Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1475

“A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.”
― Emily Dickinson

Call Me Mr. Nibs...

Yesterday, I stumbled across my old journals. Literally, I stumbled across them, as they had fallen from a bookshelf. Once again, the decluttering bug has bitten, and I’ve been throwing out considerable amounts of old paperwork and the detritus that accumulates around massive numbers of medical and insurance files and communications.

As I opened the journals, I stepped back to a time when I hand wrote all entries, or typed them out and pasted them to pages in sketch books. My journals were originally written on either lined paper in binders or wire-bound notebooks. The last few of them, however, were book-bound sketchbooks. I preferred writing on unlined pages, especially with a fountain pen or (more often) with a dip pen. I would paste in pictures that I printed or cut from newspapers or magazines. Sometimes, I’d paste a photograph on a page. I even drew images -- anything to break up pages with monolithic blocks of hand-written text.

Anyone who knows me well enough to have received a handwritten note or letter, will attest to my awful handwriting. My hands were damaged as a small child, and my writing  was so bad in school that my parents let me use an ancient Underwood typewriter until they bought me a portable typewriter. I used that portable machine until, when a freshman at Michigan Tech, I could no longer get ribbons for it. So, writing pages of my thoughts in an even semi-readable script was a big deal for me.

Jump to 2015

Now, my handwriting has morphed into a hodgepodge of cursive and printing, spiced with exotic aspects generated by finger numbness brought on by neuropathy and the magic of tremors. Writing with a dip pen now requires about the same level of concentration I would need to write with my right foot. Yesterday, I was holding the nib so tightly, I think I broke a blood vessel under the nail of my right index finger. Now that’s focus!

Needless to say, I don’t do all my scratching with a dip pen. After an appropriate time struggling with Mr. Nib, I switch to an appropriately thick ballpoint pen. The writing is easier and the text is more legible.

Why Write on Paper?

There is something magical about scratching letters on a blank sheet of paper, an empty page, with what essentially amounts to a sharpened stick and dirty water (ink). It transports me back to distant memories of correspondence -- writing actual letters and sending them physically to another person simply for the pleasure of sharing my thoughts and the hope of receiving a reply. There were no spell checkers, and usually corrections involved crossing out the mistake and writing the word correctly -- or trying to morph the letters on the page into something that looked like the right spelling. Note: If your handwriting is bad enough, it is much easier to get away with the morphing correction method.

However, there is another magic found in the effort to scratch my thoughts on pages in a blank book. The discipline and concentration help me control my tremors. The shakes come and go. For the moment, they are back and have become quite a nuisance. I have hopes that my efforts will tame the shakes, jerks, and spasms enough to prevent spilling hot tea in my lap.

Finally, pen and ink bypass the issue of keeping my electronic journal entries accessible and readable. I’ve used a variety of formats over the many years (22 since I started recording on the computer), and I still worry that future software will not be able to read my notes.

It's late, but I had one final thought before turning out the light. Many years ago, I would sit up in bed and write on a tablet with pen or pencil. Tonight, I'm sitting up in bed writing this on a different kind of tablet -- with stylus and fingertip.

Good night, and God bless,

Mick

“To write is human, to receive a letter: Devine!”
― Susan Lendroth

Mick McKellar Update — Day +1464

Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere. — Carl Sagan

Orson Scott Card wrote a passage in Ender's Game which uplifted me and frightened me half to death. Ender Wiggin said: “In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them.... I destroy them.”

Enter Facebook

Not just Facebook, but all social media touch us, in unrelenting floods, nearly every waking minute of every day. No, I don't spend all day with my face buried in Facebook. I quit using Twitter two weeks after I first tried it, and have basically left other recent entries alone — or barely sampled them. I still use email, but my friends who use email, use it in much the same fashion as I used traditional post when email was the social media of choice.

Television remains an active feature of my every day, but in proportionally smaller amounts with each passing year. I watch the evening news (local and national) and scan our local newspaper. I like the comics.

In this daily laboratory, I examined my personal experience of social media, and truly began to sense the true genius behind two of Card's characters: Peter and Valentine Wiggin — Ender's brother and sister. Peter is brilliant and violent. Valentine is brilliant and loving, but they become media personalities in direct contradiction to their own characteristics. Valentine becomes Demosthenes, a war-mongering hawk, who urges war between cultures and countries to resolve differences. Peter becomes Locke, who promotes diplomacy and compromise to settle differences. They are brilliant and gather followers, becoming media superstars.

The tragic power of their public contest, is that the dominant Peter is directing the whole morality play, leading people by their hates and prejudices to make him a leader and do exactly what he wants. His manipulations lead to terrible consequences. Both are children, but on the Internet...

Written in 1985, Card's vision brings to light some uncomfortable truths about today's social media and the willingness of loyal readers to follow, almost without thought, the lead of their favorite media celebrities. All of this happens without healthy skepticism, rational consideration of consequences, or ever questioning facts and sources.

Testing, Testing...

When this thought touched my mind, I began to delve deeper into the comments attached to some of the more virulent memes that populate my Facebook feed and ancillary feeds to which those connect. It seems most folks have their privacy settings set to "Public." My preliminary findings so shocked me, that I began responding — usually by posting corrections of some of the most inaccurate quotations I have ever seen, and by exercising my editing skills (just a tad) and posting corrections to basic grammar and language mistakes. I even experimented with asking a few pointed questions about the logic and facts in posted comments and arguments.

The backlash was immediate, and occasionally rude and personal. Violence was indirectly suggested a few times. So I retreated to silent observation and the occasional grammar Nazi exercise. Just can't help myself, I guess.

It did give me pause to consider the sources of these postings, usually leading to online publications dedicated to some political or ideological cause, complete with scandalous and shocking headlines that strained the truth of the facts nearly to the breaking point. It seemed that no aspect of human concerns was immune to such treatment.

There is a war underway, a war for our minds and our hearts. It is not a war of two armies, or three armies, or five armies. It is a war of many armies and it seems our safety has been preserved only because there are so many combatants, none can gain complete traction. This however, appears to be changing. Consolidations occurs, some groups are meeting with success, and recruitment is underway.

It haunts my dreams.

In the book, Ender's Game, Ender Wiggin is fighting an implacable foe who has superior numbers and a technological edge. However, because he understands his enemy, he defeats them. He also comes to understand and to love them, spending the rest of his life (and several more books) trying to make amends.

His enemy become his loved ones. His loved ones become his enemy.

Larger Than Life

Why write all of this now? Partially, I wanted to put my fears and concerns into words. However, the trigger for me was the fall of TV anchor, Brian Williams. Why would a competent, talented reporter seek to embellish his backstory?

Perhaps we all feel we can get away with such blatant falsification of facts because, in all the dust stirred up by muckrakers and blowhards, no one will ever see the reality of the gratuitous, grand image, the lack of threads in the emperor's new clothes. Perhaps there is simply a need to grab a greater share of the limelight and garner a bigger stage for one's soliloquy. Whatever the reason, it saddens me to lose faith in yet another human who bartered truth for celebrity. We call them anchors for a reason, and now another ship is drifting free.

Oh, Yeah! The Update.

Today is day 1,464 since my transplant, and I am doing well. I grow tired of the cold weather, the snow, and the constant fear of close proximity to living petri dishes. I pray every day for better weather, and an early end to our endless winter.

Good day, and God bless,

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1450

Why Every Curmudgeon Should Have a Dog

Today is the 1,450th day since my blood and marrow transplant. There is nothing particularly splendid about the number 1,450 except, perhaps, that it is a nice round number and rather close to 1,500 — still 50 days away. I was expounding upon this pedestrian mile marker to my hapless companion for the evening. Dante is four years old and seems rather unimpressed by most of my ramblings — normal for any canine, I guess.

Digression: I was painfully shy as a child, and decided at the tender age of 5 or 6 years to climb out of my shell and insert myself into the world of the adults around me. At first, they found my efforts humorous, even precocious. Soon, the novelty wore off, and I began to notice phrases like “shut up” and “smart ass” peppering conversation around me. My brothers and sister avoided the near occasion of my presence and my few friends found reasons to be elsewhere whenever I began to expound my juvenile wisdom. Little wonder, I joined the high school debate team as a freshman.

OK, I’m Back: One tends to retain such habits, and I still like to hear myself talk. This may explain many of Marian’s sudden naps. I thought my solution had arrived two years ago with Dante, a cheerful and sometimes noisy American Eskimo dog. He and I hit it off immediately, especially since I like to walk (when my condition allows it) and he just adores walking — even at the snail’s pace I maintain. I liked the time spent walking, because I was also talking — about every topic that has ever interested me. I figured it did not matter, as he understood only certain words, such as Dante, food, treat, walk, and “NO!”

Winter necessitates time spent indoors, so my soliloquies often take place when I’m cooking or washing dishes, etc. He likes his rug near the back door (also near the sink) and patiently lays there watching me as I prattle on.

Fast forward to tonight, and I am once again at the sink, talking up a storm. The blustering was reaching maximum intensity when my fuzzy, white companion stood up, gave me what can only be described as an exasperated grimace (not easy with a face full of fur), and stalked from the kitchen. Annoyed at losing my audience, I followed him into the living room, where I found him quietly contemplating his favorite tennis ball.

"Dante! What's this all about? What'd I say to cheese you off?" I quietly inquired. He stood up, shambled over to me, and sat on my left foot. He stared at me until I petted him. Then he shambled on back to his tennis ball and settled back down with a sigh.

I'd been placated and dismissed, so I finished my chores in silence...until I heard the tennis ball bounce on the floor behind me. Dante was back, ready to listen to more droning or just quietly watch.

It's good to have someone who just listens without judging... Well, mostly...

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1429

The Importance of Insignificance

Tonight, I saw a portion of a super-high resolution image of the Andromeda galaxy. Just published January 6, 2015, the presentation: Gigapixels of Andromeda [4K] focuses on a small portion of the image and zooms in closer to show uncountable tiny glowing dots, each of which is likely a sun, which may have at least one planet, on which a life form might be staring upwards in wonder at our galaxy, the Milky Way. As the video zooms outward from the close up, the sheer immensity of our little corner of the Universe becomes more apparent than in any photo I've seen before.

I won't try to download the image, it requires 4.3 GB storage, and represents 1.5 billion pixels. Maybe I could view it at IMAX, but on my desktop? Forget it.

Viewing the video of the image was good for me. I often view beautiful images of immense places (or very small places at extremely high magnification) because it offers perspective. My daily mental commutes, from email to Facebook to the occasional venture into the arctic temps of Florida Location (a misnomer of gigantic proportions), involve sampling my world and measuring its affects on my life. My myopic measurements often lead me to believe that my problems have significance outside the reach of my arms, or perhaps the sound of my voice. When that happens, I sometimes share more information than friends and acquaintances really want to know. At the time, I find it significant, if not profound, and there always seems to be a soapbox handy.

I also take to heart the ramblings of other souls who broadcast their opinions to the the rest of the world, whether or not supported by facts or solid arguments. Occasionally, you will find me, waving my digital arms and asking pointed questions or pointing to fallacies in logic or facts. Over time, however, I've found that my contentious clamor does little good or only incites charged arguments based on opinion and emotion, rather than free and open discussion. I have even managed to spend less time commenting on bad grammar in Memes and rants.

I still post poems and updates like this one, because I hope someone will see what I see, or hear what I hear, and gain something from it. The Andromeda image reminds me that I am, after all, just a spark in a great conflagration -- and yet I am part of it all.

1429 -- So What?

Today is 1,429 days since my blood and marrow stem cell transplant on February 21, 2011. That gift from my brother, Kevin, has allowed me to still be here on January 20, 2015 -- the 65th anniversary of my birth. Is that cool, or what? I was reminded twice tonight (before midnight) that I actually turned 65 24 hours ago on the other side of the world. Friends in Japan and India sent birthday greetings because it was already January 20th there. It's like old age is chasing me around the globe!

My health has been generally quite good, though I grow tired of hiding inside my home so the nasty little germs don't find me so easily.

White

I am working on a small piece about White World -- the place my mind first went when, at 18 months old, I suffered severe burns to my hands and my feet. It's my go to place when I need to separate mind and body, usually to endure pain or escape emotional storms. I've even used it as a sensory deprivation tank, only portable and invisible. White World helped me endure, even survive some challenges in my life.

Recently, I had a dream. In my dream, I began to slip into the fringes of White World without intending to do so. Thoughts became hazy, lost in a thickening, white fog. I could find them, but it took time and extreme effort to locate and hang on to them. The white fog turned to snow, and began to settle on everything, obscuring files, images, and even recent thoughts. The books I read were covered with snow and the print was beginning to blur, even to run and become unreadable, leaving only black and blue stains on the snow-covered pages.

In the end, I was trapped in White World, as though it was a snow globe. Faces of people would hover outside the globe, their voices dull and distant, and then the snow would fall even faster, obscuring everything.

Scary, huh? I've had the dream only once, and once is enough.

Mini-rant

I have a question: When did the f-bomb become an adjective, an adverb, a gerund, and the sole basis for much of the "humor" in social media? Is your photo or cartoon lame or boring? Add an f-bomb and lots of folks share it and like it. Is your Facebook page being ignored? Add an f-bomb to the title and folks will flock to your funky f-bombed page. Is your movie dialog stilted and unbelievable? Add ten minutes of f-bombs, and the critics will call it gritty and streetwise. Eventually, it will no longer be funny, because overuse will cause people to no longer feel nervous about reading or hearing it. It will become mainstream, and a new shock word will be found. I shudder to think what it might be, but I take solace from the thought I will be either gone from this mortal coil or so old I won't really notice.

Thanks to all to still read my updates and especially to those who send prayers and good thoughts our way.

God bless and good night,


Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1400

“Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused— in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened— by the recurrence of Christmas.” ― Charles Dickens, Sketches by Boz

Merry Christmas! Well, Sort of…
For the second year, our Christmas tree is approximately 30 inches tall. In years past, we  decorated extensively, with lights in many windows and a six-foot tree decked out in hundreds of collected ornaments, each with a story or a memory attached. When we first moved here (36 years ago in October) I decorated outside the house. However, four straight years of vandalism by the Rubber Knife Gang and associates convinced me to decorate our windows from inside only.

As I was gazing at our diminutive decoration, I was suddenly swept away by a flood of memories. My mind's eye was filled with Technicolor, high definition, home movies: Younger versions of us were decorating the tree with whichever of the kids weren't yet too cool for Yule. One by one, they lost interest in our family Christmas traditions, and I believe began to view my fascination with them as quaint.

For a short time, our grandchildren shared the old-fashioned Christmas activities. However, they quickly moved on in this digital age, not wanting to be slowed down by ponderous old-time activities.

Way Back in the Olden Days
Gripped by overwhelming nostalgia, I flashed back to when I was smaller. It was at Christmas that I came closest to being a child. I don’t remember really being a child, just a miniature person with more medical problems and fewer privileges than I wanted. Usually, my siblings received toys and clothes for Christmas and birthdays. I received clothes, but my toys included: books, a chemistry set (and additional lab equipment), a microscope, a telescope, and a typewriter (because my handwriting sucked). These were great gifts (and expensive) and I quite literally wore them out, but I did it alone. It seemed I was on the fast track to be mayor of Sombertown.

At Christmas, my folks did more things with us, and there was always lots of great food, great decorations, and great music. The old black and white TV seemed brighter with holiday episodes of regular shows and musical guests on Ed Sullivan and Jackie Gleason. Even Lawrence Welk was tolerable at Christmas, though I could never figure out how his singers could sing so well while constantly showing all their teeth.

At Christmas, I felt more a part of the family than at any other time of the year. I was participant, not spectator. I could play, not just observe. It never lasted long enough.

The 1400
1400 days sounds so much greater than 1399! It amazes me that life goes on, despite battles with bugs and viruses; with allergies and asthma; with cold hands, numb feet, and side-effects. Our home has become a hidden hermitage, haunted by a hoary hermit -- an ancient curmudgeon afraid of viruses and bacteria, fearful of every fungus among us. I don’t think of myself as a hypochondriac, for the same reason I don’t believe you are paranoid if they really are out to get you.

I’ve had success avoiding illness by generally avoiding groups during flu and cold seasons. However, I fear the effects of keeping to myself so much and I try to sneak out once in awhile. As Dean Koontz wrote in Velocity: “A fine line separates the weary recluse from the fearful hermit. Finer still is the line between hermit and bitter misanthrope.”

I may keep my distance to avoid unnecessary visits to the hospital, but I pray hard not to become a hermit. I may be a curmudgeon, but I will endeavor to never be a misanthrope. In honor of this pledge, I wrote: A Hermit’s Christmas.

God bless and have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1395

Hurts So Good
After many months of enforced inaction, my muscles bear close resemblance to oft-used rubber bands (elastics?), and complain when forced into service. Tonight, they are feeling abused and ill-used. Their workout began this morning, when I walked out the front door with Dante in search of snow to discolor.

I had intended to shuffle to the road, so Dante could unload, and then toddle into the backyard for a few minutes of his snow-diving in fresh powder. However, there was considerably more powder than I thought, and nearly 24 inches of snow plow deposits in my driveway. Marian and Amanda usually tackle the tundra with scoop and shovel, but this stuff was heavy and growing stiff while sitting there, compacting under its own weight. So, I opened the garage door and grabbed the scoop.

Two passes with the scoop reminded me why I don't do this -- I spent more time coughing and trying to find enough oxygen than I did moving any appreciable amount of snow. It was then my eyes drifted to the ancient (25-30 year-old) John Deere snowblower in my garage. It was festooned with summer detritus and surrounded by yard tools, but I figured, what the heck, why not?

I checked the oil -- still full from fall. One tire is a bit low, but that only gives better traction. I tested the electric starter, and it worked. At this point, the little voice in my mind began reciting its usual mantra: "Things are going too well." I decided to ignore it, and poured about a half gallon of gas in the tank. I looked around and found no apparent leaks, so I opened the valve on the bottom of the tank, at which point sudden dripping told me I have a problem: really old gas lines that finally dried out. What to do?

There was no easy way to get the gas out of the tank again, so I cranked the creaky old machine, and it wheezed, coughed, and roared. Why not burn as much of the gas as possible, while throwing snow out of my driveway? The impeller was well lubricated, so it worked well. This is a John Deere 1032, which means (I believe) it is a 10 hp blower with a 32 inch maw. I have a 15 foot driveway -- which explains why the blower spends most winters hulking down in the dark of the garage. I backed it out, and pushed on into the snow...

I had forgotten how much muscle this ancient behemoth required. After ten minutes of casting white drifts halfway to the neighbor's yard, I ran out of oxygen. From this point on, I would blow a strip of snow, and pause to find enough oxygen to continue. I was fortunate the temperature was in the mid 20's, for colder temps would have caused my lungs to seize and bring on a full asthma attack. With only about 27% lung capacity remaining to me, I have to be careful to not to allow oxygen saturation to drop sufficiently to let hypoxemia occur. It's sorta like drowning, only not so warm and fuzzy.

As I was staring at the last strip of snow remaining, I heard another rumble over my shoulder, and turned to find a neighbor and a friend approaching with her snowblower. She said: "Put it inside and I will finish up." Gratefully, I nodded and trundled off to the garage, where I shut off the machine, closed the valve, and placed an old soda bottle under the valve to capture any fuel seepage. I thanked her for her help, closed the garage, and collected a thoroughly frustrated Dante (tied safely out of the way) to go indoors.

No Rest, Though
I went inside to finish my morning meds and have breakfast. Shortly thereafter, Marian started baking her Serbian Kifli, a labor intensive, but delicious cookie we have only at Christmas time -- not just because of the work involved, but because we'd both weigh an additional 50 lbs.! I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound; so I volunteered to assist.

It was a lot of work, but I was well rewarded with hot tea and "kiffles" later in the day.

Now, I ache from the unusual activity and I don't mind a bit. I think I will sleep soundly tonight. I need to rest up for tomorrow: our 43rd Wedding Anniversary!

God bless all of you who continue to pray for us, Lord knows, we need it.

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1379

The Once and Future Word
Every once in a while, I do a web search on myself. I do this for a very specific reason: I want to know if my ancient footprints still exist among all the dust and cobwebs of the darker corners of today’s Internet. Once again, I found an old post on a technical writing discussion list, one I posted March 31, 1993, lamenting the rising cost of attending conferences and suggesting that technology could provide methods to attend a conference without leaving home. Hint: streaming was not even a glimmer in my mind’s eye at the time.

I go through this exercise to remind myself that what I send out there -- into the great black hole of online media in that immense cyber universe -- tends to remain out there...somewhere. Like radio waves into space, once launched there is no retrieval. Once out there, I have no control over who reads it, who might save it, or if anyone ever sees it at all. How odd it is to think that I have been casting messages in bottles on the Internet sea for more than 22 years.

The Most Wistful Time of the Year
I had plans for the 2014 fall months, most of them aimed at correcting oversights in home maintenance and comfort, but they fell away as early snow and cold (and an unfortunate sinus infection) have driven me into an early hibernation this year. I’m five days into a ten-day course of powerful antibiotics and (gulp!) prednizone, provided by my doctor at Mayo Clinic for just such an event -- primarily to keep me home instead of hospitalized. It seems to be working, but the side effects of prednizone are disturbing and pronounced. So much so, I reduced the dosage myself, so the tremors would be less violent and debilitating.

My October 15 report from Mayo Clinic was excellent. The bone marrow biopsy results showed me to be in morphologic, cytogenetic, and molecular remission -- with 100% donor chimerism (my blood DNA is still 100% my brother’s). The doctor even called to congratulate me. Woohoo!

Now this.

I’m back to trying to sleep “in the upright and locked position.” The trick is slide off into oblivion before the next paroxysm of coughing begins. The shortness of breath is intense and prolonged coughing can leave me gasping like a fish out of water. I wonder if this is what waterboarding feels like? However, I believe this too shall pass and I will begin my winter-long hibernation -- away from most sources of potential infection and away from crowds.

Put the Demon Away
My grouch genie is once again out of his bottle, thanks to the gentle effects of prednizone. My long-suffering family forgive my outbursts, for they know the source is chemical, not personal; steroid, not stress; and most importantly -- me, not them. Five more days and I hope to put the demon away, back in his bottle of prednizone pills

Special thanks to all who have sent prayers and good thoughts, the genesis of my daily gift of life and blessings from God.


Mick