Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1300

My mom died in 1990, and today would have been her 84th birthday. Although she passed over 24 years ago, I still miss her every day.

An Odd Milestone

OK, it's only a little special and a bit odd that the 1,300th day since my blood and marrow stem cell transplant comes on the 13th day of the month and on my mom's birthday. It’s enough for me. When it comes to special, I will take what I can get!

It sounds like a terribly long time, but it has flashed by in three heartbeats.

Lessons Three

When I wake each morning, I still marvel that I’m still here; especially when I consider all that we have been through since my diagnosis on May 26, 2010. Three times we prepared for my imminent departure, always at inconvenient times or during inclement weather. Three times I was brought back by the trifecta of extreme medicine, prayers of friends and family, and a stubborn streak a mile wide. Three times = three lessons about the value of a life.

I complain about the medications and the pain, the weakness and the shortness of breath, but I am happy to be able to complain...and I hope to continue complaining indefinitely! A box full of medications still greets me every morning, with the promise of interesting side-effects throughout the day. My Rip Van Winkle feet (and lower calves, etc.) have been “asleep” so long, I don’t remember what it felt like when they were “awake.” It always feels like someone has added extra steps to our stairway to the second floor and my bedroom.

For someone who always slept from four to five hours a night, graduating to sleeping eight to nine hours makes each day seem much shorter. I walk like I’m racing snails.

I feel cold.

I am also alive, and can communicate with my friends and family. I can (usually) taste food and drink. I enjoy a good book, a great movie, and a long conversation. I love to write poems and share them with friends. And perhaps most important of all, I retain the capacity to be a royal pain in the posterior to my long-suffering caregiver and wife.

Life is good.

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1246

This morning began with the usual pills and potions. I consumed the medications requiring an empty stomach, snorted the Flonase, and inhaled the Flovent; before preparing Dante for our stroll. It was nearly 10:00 A.M., and my fuzzy friend was anxious to be on our way.

Dante can be quite a handful when our walk first starts, because he has so much energy. It was very hot this morning -- 80°F -- and the sun, though often hazy, was bright and burning on my fragile skin. It felt as though the sunblock (SPF 50) was functioning as barbecue sauce. I thought for certain I would return as my crimson alter-ego: Chris P. Vermilion!

Dune, in Florida

However, it appears I passed my Bene Gesserit death-alternative test of human awareness, for my sunblock prevailed and apparently no damage was done. I will not have to face my personal gom jabbar: a flare of cGvHD (or worse, a visit from the melanoma fairy). It’s three hours since our walk, and still I could audition for a role as a vampire…

Our morning constitutional starts at home in Florida Location and usually ends somewhere uptown in Laurium -- mainly because the village provides several collection boxes for blue baggies of Dante doodoo -- which means I don’t have to carry them all the way home. Now, if I could just convince seagulls, starlings, and pigeons to use the little blue baggies…

Training Day

Everyday is training day for Dante. His natural exuberance and his fierce need to protect his home and his pack (that’s us) make him a small dog with a big attitude problem. For most things, he is learning that he is NOT ALPHA. Our walks are becoming more pleasant as he increasingly follows instead of trying to lead. This is a good thing, for my arms grow tired of reaching backwards to enforce his place at my side and slightly behind. Making this more difficult for me, is my perpetual forward motion speed: Dead Slow.

Still, despite our ongoing wrestling matches over who should lead in our daily dance out the door, he loves the walks. He knows my morning routine and watches me take my meds. After the meds that require an empty stomach, I wait at least an hour to take the rest of my tier 1 medications.  When I inhale Flovent, I must rinse my mouth. Dante sees this as his cue, and he (very loudly) heads for the front door and paces, waiting to be rigged with his harness. He waits impatiently for me to don my hat and sunglasses. This is the time for our adventures in watering power poles.

Most mornings, he will hear me rattling about in my bedroom as I strive to achieve an upright and semi-stable position and dress for the day. When I open my door, he is sitting right there, waiting for me to get the day started. He even follows me down the stairs, one slow step at a time, and is visibly relieved when I get to the bottom safely. He does not want me to screw up his day by falling down the stairs.

Whatever his reasons for his behavior, most likely different than those I ascribe; Dante’s desire to sally forth on our morning marches moves me off my apprehensive arse and gives me impetus to improve my physical condition -- or at least, delay its decline. For that, (after we return, of course) I am grateful.

Good day, and God bless,

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1234

Growing Up Breathless

After conversing with an old friend last evening, and explaining about my illness, my transplant, and my journey since that life-saving event; I was pondering what it meant to grow up nearly always short of breath, and how that translates into surviving my current situation.

I was five years old when my life-long nemesis, bronchial asthma, first made its presence felt. On vacation with my family at the shore of Lake Erie, my first severe reaction to ragweed (probably goldenrod) triggered my first overt asthma attack -- requiring medical intervention. My parents, already overprotective because of an accident at age 18 months that left my feet and hands severely damaged, were stunned by this latest development.

Stand Up Drowning

I remember that attack, which happened when I retired for the night, after a full day of splashing about in the water and reading all the magazines in the rented cottage. It felt like my lungs were filling up with water and I was trying to breathe that water. The air seemed to have the consistency of a liquid and I was drowning while sitting on the edge of my bed. Later, when I was beside my parents’ bed and pulling on their sheets to wake them up, I could barely get any sounds out of my throat, other than a terrible, whistling wheeze. I felt helpless and afraid.

Smoke and Mirrors

In 1955, there were few asthma treatments that provided immediate and measurable relief. One of the most interesting was breathing deeply the smoke and vapors from burning belladonna (aka deadly nightshade), which my mom or dad set on fire in an ashtray. It smelled terrible, and the fumes burned my throat and stung my eyes. Yet, the cloud of vile vapors also numbed and relaxed the bronchial tubes, allowing some air to pass -- replacing the terror of anoxia with a sore throat and a nasty odor in my nose. It was as close to the now debunked treatment of asthma with “asthma cigarettes” as we ever came.

Inhaled corticosteroids were available if hospitalized, but that was emergency treatment. I had no inhaler in my pocket. Therefore, I experimented with whatever made me feel better. I found that beating on my chest sometimes helped open the airways. Vick’s Vaporub sometimes helped. Early on, I found that sipping hot tea and later, coffee was very effective at soothing an attack.

During these years, I learned a great deal about the psychosomatic nature of asthma attacks and began meditating and practicing a childish form of deep relaxation I called “floating.” I centered my thoughts on an image of myself in an imaginary mirror, noticing how every move and gesture appeared backwards -- as if I stepped outside my body into the image in the mirror, which could float and move about with no effort and, of course, no shortage of breath. Images felt no pain.

I still use a version of that imagery to help control pain.

Extreme Trade-offs

Sometime later, over-the-counter medications containing ephedrine (and usually, guaifenesin -- an expectorant) helped control the one-two punch of hay fever and bronchial asthma. There was, of course, a trade-off. Use of medicines like BronchAid and Primatene came with side-effects like sleeplessness and hours of shaking and quaking. Frequent use also lead to tolerance and reduced effectiveness.

What finally helped the most was moving in 1967 from the Detroit metro area to Dollar Bay in the Keweenaw Peninsula  of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The cleaner air and abundant oxygen made breathing a pure joy for the first time in my life. I learned to push my limits and improved my stamina, but also took care not to push it so far I triggered an attack.

The Silver Lining

For many years, I identified with a cartoon character named Joe Btfsplk from the Li’l Abner strip.  A small, dark rain cloud perpetually hovered over his head to symbolize his bad luck. Every time I tried something new, there was my personal rain cloud, my asthma, teaching me my limitations. In 1997, I decided that enough was enough and signed up to act, sing, and dance in the Calumet Players production of South Pacific. Shortly after that, I auditioned for the chorus in a Pine Mountain Music Festival opera -- the geezer and the wheezer was singing tenor 1 in an opera chorus. These wonderful challenges were central to my life until my diagnosis in 2010.

All those years of fighting for enough air to function taught me how to breathe and gave me an accurate sense of my oxygen levels in my bloodstream. I could do a creditable job by simply remembering my lines, my blocking, the lyrics, and the music -- while navigating around “breath bombs” -- mistakes that would leave me gasping and dizzy.

Now that I must function with 27% lung capacity, those skills are instrumental in making life without an oxygen tank possible. I can no longer sing (except in very short bursts) and all my dancing is done with my eyes, yet I get around without hardware and breathing support. There was a silver lining in my personal rain cloud after all!

I realize now that all those challenges over all those years prepared me to confront and conquer an even bigger challenge. 

BTW, I love that today is day 1234 since transplant. I just think it's cool, that's all.

Good night and God bless,

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1219

Sometimes, when my mind grows restive, a discussion touches a life-thread and thrums in rhythm with my thoughts, reverberating through my memories, awakening lost dreams. When I woke today, I did not expect to journey where mirrors gleam and shadows dance away -- among the foundation pillars of my life. What follows are mostly my arguments and opinions...the only ones I truly own. Not all were shared online. Your mileage may vary...

Life Debt

Owing a great debt to one who saves (or spares) your life is a common enough literary theme. From Robinson Crusoe to Pacific Rim and from Star Wars to Harry Potter, fictitious characters pledge their own lives to repay a perceived obligation incurred when another ensures their survival. Such commitment to an ideal and willing acceptance of such responsibility adds stature and dignity to each imaginary individual in the story. But, is there translation to real life?

I posted to a discussion this morning, in which one person was saying that, if the world owes him nothing, he owes nothing to the world. At this point, we had not resolved what “world” meant. Was it the Earth beneath our feet, or the totality of humanity, or a bit of both? Oddly, the target of each dart seemed aimed somewhere in between the extremes of each definition. The article under discussion was from a judge who lectured youth about their responsibility to a world that did not owe them a life or a living. Of course, being who I am, I tried to argue the case for responsibility -- for both definitions of our world.

Terra Firma and All the Rest of It…

Take a breath of air. Take a drink of water. Open your eyes and see the daylight coming through your window. All the basics of life spring from the Earth -- from the world as we physically define it. Many do not readily perceive  the value in these things, but as someone who has faced dying, I value every breath, every drink of water, every break of dawn. The fundamental fabric supporting my physical existence is a gift and I am responsible for preserving it for my own use and for the use of others. Perhaps, I owe the world a life debt?

At this point, the old "Humanity is an infection on Gaia" argument put in an appearance; i.e., “The world would be better off without us!” (humanity). I found this a great segue to:

The Culture Club

The world as referenced in the newspaper article under discussion was (or included) the totality of humanity. Without us, there would be no world. There would be a beautiful, blue planet spinning in space -- with no one to see it, touch it, change it, damage it, care for it, and/or love it. Earth would be a gorgeous, but eerily silent and spiritually sterile terrarium in perpetual flight about its sun.

Imagine visually stunning vistas that no human eye would perceive and no mind would love. Imagine the same vistas, but underscored by soaring music and preserved in the flight of poetic prose. Now, imagine the same vistas damaged by human hands. We change our world, for better or for worse.

Geologically, our minds tell us the Earth has been here approximately 4.5 billion years, always changing, always in motion, always in danger of some sort, yet always here. Our recorded culture extends back little more than 4,000 years and tells us the world started about 2,000 years before that. Belief systems and faith often paint a very different world than the one our current tools can detect.

Multiple interpretations of our world coexist, often uncomfortably, in an ever-changing evolving relationship. Yet, despite our different views of the same world; it remains the only game in town. It is our responsibility to preserve the world on which we live, regardless of how we view it, and to coexist, despite our differing world views. We are both nature and nurture and perhaps owe a life debt to our cultures as well as our planet.

It was an interesting discussion; one that touched some basic chords within my personal symphony. I love living and experiencing my world, and co-existence with my friends and family means most everything to me. Our world is the perfect home for humanity.

Maybe that's why God put us here.

Good day and God bless,

Mick

Mick McKellar Update — Day +1215

Settling for a B+

On Wednesday last, I visited with my local oncologist, Dr. Geddes, for a checkup and review of my blood tests taken that morning. My glucose level was 97 (under 100...yay!) and sodium, potassium, and calcium levels were all in the normal range, which means my diet and medications are not undermining my health. My white blood count, red blood count, hemoglobin, and platelets were all on the low side...perfectly normal for me. This was all good news. I passed. Not with honors, but I passed.

Surprising Admonition

During the course of my examination, I explained about my personal walk-fit program. Daily walks (weather allowing) with Dante, up to 2.5 miles, are the core of my health maintenance schedule. I detest exercise machines, though I understand their function. Walking early and wearing lots of sun-block and big hats help protect me from over exposure to cancer-inducing UV-B rays. 

I sat back and waited for praise and at-a-boys.

Though sanguine about my work ethic and maintenance of my weight (easy when you are NOT hungry), he surprised me with his next comment. He warned me not to get too ambitious with my physical training. Pushing myself too hard, and creating anoxia (hypoxia, or extreme low levels of oxygen for my organs), can cause damage to internal organs, especially the brain.

I explained that having lived most of my life as an asthmatic, I can sense my oxygen levels with fair accuracy, and I am careful not to push past the point of slow return. Besides, I told him, Dante has a large tank, and stops to empty some at nearly every light pole and tree. It takes me over an hour to walk 2.5 miles, so I am not overextending my oxygen supply and suffering anoxia. Still, it was an eerie sensation to hear my doctor warn me not to overexert. 

Usually, they tell me to get off my abundant posterior and move something.

Good day, and God bless,

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1206

Chicken Fat?

I was busy washing dishes from supper -- yes, I DO DISHES -- and I heard, “Go, you chicken fat, go!” coming from the television in the living room. I hurried from the kitchen to catch the last few strains of what sounded like Robert Preston’s voice singing music and lyrics by Meredith Willson (of Music Man fame). The flashback was instantaneous.

Suddenly, I was a whole lot shorter and doing calisthenics indoors at school, because it was raining outside. A record was blaring from one of those utilitarian record players in a heavy gray box, and for about ten minutes or so, we would try to do whatever Robert Preston told us to do. Our grade school teacher (Mr. Neinas) was playing a record called Go, You Chicken Fat, Go! It was funny for the first few minutes on the first day. After that, we prayed for good weather and access to the playground. 

I don’t remember President Eisenhower advocating for physical fitness, but I understand he started the President’s Council on Physical Fitness and Sports when I was five years old. I always thought it was President Kennedy who prompted the whole exercise thing. Apparently, they were worried that television was going to create a nation of couch potatoes. To me, it was simply gym class in grade school...on the cheap.

I’ll bet there are folks all over the country tonight, wondering what the television images have to do with chicken fat, or the tortoise, or the hare. When exercising as a kid, I remember thinking that I was neither “chicken” nor “fat,” and  I remember waiting for the final word: “Dismissed!” If you don’t remember, it might help to listen to the full routine at: http://mp3bear.com/robert-preston-chicken-fat.

Wheeze

An asthmatic kid with a penchant for reading instead of running, I was out of breath and wheezing like a steam engine by the end of the record. However, like most kids of that era, I spent more time outside than inside -- except during late summer, when my allergies flared and had to stay inside, praying for the first frost and the rapid death of my arch enemy: goldenrod.

I didn’t play with the other kids often or for long. I watched them, trying to understand what they were doing and why they were doing it. Playing silly games seemed a waste of time, when I could read exciting adventure stories or inspiring biographies of great people. It was then, at age eleven or twelve, that I began writing poems for my mom to read, based on the biographies I read and stories I made up from observing people. However, I never saw the point of Go, You Chicken Fat, Go!

I guess that’s why I remember it so well.

Good night, and God bless,

Mick

Mick McKellar Update -- Day +1205

My Protector

As often happens these days, my day started a little late. As a consequence, Dante and I started on our 2.5 mile stroll around 11:00 a.m.. I have been slowly training him to the leash and teaching him to “stay with me,” i.e., walk next to or behind me and to one side. American Eskimo dogs are highly intelligent, extremely loyal, and more than a bit high-strung. He is also hyper-protective of his pack (that’s us -- or me).

I did not know that children would be coming home from school around noon. Dante is not well socialized and is especially skittish around groups of active and noisy kids.

Normally, I simply avoid the near occasion of contact with children and give wide berth to groups of youngsters. Today, however, buses were dropping small groups everywhere (like paratroopers behind enemy lines) and those exiting the buses for the last time this school year were in high gear and several were screaming in glee.

Dante was getting nervous and started pulling on the leash (a definite no-no in our walking relationship), which required me to stop, demonstrate we were not going anywhere until he stopped pulling, and to (finally) praise him for falling into line. Suddenly, a block ahead, a group of three or four young girls literally jumped off their bus and began shrieking, screaming, and jumping about -- obviously happy school was out -- this had my partner on his hind legs, straining against the leash and yapping in extreme excitement.

Five minutes later, cooled down and calm once again, we set out for the next corner.

Kamikaze on Blades

About ten minutes later, we were strolling past Tony’s Country Kitchen, smelling the pasties and thinking about lunch. My hearing is not so good, partially because of my tinnitus and because each footstep when I walk sounds like a bass drum in my ears, so I had no warning when a young lady on roller blades blasted past us from behind, brushing my shoulder and startling me. My protector went ballistic, leaping after The Flash on Skates and nearly pulling me off my feet. Like most dogs, Dante can read my mood and sense when I get nervous or angry. I was amazed at how quickly he read me and launched into protect mode.

I don’t wish to give up my route, mainly because there are three doggy doodoo receptacles along the path, which means I don’t have to carry bags of poo very far before I can deposit them. Soooo...as with last summer, I will have to get up much earlier and have our walks before such distractions are abroad.

And all this time, I expected not to complain anymore when the kids are out of school for the summer…

Good night, and God bless,

Mick