e40-355f9cd1cb3c" style="font-weight: normal;"> As I began to flit and flicker about, visiting and watching and learning, a warm light enveloped me, revealing two paths. One lead to light, warmth, and a pain-free existence. The other drew me with an irresistible force, back to daily trials and a chance to share what I saw. Here I am, so you can guess my choice.<br /> For a few minutes after waking, the joy and the warmth stayed with me, as I slowly cooled back into plain Ol’ Mick. However, for awhile I was energized, happy, and at peace. Was I once again dancing near death? I wonder why I might have chosen to come back to this cold and cruel world. I also understand why some folks simply die while sleeping.<br /> Dreams are strange, wonderful, and dangerous things.<br /><br /><b>Mick</b></b><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-32170290488845022852017-12-31T16:19:00.000-05:002017-12-31T16:20:25.018-05:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2505<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
Looking Back</h3>
One also looks back at the year gone by. 2017 was not one of my favorite years, despite being the most recent and one of the loudest by far. I was put in mind of a saying which may be the most miss-attributed I've ever used. I must have said hundreds of times that "May you live in interesting times!" is an ancient Chinese curse. However, there appear to be no records of anyone in China or anyone ancient uttering that phrase as a curse or a blessing. Some believe it was taken from something Joseph Chamberlain said in the late 19th century, but even that is uncertain. (See: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/May_you_live_in_interesting_times">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/May_you_live_in_interesting_times</a> ) One of Terry Pratchett's <i>Discworld </i>novels is entitled: <b>Interesting Times</b>.<br />
<h3>
Recent History (and Politics, Sorry...)</h3>
Well, I would label 2017 as Interesting Times, encompassing mass shootings, severe hurricanes, earthquakes, massive wildfires, a lunatic threatening use of nuclear weapons, and Kim Jung-Un. Our president has used tactics rarely touched since the 1930's when another self-proclaimed leader rose to power through intimidation, hatred, fear, and bigotry. There are differences of course, Trump is much more orange. Mine is not a partisan view: I remain independent. However, as a history buff, I get antsy when I see it repeating. #FakePresident<br />
2017 also was the year when bright entertainment stars were tarnished and dimmed, and dimly-lit political figures became dark shadows. It was a year when conspiracy theorists flourished and science was muzzled by politics. Enough of that...for more, see the Internet.<br />
<h3>
Personally Interesting</h3>
My own situation had its share of issues. Mostly, I had to deal with blood pressure problems, not because my blood pressure climbed severely, but because acceptable BP was redefined much lower than before. Also, a funny looking keratosis on my neck turned sinister when we discovered it was cancer. An up close and personal contact with some liquid nitrogen burned that bridge and the resulting scar is the only evidence of my second bout with skin cancer. Apparently, the sun is not my friend.<br />
Overall, my health was fair this year. I was able to reduce my oxygen equipment from a full home base station (concentrator, bottles, pony bottles, etc.) to just two bottles, one with a regulator and one back up. I haven't used supplemental oxygen in over a year. This is a good thing.<br />
I am happy to see 2017 in the rear-view mirror and I'm ready to find out what 2018 has in store. Happy New Year!<br />
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<b>Mick.</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-52502019747449891662017-10-31T13:26:00.000-04:002017-10-31T13:26:58.596-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2444<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
All Hallows Snow</h3>
Once again, it's a White Halloween! Most folks dream and sing about a White Christmas -- but not in the Keweenaw -- we envision little creatures traipsing through the snow and slush and sleet to earn a sweet treat. Home is one of the few places where the weather is scarier than the costumes.<br /> Marian and Amanda were assembling the distribution packets for doorway dispersal this evening as I came downstairs this morning. They were laughing at the size of the candies, and mulling over having to place four pieces per packet, because the pieces were so tiny. Apparently, they’ve shrunk as well as gone up in price. Nice to know profits are up, as consumers get <i>nothing for something</i>.<br /> Perhaps we need to rethink the holiday. We could give out little packets of broccoli and kale...yum! I remember getting free toothbrushes at the dentist's house and some folks handed out pennies. Note: Pennies had value in those days -- especially at the candy counter in the corner store. 🍬<br /> There were a few Halloweens I remember particularly well. I was the oldest of five, and eventually I graduated from part of the pack to responsibility for the other four. At a young age, I learned the true meaning of “herding cats.” Perhaps the clearest Halloween was 1955. I was five years old and had my tonsils removed the day before. I could not trick or treat and had to stay home and rest. However, I got to have all the ice cream I wanted. <i>THAT </i>I remember!<br /> My happiest Halloweens were the years I went trick-or-treating with my own kids. Some years, we walked, some years we drove (raining), some years I pulled a little red wagon, and a couple that I pulled an old runner sled. Our daughter, Heather, took the younger kids a couple of times -- it was like watching a drill instructor at work. Safety first!<br /> I hope some of the traditions survive. I want my kids and grandkids to have fond memories of the holiday. <span style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Happy Halloween</span></span>!<br />
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<b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-14044011138860287152017-09-25T16:20:00.000-04:002017-09-25T16:20:44.998-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2408<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
Earworm</h3>
Today, I suffer from an self-inflicted earworm. <br /><br />I had to stop after spending a disproportionate amount of time sorting through Facebook "newsfeed" items and online news items. After trying desperately to sort out diatribes from passionate pleas, fiery four-letter words from salacious swag, spun stories from outright lies, and silly spam from heartfelt feelings, I was ready for my extended vacation to Catatonia with a stop-over at Stupor.<br /><br />I sat back and tried to wrap my mind around the hue and cry. Not for the first time, I was truly stunned by a wall of noise battering both vision and hearing. An urge rose up within me to cry out with the voice of Vesuvius: "Shut up!" And to pray for a sudden, stunned silence into which I could whisper a question: "If you were the last human on Earth, would you still hate?" As my imagination directed the movie for my mind's eye, Harry Nilsson's song, "Everybody's Talkin'" faded in as the soundtrack.<br /><br />In my daydream movie, I suddenly leapt into the sky, pierced a rainstorm as I arrowed upward, banked off the chill northern winds, and chased that summer breeze across the ocean into a brilliant sunrise. As I flew, I sang at the top of my lungs:<br /><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Everybody's talking at me<br />I don't hear a word they're saying<br />Only the echoes of my mind<br /><br />People stopping, staring<br />I can't see their faces<br />Only the shadows of their eyes<br /><br />I'm going where the sun keeps shining<br />Through the pouring rain<br />Going where the weather suits my clothes<br /><br />Banking off of the northeast winds<br />Sailing on a summer breeze<br />And skipping over the ocean like a stone"</blockquote>
<br />Alas, it was only a dream, and I am not Vesuvius.<br /><br />Peace, love, and blessings;<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-37729670992350274452017-09-21T16:16:00.000-04:002017-09-21T16:20:20.330-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2404<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5X-U1Uyib-E/UYCWvKhwedI/AAAAAAAABYE/BDKlAmOoB98q505kNt4hn1PiqJBEi4R1wCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/oyv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="132" data-original-width="181" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5X-U1Uyib-E/UYCWvKhwedI/AAAAAAAABYE/BDKlAmOoB98q505kNt4hn1PiqJBEi4R1wCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/oyv.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: large;">Man! That's Cold...</span></h3>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> My visit with Dr. Nguyen was a quick one. He looked at the now healed wound from removing the squamous cell growth from my neck, and explained why further work was necessary. Because this happened to me once before -- about 25 years ago -- I was aware of the need to take more tissue to assure that the cancer has all been removed. Some of the cancerous cells were right along the border of the tissue sample, so it seems likely that some cells remain.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Rather than schedule a visit to an operating room for surgery, the simplest procedure is to spray the area with liquid nitrogen -- essentially burn it with cold. He simply aims a spray container at the spot and as the nitrogen becomes a gas, it draws heat from the tissue it touches, freezing it instantly. He shot me twice, just to be sure. A spot on my neck is now freezer burned.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> If you want to see the damage, check out this <a href="https://drive.google.com/a/mmnetwork.info/file/d/0B1hmnmRKf3vBS1NmeFk4MzFOWU0/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Ugly Photo</a>. Honestly, it just looks like I leaned a little too close to a wood stove. It will blister and there will be a wound for awhile. I've had more severe burns. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Thank you for all the prayers and good thoughts -- I think we've got this one beat! Now I just have to figure out how to sleep when my neck hurts like the dickens...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Mick</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-73473549219441637152017-09-12T17:29:00.001-04:002017-09-12T17:47:20.143-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2395<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mD0mmhHrnmY/WbhQ5rIeHOI/AAAAAAAABo4/TJnpUDQlnPE6fVcwyfLYmnczcdU9d3l7gCLcBGAs/s1600/WIN_20170619_00_41_46_Pro%2B%25282%2529%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="284" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mD0mmhHrnmY/WbhQ5rIeHOI/AAAAAAAABo4/TJnpUDQlnPE6fVcwyfLYmnczcdU9d3l7gCLcBGAs/s200/WIN_20170619_00_41_46_Pro%2B%25282%2529%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" width="150" /></a></b></div>
<h2 dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 13pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Call Me Job</span></b></h2>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The results are back on the tissue (i.e., supremely ugly lump of flesh) removed from my neck by Dr. Nguyen on August 24. Squamous cell carcinoma (skin cancer) is the diagnosis. Despite hiding from the sun and wearing copious amounts of sunblock, the spectre has raised its ugly head upon my neck -- and once again given me pause to reflect upon the effectiveness of precautions.</span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One would think, with the dearth of sunlight in this area, my need to take 5,000 units of vitamin D3 every day because I live like a vampire, and my singular support of the sunblock industry, that I might be spared a recurrence of this form of the Big C. (Yeah, I had it before, about 30 years ago.) Nonetheless, it’s back.</span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Someone once told me that the purpose of my life was to be an object lesson for those sporting rose-colored glasses. Although I doubt the preceding wisdom, I do seem to have a close personal connection with an inordinate number of medical professionals... </span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On September 21, I will be examined with a view toward treating my healing incision with liquid nitrogen. The idea, I believe, is to give the cancer a cold from which it cannot recover, and prevent it from seeking refuge in my lymph nodes. One hopes the Squamish hooligans don't travel, as thanks to cutbacks in immune support, the local sheriff is short-handed. I will know more after the 21st.</span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As always prayers and good thoughts are welcome, even encouraged. God bless you all, </span></b></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;"><b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mick</span></b></b></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-50d71e78-77f9-345e-f5cd-8efbb1cad215" style="font-weight: normal;">
</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-28257875273114699022017-07-17T14:58:00.001-04:002017-07-17T14:58:25.341-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day+ 2338<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xA38GSU1BHc/VtykvsoMrZI/AAAAAAAABlU/Jrz77xWdOWwW--krp6ZT04JGSyvCq3-XACPcBGAYYCw/s1600/pencilmein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="282" height="197" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xA38GSU1BHc/VtykvsoMrZI/AAAAAAAABlU/Jrz77xWdOWwW--krp6ZT04JGSyvCq3-XACPcBGAYYCw/s200/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<h2>
Sleeping On My Soapbox</h2>
I woke very early this morning, one of those sudden awakenings for no reason, that leaves you awake and wondering why it happened. My windows were bright with moonlight, tinged with tree shadows from the street lights below. I lay silently unmoving, drifting along the shore of the ocean of dreams and the wakeful sands of reality. Waves of possible dreams lapped against my mind, but the cold hand of a harsh thought dragged me ashore.<br /><br />Fear poured over me, ice water cold rivulets ran down my spine and I shivered. A thunderous, yet whiny voice boomed up and down reality's ramparts: "Fake news!"echoed far and wide beyond the shore. Giant, glowing red letters appeared upon the ramparts, displaying this inquiry: "r u ok?" I lay my head upon the sand and wept...<br /><br />As the last wisps of my unintended vision drifted away, I lay back in my bed and pondered possible meanings for what I'd seen, felt, and heard. Perhaps, I thought, I was experiencing withdrawal from convivial conversation and the luxurious flow of whole sentences. In essence, it was withdrawal from my attachment to the English language. I fear losing the touch of skillfully written and delivered speeches upon my ears, the joy of reading entire paragraphs instead of bytes and bits and snippets and spin.<br /><br />One of the beauties of our language comes from the shades of meaning derived from use of just the right word in just the right place. Compare that to current dialogues comprised of a single phrase, littered with negative words, repeated endlessly (e.g., "fake news"), essentially a great hammer upon our ears. Consider the increased use of words and phrases imprecisely defined, subject to misinterpretation and misunderstanding (e.g., "Make America Great Again!"), essentially a yardstick with no markings upon its face. The word compromise isn't used now — it has too many syllables.<br /><br />I am no scholar, but I love language. English is difficult because it seems not to follow its own rules. English can be tough because it's different in different countries; even in different parts of the same country. English is hard because it draws words from nearly all the languages of the world and integrates them into our working lexicon. English is a challenge because it's a living language, constantly changing, evolving, and growing.<br /><br />America used to be like that. America is hard work — integration is never easy — but worthwhile in the long run. Why those lessons are currently being abandoned in favor of nationalism, discrimination, and a grade school vocabulary littered with letters for words... (r u ok?) is not entirely clear.<br /><br />I want to believe that it isn't a character flaw in the American people, but a frustration born of misunderstanding and lack of communication which helps give rise to the fear behind the hate behind all the ...isms that plague our society. If we are to succeed, it seems only appropriate to begin with a solid knowledge of our shared language.<br /><br />Maybe "lol" should mean: Learn Our Language<br />
<br />
<b>Mick</b><br />
<b> </b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-32790834109845390232017-06-09T16:23:00.000-04:002017-06-09T16:23:48.402-04:00Mick McKellar Update — Day +2300<h2>
Small Milestones Matter</h2>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xA38GSU1BHc/VtykvsoMrZI/AAAAAAAABlU/Jrz77xWdOWwaTZndKp8tbukxka1eCWA9gCPcB/s1600/pencilmein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="282" height="197" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xA38GSU1BHc/VtykvsoMrZI/AAAAAAAABlU/Jrz77xWdOWwaTZndKp8tbukxka1eCWA9gCPcB/s200/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Today marks 2,300 days since my blood
and marrow stem cell transplant on February 21, 2011. I celebrate small
milestones like these, in part, because each day is a gift and I look
for reasons to consider each day remarkable. It helps me find
significance in each moment and reasons to live in the "now," rather
than trying to dwell in the future, which isn't here yet <span>—</span> which makes living there an exercise in futility; or trying to live in the past <span>—</span> which remains fixed and unchangeable. I took a few moments to reflect on my own milestones <span>—</span> and those I missed...<br /><br />I
think we all must disappoint ourselves, at least on occasion. When I
was much younger, I used to berate myself, beat myself up over missing a
possible milestone or achievement. Sometimes it was a better score on
an exam. Sometimes it was losing a promotion or a pay raise. Sometimes
it was missing a chance at a special event or spending more time playing
with my own children. I was truly awful at that last one, not because I
didn't have the time, but because I didn't know how to play.<br /><br />All
of these mini-milestones began to accumulate, to collect, and to
matter. So quickly it still takes my breath away to think of it, the
time and opportunities swept by in a blur. Suddenly, I was a grandfather
who had never mastered the art and science of being a father. Oh,
although I'd supplied what safety and support I could afford, even some
limited luxuries and technologies, wisdom was wandering far afield and
foresight was focused far from the family.<br /><br />You see, I wasn't
living in my family's "now." I was focused on my future and reliving my
past. One was pulling me forward and away from daily problems and the
other was holding me back and stoking my fears of failure, illness, and
uncertainty. I was the father who really wasn't there...<br />
<br />
<h2>
The More You Complain, the Longer God Lets You Live</h2>
Mostly,
I complained. I grumbled and griped so much, and so often, that my
family eventually tuned me out and just ignored my grousing <span>—</span>
which infuriated me. I grew resentful and withdrew even further. By
this time, I had access to technologies that permitted, even encouraged
me to pull away and move my life online. As early as 1993, I was posting
more to chat rooms and discussion lists than having conversations
around our dinner table. The kids also had access, and they were
drifting off as well <span>—</span> into the game universe and into the ether. <br /><br />Time
flew by, jobs were eliminated, and I found even more to bemoan and
bewail until Wednesday, May 26, 2010 at about 9:00 AM. I was working
when the hospital called and in a few seconds my life focused on the
startling reality of leukemia. The past became immaterial. The future
was startlingly foreshortened. Like it or not, I was pulled into my new
"now." The initial view was grim.<br />
<br />
<h2>
Milestones, Beautiful Milestones</h2>
I'm
afraid I've become a milestone junkie. I pay attention to each little
step along my path now. I live as much as I can in the moment, because I
am fully aware of the precarious nature of my existence. Today is day
2,300 since my transplant, and those are a small number of days compared
to the 22,312 days of my life that preceded them. Still, 9.3% of my
life has been lived because of the miracle of surviving with my
brother's blood in my veins. <br /><br />The first successful bone marrow
transplant with a related donor was accomplished in 1956 between
identical twins. Earlier attempts at treatment failed because the bone
marrow was given by mouth. In 1958, the first non-related BMTs were done for workers after a nuclear reactor accident and the first studies of Graft versus Host Disease (GvHD) and the subsequent debilitation and wasting conditions were first documented. (See: <a class="externalLink" href="https://www.sciencelearn.org.nz/resources/1971-bone-marrow-transplants-timeline" target="_blank" title="External link to https://www.sciencelearn.org.nz/resources/1971-bone-marrow-transplants-timeline">Science Learning Hub</a>).
By the time I had my transplant, a lot of science had flowed under the
bridge, but the current is still strong and deep. Much remains to be
studied and patients still die for reasons not completely understood. <br /><br />For
all these reasons, I celebrate small milestones. They encourage me to
remain focused on the moment and to remember the wisdom of these
experiences: It is what it is.<br /><br />Thank you for reading this far, and God bless you.<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-91444070184312750762017-03-24T16:27:00.001-04:002017-03-24T16:27:25.563-04:00Mick McKellar Update — Day +2223<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/aoC6h5H_rvAQlqV7aSOfdRW9Tx0KeXikACPcB/s1600/pencilmein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/aoC6h5H_rvAQlqV7aSOfdRW9Tx0KeXikACPcB/s200/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<h3>
Waiting for Falling Shoes</h3>
In a couple of weeks, Marian and I once again will make our pilgrimage to Mayo Clinic for a substantial panel of blood tests, an increasingly uncomfortable test measuring my capacity to breathe, and a peek at the density of my bones. Doctors and nurses will poke me, measure me, and listen to what is going on inside me. They will ask myriad questions and offer few answers to what questions I can think to ask. I will offer my own list of observations; results of home testing — breathing exercises, blood pressure results, oxygen levels, and pulse counts; and observed changes on my skin, pain and stiffness in my joints, noises in my head and lungs, and side effects of medication changes. The usual stuff...<br /><br />It's not as if I will wake up one morning and my left arm will be gone — nothing so drastic as all that — but I do wake up every morning with the singular task of determining what, if anything, may have gone wrong. This has been a fundamental change in my approach to life. I always considered those who were so focused on minute changes in their health and well-being to be hypochondriacs or worse, delusional.<br /><br />Having grown up with bronchial asthma, hay fever, and peripheral neuropathy as constant companions, I considered myself a budding hypochondriac. Fortunately, a particularly pragmatic family doctor convinced me at age 15 or so, that if I thought I was a hypochondriac, I was not one — because they never admit to the problem.<br />
<br />
<h3>
"Reality continues to ruin my life." — Bill Watterson</h3>
I've often referred to chronic Graft versus Host Disease (cGvHD) as "the gift that keeps on giving." For some, the T-cells settle down and accept the host as their new home. My brother's T-cells are stubborn and will, on occasion make their presence known. About a month ago they held a demonstration in my mouth and throat, involving blisters and raw, red flesh. It lasted about two weeks and was very uncomfortable. I managed without additional medications other than a few extra acetaminophen tabs, supplemented with decaffeinated teas and soft food.<br /><br />Watching has become my job. I watch my skin constantly and Marian watches the places I cannot see. A new blemish or flaky patch must be examined. Age spots drive me crazy. I cough a lot and I have to watch the color of whatever I cough up. I'm on snot watch, because goobers can tell a tale. Yeah, I have to watch the other stuff, too.<br /><br />I watch people constantly. I seldom go out in public in the cold months as there are too many sick people wandering about. Still there are times I must go out, like to the hospital to see a doctor or a billing clerk. I see many billing clerks.<br /><br />I try not to touch anything without my gloves. If someone coughs or sneezes, I scamper away like a great, slow moving sloth/squirrel running for its life. I look for signs of illness — excess tissues, red noses, watering eyes, chain-sucking cough drops, etc. Kids are walking Petri dishes, and I give them a wide berth. Remember: I'm not paranoid...those germs are out to get me.<br /><br />I love life and I enjoy talking or discussing with friends. However much of life I must keep at arm's length for fear of infection. In many ways, this experience has fundamentally changed me and my world view. I am becoming more like today's denizens of social media. Why they choose to communicate impersonally, electronically, through such limited media, I don't understand. Talking on the telephone feels so personal now, I can hardly believe it. While typing words onto a screen for many to read and agencies without faces to record and analyze seems almost natural. It feels almost as though everyone is watching, yet no one can see me. I am at once exposed and invisible, in your face and totally detached.<br /><br />And then, <i>reality continues to change my life</i>.<br /><br />Good evening and God bless,<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-39113921267744015362017-02-20T20:52:00.000-05:002017-02-20T20:52:25.519-05:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2190<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xA38GSU1BHc/VtykvsoMrZI/AAAAAAAABlU/Jrz77xWdOWwaTZndKp8tbukxka1eCWA9gCPcB/s1600/pencilmein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xA38GSU1BHc/VtykvsoMrZI/AAAAAAAABlU/Jrz77xWdOWwaTZndKp8tbukxka1eCWA9gCPcB/s200/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<h3>
Another Milestone</h3>
Tomorrow, February 21st, marks my sixth re-birthday. I thought not to reach this milestone, but here it comes — just now in sight down the road. Tomorrow marks the anniversary of my Blood and Marrow stem cell Transplant (BMT) in 2011 — the day stem cells and T-cells from my brother, Kevin were introduced into my own blood stream. Within weeks, my own blood and DNA were replaced by Kevin's blood and DNA, and I physically became two rather different people living in the same body.<br /><br />Although we usually get along, you know siblings. When conflicts arise between blood and body, I know it immediately, because of the amazing, often terrifying side effects. This is known as Graft versus Host Disease or GvHD, an opportunistic and absurd disease, requiring constant watchfulness and lots of medications. I still hope we tire of fighting each other, and settle down and coexist in peace.<br />
<h3>
Anniversaries are Important</h3>
I spend my days on moments. Each golden moment is dearly purchased with coin irretrievable, unloanable, unsaveable, and unborrowable. Time may only be spent, invested, or wasted. Were I to keep a ledger of my time, I believe I would be aghast at how little was spent wisely or invested sagely, and how much was simply wasted.<br /><br />Were hours spent sleeping not healing and comforting and energizing, I should want to never sleep. For most of my life, I did sleep less than my contemporaries — a mere 4 to 5 hours per night. Now, of course, I must sleep more, because daily living has a higher cost and healing comes only at a premium. Yet, spend I must, or invest in a future I will likely never see. I have become fascinated, perhaps obsessed with avoiding the anathema of wasting time — precious and perilously fleeting time. This leads to quirky behaviors, such as spreading thick layers of personal "wisdom" everywhere — often where it's not really welcome. For that, I apologize to one and all. It also leads to impatience, especially with young folk who rush about in a frenzy and yet paradoxically, feel as though they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do, but I have learned that I do not.<br /><br />There is a growing selfishness within me that drives me to pay special attention to anniversaries. My own birthdays have become mile markers on my personal highway. I don't fear them, or ignore them as many do: I treasure them and measure them against my accomplishments; always finding the latter wanting by comparison. It's an unfortunate habit, and a waste of precious time.<br />
<h3>
The Gift</h3>
The gift of my leukemia, its subsequent treatment, and my close approaches to death's threshold has been learning to live <i>one day at a time</i>. Living as much as possible <i>in the moment</i>, gives one a new perspective on time and its value. I try not to waste it, but I no longer worry about <i>saving </i>it.<br /><br />Goodnight and God bless,<br />
<br />
<b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-630616020549551302016-12-30T01:21:00.000-05:002016-12-30T01:21:59.459-05:00Mick McKellar Update — Day +2139<h1>
</h1>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
A Blare of Trumpets... and A Sour Note</h2>
I
planned to end my updates for 2016 with a long list of blessings: I am
still alive. I have family and friends who care about me. My grouching,
grumping, and grousing have not yet alienated my wife and my kids (I
think...). I am nearly off supplemental oxygen. I no longer take Sprycel
($10,000 per month). The list goes on...<br /><br />An air ambulance
emergency transfer to Rochester Methodist Hospital was not a positive
development, and neither was the addition of another set of medical bill
payments for the local hospitalization <span>—</span> a full year's worth of deductible and co-pays, all wrapped up in ribbon and string. Still, on balance, I felt good about 2016.<br />
<br />
<h2>
Then Comes the Sour Note</h2>
Three
days ago, in the evening before bedtime, Amanda came charging down the
stairs asking for basins, buckets, and bowls. The ceiling in her room
had opened like the proverbial, biblical firmament. It was raining in
her room! A search in the attic and crawl spaces showed no water
reservoir, and there had never been a leak in the roof on the east side
of our home. It is a protected section of our 12X12 roof (very steep).
It sheds snow like crazy, and ice only develops on the very tips of the
eaves, falling like miniature spears between our house the neighbor's
garage.<br /><br />I sped outdoors, expecting to spot where a satellite,
meteorite, or flying pig had crashed through the roof, and found an
amazing sight: Along an irregular, wandering line about a third of the
way up to the peak, was a large ice dam, running from the front edge of
the roof to the rear edge of the roof, with what looked to be up to a
foot of snow piled above it. I'd never seen anything like it on either
the eastern or western side of our upper roof. <br /><br />We had replaced
the western side in the last year with what little remained of our
retirement funds, because it had been severely damaged by Keweenaw
weather and prevailing winds. The eastern side was sheltered and was
judged to be in great shape. Our attic is insulated and not heated. We
had not changed our heating practices. So apparently, somehow the recent
storms coming from the east and south east, the high winds, the warm
days/wintry mix/freezing rain combination worked to create this
meandering ice dam. Recent warmer days melted the snow, the ice dammed
it up, and it found an entry point or two.<br /><br />An emergency call to
Dan Riutta Construction brought one of his workers yesterday, who gamely
climbed a ladder from my neighbor's garage roof and used a sledge to
hammer the ice dam to smithereens, and a roof rake to pull the snow
down. How he was able to cling to a ladder in 30 mph winds and heavy
lake effect snow is beyond me. I was outside for most of the time, and I
am now paying for my indiscretion with flaring attacks of peripheral
neuropathy and sore, irritated lungs. I have enough pins and needles in
my feet and hands to supply a sewing shoppe. <br /><br />Amanda's ceiling is
a soggy and stained mess. It will be spring before I can test it for
strength and begin to think about sealing and painting. I don't know
what can be done about the roof. I hope the leaky spot can be identified
and sealed with roofing compound. <br /><br />I have no clue what the bill will be for snow and ice removal, but it sounds like a few more meals of cold cereal or <a class="tiddlyLink tiddlyLinkNonExisting" href="https://www.blogger.com/null" title="The tiddler 'PBJs' doesn't yet exist">PBJs</a> may be in order during 2017.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading along. Goodnight and God bless! <br />
<br />
Mick Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-58959016731851962472016-11-08T14:00:00.000-05:002016-11-08T14:00:22.479-05:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2087<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Paranormal...Almost:</span></b><br />
<br /><b>A Tale of Timorous Terror and Pedestrian Politics </b><br />
<b> </b><br />Waking up this morning was an almost terrifying experience. As I floated up from dreamland to what passes as reality in my vicinity, I noted that my sheet and blanket were slowly retracting -- moving downward -- by themselves! For several shockingly slow microseconds, my slumber-saturated consciousness stood half-dressed in the dark hallways of my mind screaming: “Ghost, arrrghh!” <br /><br />
Running footsteps echoed from behind me, and I was spun about to face...right-brained me -- in a frumpy and tattered, striped and worn bathrobe. He slapped my face: a mask that somehow simultaneously shouted “terror” and “vacancy.” As his hands gripped (painfully) my shaking shoulders, he admonished me in his annoyingly avuncular voice. Apparently, I’d propped my now aching, injured leg on a large pillow last night, and had kicked the pillow off the bed in my sleep. The plummeting pillow pulled my covers from the bed. No para. Merely normal. <br /><br />
Underwhelmed, I woke up and voted.<br />
<br />
<b>Mick </b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-71527453205079195392016-11-06T22:43:00.001-05:002016-11-06T22:43:48.407-05:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +2085<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
<h2 dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Workhard and the Staples<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/aoC6h5H_rvAQlqV7aSOfdRW9Tx0KeXikACPcB/s1600/pencilmein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/aoC6h5H_rvAQlqV7aSOfdRW9Tx0KeXikACPcB/s200/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
</span></b></h2>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday and today were fine examples of late autumn wonder days. Especially when the thermometer was flirting with 70℉ in the early afternoon. Never one to sit inside when the great weather calls, I spent most of yesterday and a big part of today out in the garage, getting ready for the long winter days when I wished I had cleaned up the space and made room for the inevitable accumulation of cold weather detritus and quick access to snow removal tools. </span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday was a good day. Marian was gone to a bowling tournament and I had time on my hands, so I could slowly begin to organize and put away tools, parts, and supplies I left out because I was too tired to clean up when making emergency repairs. Cardboard boxes tend to find their way into the garage until I can break them down and either burn them or package them for trash pickup (if they are plastic coated). </span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since yesterday was a success, I thought today had to be better because I had Marian’s help. We were really clicking along, boxing stuff to give away, bags to recycle, items to finally trash, and storing items for next summer’s garage sale. Then came that awful moment when we have to wiggle the bicycles into the basement corner for the long cold winter. Marian rushed to open the back door to the basement and I (slowly) started to walk Amanda’s bike from the garage to the back yard. Easy, right?</span></b></div>
<h2 dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe Not So Easy…</span></b></h2>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I carefully kicked up the kickstand, pushed her bike out into the road and maneuvered it around the car and walked it up the left side of the driveway. I forgot about her tricky kickstand, which decided to suddenly drop downward and hooked the hem of my jeans, nudging me off-balance on the edge of the driveway (over the culvert), and tipping me over. I did a slow motion fall into the ditch next to the drive, with the bike attached to my right leg. </span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This would have been embarrassing enough, but after I disentangled from the bike and managed to stumble back to my feet, I felt something wet trickling down my right leg. A quick look down confirmed a couple of large patches of red forming on my jeans and turning my white sock a very pretty pink. Great! I managed to get a scratch on my leg! </span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I slowly lumbered into the house and to the bathroom, so I could clean up the mess and put a bandaid on the scratch. Further observation showed both steady bleeding and substantial swelling on my right shin. This was not good. So I bellowed for Marian advising that I needed help to clean up the scratch and see if a larger bandage was needed.</span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Marian took one look, became rather pale and suggested a quick visit to the emergency room at Aspirus Keweenaw. So, I stuffed a wad of toilet paper into my pink sock and off we went...she drove.</span></b></div>
<h2 dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17.333333333333332px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A Big Surprise</span></b></h2>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I climbed up on the emergency room gurney and pulled up the right leg of my jeans. After the nurse rinsed my leg, I had my first unobstructed look at my “scratch.” There must have been something very sharp on that kickstand, as it neatly sliced through my skin to open a nasty looking wound on my right shin. Dr. Patton and the emergency room nurse (whose name, to my never-ending shame, I cannot remember) cleaned up my wound, massaged out forming hematomas, and stapled it closed. The scratch was 8 inches long and required 18 staples to close.</span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My right shin now looks like it has an 8 inch zipper on it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go elevate my zippered leg…</span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9fd06e73-3cd6-b5a4-e1f6-3feed78cda08" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mick</span></b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-79441872192420061242016-08-12T00:18:00.002-04:002016-08-12T00:18:56.283-04:00Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1999<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Milestones and Legacies</span></b><br /><br />We recognize and celebrate milestones. It's how we measure both the passage of life and our collection of legacies. Many are extremely personal, as is tomorrow's milestone. It's one that seemed impossible more than five years ago.<br /><br /><i><b>Saturday, August 13 </b></i><i><b><i><b>(tomorrow)</b></i> is the 2000th day since my blood and marrow stem cell transplant (BMT) on February 21, 2011! </b></i>On that day, I received the gift of stem cells and T-cells from my brother Kevin. Those cells engrafted into my bone marrow and began producing the necessary blood cells to keep me alive.<br /><br />The event itself was remarkably benign and rather boring — I was party to the delivery of a couple of bags of cells attached to the port in my chest, an examination to make sure I wasn't allergic to anything delivered, and a quick trip back to the Gift of Life Transplant House — surrounded by the unmistakable odor of creamed corn. The fragrance was from the chemicals used to preserve the cells. It didn't make me hungry.<br /><br />I have often written of the journey of the next 100 or so days, in preparation for going home in June 2011, and of the many battles since coming home. My dance with both acute and chronic Graft versus Host Disease (GvHD) is ongoing, and the stories about the bewildering variety and potency of my medications would bore you to tears. We've had some very close calls, and additional problems and surgeries since 2011, but with the grace of God and the prayers and good thoughts of my friends and family, I am still here, and Marian is still taking care of me. I often wonder how she does it. I'm not sure I could have put up with me.<br /><br />I've lived one-day-at-a-time, always with the proviso that any day could be my last. Although that threat remains, it seems distant now, after so many gifts. Problems still pop up (Tuesday night, I broke another tooth — I think some of my meds weaken them), but we fix what we can and march forward.<br />
<br /><b>Lessons</b><br />Here's a few things I learned along the way to day+ 2000:<br />
<ul>
<li> The physical cost is immeasurable.</li>
<li> The financial cost is ruinous.</li>
<li> The emotional cost is enormous.</li>
<li> I can survive prodigious pain, and fortunately, morphine can reduce that pain to tolerable levels.</li>
<li> Life is precious and worth fighting for.</li>
<li> Friendship and love are real superpowers!</li>
<li> Don't waste a second of your life, because it can slip away in a moment.</li>
<li> Keep your fear in your back pocket. If it bothers you, sit on it.</li>
<li> Hate is an expensive hobby that creates only pain and leaves you empty, hollow, broken.</li>
<li> Never go to bed without saying, "I love you," to those who share your life.</li>
</ul>
<b>Losses</b><br />We made many friends at Gift of Life, and we lost more than a few. This caused many long nights brooding over why I was spared. Somehow, I managed simultaneously to feel excited, happy, grateful, blessed, confused, frightened, sad, loved, and lonely. At times I thought my heart might explode. Add high-dose steroids to the mix (prednisone), and my behavior could, at times, be frightening. It was a time for tough lessons.<br /><br />Well, I just wanted to share my milestone, and to jump up and down and point at my growing life legacy. Thanks to you all for your prayers and good thoughts, and for continuing to share this journey with us!<br /><br />Good night and God bless!<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-8988179063023302032016-07-07T17:10:00.000-04:002016-07-07T17:10:25.761-04:00Mick McKellar Update — Day +1963<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/MVxU_JOaaUsinMHOc8xEVJxDTBKFR7dTwCKgB/s1600/pencilmein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/MVxU_JOaaUsinMHOc8xEVJxDTBKFR7dTwCKgB/s200/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Some Days I Amaze Myself...</b></span><br />Other days, I put my keys in the fridge. I have to assume the same is true for most everyone I know. Best laid plans and all that. One of the side effects of trying to live one-day-at-a-time is the compulsion to make every second count. I suppose it stems naturally from up close experience concerning my own mortality. Hence stems my desire to discover and implement methods of battling the creeping deterioration so prevalent with chronic Graft vs. Host Disease (GvHD).<br /><br />There also remains a nagging fear that someday the medical establishment will add the word, "Syndrome" after my name...<br /><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />An Opportunity</span></b><br />The sudden arrival of Keweenaw Summer provided a golden opportunity to once again stretch my limits. Each day for the last week or so, I've shut down the oxygen compressor/concentrator at home and functioned as best I can without supplemental O2. Yesterday was the first day that I was able to abstain from any supplemental oxygen for the entire day! I didn't run any half-marathons or go jogging with Dante, but I did hang around and bother the repairman from Keweenaw Overhead Door as he made repairs to our BBM — Big Blue Monstrosity. Our garage door is 16+ feet of solid wood core panels and with sticky rollers, ruined pulleys, and maladjusted springs was almost impossible to lift. As he worked, I putzed about, asking questions and annoying the poor fellow. I washed dishes and did a little housework. I was slow and methodical and did not need an O2 supplement.<br /><br />I put the hose back in my nose at bedtime. However for most of today, I'm off oxygen again — although I had to use bottled oxygen when we went up to Sacred Heart for a Rosary. One cannot be too careful. As I sit here now, hoseless, munching a cinnamon graham cracker and sipping cold coffee from breakfast, I am aware of how lucky I am to be breathing at all. It makes the mundane moment miraculous. It teases me to make today so awesome, yesterday gets jealous.<br /><br />Still thankful for all your prayers and good thoughts, I remain a happy man. Good afternoon and God bless!<br /><br /><b>Mick</b>Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1018322167370738275.post-47326564096644633242016-06-29T15:26:00.000-04:002016-06-29T15:26:00.540-04:00Mick McKellar Update — Day +1955<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/MVxU_JOaaUsinMHOc8xEVJxDTBKFR7dTwCKgB/s1600/pencilmein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-337c0NvEYkY/Vt_BjsHKyLI/AAAAAAAABmM/MVxU_JOaaUsinMHOc8xEVJxDTBKFR7dTwCKgB/s200/pencilmein.jpg" width="200" /></a><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Mental Inventory</span></b><br />One of the perfunctory perquisites of my limited capacity to actually accomplish tasks in the physical sense, is the lavish, but lukewarm luxury to perform herculean tasks in the dusty old attic of my mind. In other words, it is time for another dust up and inventory.<br /><br />How does one inventory such an old attic? I read my journal entries for the last six months or so and try to remember what was going on when I wrote the words and penned the poems. I try to understand the purpose and the importance of images I included in the journal. This also gives me a chance to edit out some of my more egregious errors (grammar, not memory). The attic is located upstairs in my Grand Library, wherein I hope to find the supporting documentation for the wild variety of attic items collecting their first layers of dementia dust.<br /><br />I know I've mentioned my attic before, full of storage boxes, piles of documents, shadows, smoke, and lots of mirrors. This year, I've noticed that the dust accumulates a little faster and clings a little longer than in the past. I have to work much harder to read those documents, to open those receptacles, and to polish those mirrors. There are more shadows and more smoke than I remember, making it harder to find things. I also noted problems with creaking and leaking.<br /><br />Someone (me?) dragged a well-worn recliner over by a gable window — a great place to rest and maybe take a nap while sorting through memories and images.<br /><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Who Wrote That?</span></b><br />Reading my own words after sufficient time, feels like reading them for the first time — like the author is someone else that I may or may not want to get to know. The me of now meets the me that used to be — the experience can be unnerving.<br /><br />For example, I am editing my journal entries for the first 100 days after my blood and marrow stem cell transplant. Marian and I were required by Mayo Clinic to remain near the hospital and facilities for at least 100 days after an allogeneic BMT. We were in Rochester for 4.5 months, during which time I wrote daily journal entries about my experience, among other topics, and shared them by email and Facebook with friends and relatives.<br /><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Playing Telephone</span></b><br />I often tell tales about my experience during this time of my life. Some would say that I repeat myself often and kindly refrain from complaining about it. When I compare the content of my verbal recollections with the details in my journal, I find that like Snow White, I drifted.<br /><br />Mostly I find that the order of events has blurred a bit and some of the details have either been edited out or been embellished (a very minute amount!) to make the story more entertaining. It's like the old game of Telephone we played as kids (and adults), To play someone whispers a short story or comment to the first person sitting in a very large circle. Each person then whispers the story to the person on their left as accurately as possible, until we come "full circle," at which time the last person relates the story. It is compared to the original and nearly always is vastly different.<br /><br />It is human nature to relate tales imperfectly over time. This is one reason important facts were installed in rhymes and stories before the advent of easy access to physical data storage.<br /><br />I forgive myself for drifting, but now it is time for me to shovel the dementia dust from the records and polish them up to look new.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">New Tools</span></b><br />I have begun using a new tool in my editor's kit. Text to speech readers have come a long way from the first attempts and many are available as browser plugins or apps. Some are free or ask for a small donation. I'm using several plug ins because I use several browsers. I've become comfortable with one that reads text in my Firefox browser. It's voice has a British accent, but I kind of like that. It reads my text as I follow along and this helps me focus and identify common errors and clumsy sounding sentences. It's a useful tool.<br /><br />It also saves the text session as an .mp3 file which I can download and save.* The reading is not perfect, but good enough to share, and it makes my poor scratchings more accessible to those who are reading impaired.<br /><br />Of note as well: I just passed day +1950 — the year I was born. No deep meaning here, just an interesting side note. For those who follow along, my medical situation has improved slightly. The warmer weather and reduction in pollen has made breathing easier. I will be going back to Rochester in August, mostly for another CT scan so they can take a look at the shadow in my left lung and decide if further investigation is needed. Interesting times, indeed!<br /><br />Thanks for your prayers and good thoughts! God bless and good afternoon!<br /><br />Mick<br />
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*You can try to download and listen to an <a href="https://sites.google.com/a/mmnetwork.info/home/Home/share-stuff" target="_blank">audio file of this Update</a>. (No guarantees, never tried this before!) <br />
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<br />Mickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09102690853658870173noreply@blogger.com0