Irene Peterson's Blog

Last chemo treatment was 30 MAY 09. That was a month ago.  Give me 12 days after that to recover, sort of.
Let's see.
Update on coming off the chemo and the resulting problems of that.

1.) my appetite is coming back. 
2.) I can certainly taste most things correctly.
3.) I'm really hungry at mealtime because food tastes good!
4.) the fingertips and toes are still pretty much numb, especially big toe on right foot
5.) still can't shower without someone in the room...when I close my eyes, I tend to fall
6.) can't walk for any distance, can't walk on uneven surfaces, like lawn or street
7.) head still stuffed up all the time.  Got Flonase the other day, it helps.
8.) no clothes fit me
9.) the weight I lost must be all water because the fat is still there, hanging in a very ugly way
10.) still having problems concentrating and words don't come when I want them to
11.) improving on the reading stuff.  I'm actually reading Charity's newest book, slowly.
12.) can't hold things very well, can't pull on things
13.) stomach problems
14.) urinary problems...every two hours?  Is that really necessary?  Every hour at night?
15.) can't remember my dreams
16.) only have to take pills I usually take, no cancer stuff
17.) I have gotten out more
18.) No patience left in my entire body, must have gotten peed out
19.) nose and ears still working overly well
20.) hair approximately 1/2 inch long

I think that's about it.  My face is wrinkled far beyond what it had been 7 months ago.  My body is wrong.  My skin is wrong.  I can't use a pen but I can use a keyboard, which is okay except when I need to sign things like checks and cards.  My name is as distorted that way as my person.

And I keep thinking that if I had back my hair, I'd be in better shape.  Like a female version of Samson.  Lose the hair, lose the strength.  In my case, it isn't so much physical strength as mental, because, let's face it, I've always been more mental than that other thing....

That's me.
Extremely mental.

The trogu carried me in its massive hands up to the quartz and gold road closest to the palace from the village.  He signed that he could go no further.  When I asked him why, he refused to answer.  I'm having a little trouble here...using proper gender pronouns.  It is the trogu, he is this one, because he definitely is male, but the kindest, gentlest giant in the universe.  All that power, all that strength and intelligence in that massive body and yet he carried me like a babe in his arms.  You have to think about that carefully, anyone reading this, because it says a great deal about life in general and these apes in particular.

Anyway, back to facts.  I walked gingerly toward the palace.  Some of the natives were in the fields and vineyards.  They paused to look at me, a few waved but more turned away once they saw my tattered clothing and mussed appearance.  Don't ask, certainly don't say a word.  And, perhaps, living as they do under the largesse of Prester John, that complete fraud, it was better that they turn their heads than get involved.  Remember, NOBODY wants to get too involved in anything around here.  I no longer wonder why that is.

The "ladies in black" greeted me at the door, ushered me into my rooms and took away my clothing to be washed and mended.  I thought to just slip into the bed and sleep for a hundred years, but realized that I had better get to dinner with my host and start asking some very pointed questions.  Carefully, of course, but insistently.
I wonder whether Acdurian would have the nerve to show his blue-tinged face, the louse.
But that's neither here nor there.
I found some less restrictive garments in the wardrobe--some seamstress had been VERY busy while I was gone--and managed to dress myself (if you use ties and don't depend on corsets, ladies, the dresses are easier to put on and much more comfortable for you) and waited for the dinner gong.  This guy brought every affectation wealthy Victorians held dear with him, in his mind, and replicated all that contrived stuff here in the middle ages off the coast of Africa, which Europeans hadn't ventured into since the famous guy destroyed Carthage.  Yes, I realize I should have paid more attention.  Was it Caesar?  Who the hell cares right now?

There must be a hundred doors in the palace, all leading to several hundred rooms that held who knew what and housed who knows who.  It only took me a dozen or so tries to reach the dining room.  Without my escorts, I was pretty confused in here.  I'm not used to all this glitter and gold and doorways.
Prester John sat at the head of the table.  He looked up with a faint look of surprise which he quickly banished, then greeted me with a formal bow after he pushed himself away from the table.  My guess is he was not expecting me or anyone else.  Gallantly, he gestured to his right and I moved stiffly to my seat.  He did hold the chair for me and assist me to sit, which despite me being a child of the newest century, I did appreciate.  Everything was really starting to hurt and my muscles ached like hell.  Being formal was not on the agenda for tonight.

But first, as the meal was served, I ate.  I needed to restore my strength and all I'd eaten was that banana.

My host commented on the weather and asked whether I was enjoying myself, no questions on the state of my hands or the way I walked or the scratches on my face.  Of course, that just may have been his good manners.  Who knows?  I was on the alert, though, for signs that he may have known what had happened to me.  In my opinion, this Prester John was the consummate actor.  For a fraud, someone from a future world where he could never have been king or never have made any great contribution to society.  Well, he was a professor of some kind, but he left, booked out on his students to pursue his own agenda.
Well, I had mine and after the dessert (floating island, this meringue stuff that looked like a man-o'-war jellyfish in a sea of something soft and sugary) I started.

"I enjoyed the tour of Opar very much, until I was thrown from my horse," I began, hoping to get some sort of rise out of him.

"Thrown?  Which horse?  I will have it put down immediately."
The old shit.
"No, no need.  It was not the horse's fault.  The path gave way.  It stopped in enough time to prevent it from going over the cliff, but I had been admiring the scenery and simply was not paying attention to the trail.  My fault, entirely."
His wan smile gave away little.

"Did you visit the Atlantean village?"
"Oh, yes.  It was evidently time for them to go to their temple, in fact, and Acdurian was only gone a few minutes."
This caused him to raise his bushy white eyebrows and turn a quizzical eye in my direction.
"You say Acdurian went into the temple?  Tell me, did you notice anything changed about him when he returned?"
I paused.  "Come to think of it, he looked slightly pleased with himself when he mounted up.  I don't know how else to describe it.  But the temple emptied out quickly and we were off on our tour.  I do think, however, that whatever religious experiences one has in a temple or church can leave one feeling, how can I put this?  Lighter?  More at peace?  No, that's not quite it.  I would almost venture calling it a state of grace, perhaps, but not quite.  Something beyond grace, more into personal satisfaction.  Yes, that's it.  More cat in cream than clear of conscience."
The old guy looked at me, surely judging what I had said and probably measuring the accuracy of my observation.
PJ cleared his throat.  "Tell me, did you happen to notice anything odd about the top of the temple?"
"Odd, sir?"
His lips twitched with impatience.  "Odd, as in anything different from what one would expect to see?"
Should I tell him about the crystal?  How it glowed and sent that stream of blue light into the building?
I think not.
Not without getting what I wanted first.

"No, not that I recall. I saw the flying boats, though.  They were pretty interesting."
The old geezer puffed out his chest.  "'Twas I who got them up in the air again.  The Atlanteans, for all their heritage, have lost so much of their abilities.  I simply removed the burnt out crystals that powered the boats and replaced them with new, vibrant crystals.  That is the source of their energy, you see.  The crystals have power, much like electricity, only far more efficient and with less involved by way of generators and power plants, you see.  But then, you coming from where you do, you know more about power generation, don't you?"
I shrugged.  "I suppose, but all that is changing, probably even as we speak.  Our world has realized that the old ways of using fuel are not good enough any more and we are searching for a way to harness the sun and its power."  I stopped, not wanting to go into other alternative power sources.  What would he make of it?  Would it change the world?  That was a bit too much for me to get into now.
But he warmed to the subject.
"Power, my dear Clopidogera, is all that matters.  Not wealth, not brilliance, not what you have done, but rather the power you wield.  That is most important in this or any time."  His eyes sparkled and his whole demeanor became far more animated than I would have thought possible for such an old dude.  Really.  It was kind of scary for a moment.  Then I remembered all I had seen so far.

"You're already regarded as the master of all you survey.  What kind of power would you want over these people?"
"Ah, my dear, it is not power over these poor savages and remnants I wish.  I would like to make an impression on the entire world.  And, I have the ability to do so, even now."
My stomach dropped.
"Oh, really?"
He muttered into his napkin and stood.  "Come with me, Clopidogera.  I have something to show you."

I followed him as he brought me to his laboratory.  Once at his overflowing desk, he rummaged around and finally produced a large parchment scroll.

"Do  you see this?  See this seal?"  He unrolled the parchment and pointed at the seal in the corner.  "See here?  Do you know what this is?"
I tried to make it out, but I quickly discerned that the writing was in Latin or something.  Probably Latin.
Impatient for an answer that I could not give, he proclaimed,  "This missive is a letter directed to me, one Prester John, priest and lord of the Kingdom of Opar by the Pope of Rome.  And, if I assume correctly, your classical education has been amiss and you cannot read it for yourself, I will translate for you.
"It requests that I give aid to the cause of the Crusades, as the Christians now hold Jerusalem, but the Mohammadans threaten to overtake them.  Would I see it as my Christian duty to join with the other forces there and obliterate the problem?"

My eyebrows shot up, I could feel them hanging up by my hair line, and a cold shiver plunged down my back.
"The Pope? Asked this of you? How did he know you even existed?"

He giggled in a papery, old man sort of way that turned my stomach.  "The Arabs have long visited Opar and tried to wrest it from the natives.  I repelled them, sought to trade with them, and they agreed.  Word must have gone to Rome from them, for it was from an Arabian trader that I received this missive."

"And, I suppose, you intend to assist the Crusaders?"

He fairly gloated, his thin chest puffed out and his eyes gleaming with confidence.
"Of course.  Your Jennifer told me a great deal about the state of the world when she was here.  She talked about wars and terror and the extent of the villains and their foul deeds in her time.  I am normally a man of peace, but this is a golden opportunity to make my name and spare the world of the future a great deal of pain and destruction.  I have the power to end this, once and for all."

Calling his bluff, I insisted,  "Show me."

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Yesterday Herb took me to Long Beach Island to see the house we intend to rent at the end of the summer.

It's a little close to the other houses and you have to climb up stairs to get to the kitchen and living room and porch and bedrooms, but in two months I hope to be able to scamper up those stairs and thoroughly enjoy myself.

I need it.

The oncologist prescribed it.

Therefore, we must go.  I can hardly wait.

Maybe I'll write, maybe I'll walk on the beach (can't do that now because I can hardly walk on solid ground or floors, the sand would pull me down and I'd never get up on my own), maybe I'll work on the cancer book, maybe I'll sit and think.

Maybe I'll be finished with Loey by that time.

I was going to write for her today, but we have a party to go to for Joey, the last nephew to graduate high school.  He's a sweetie and he loves my two measly books.  The kids have decided he looks sort of like a terrorist, but this kid is one excellent citizen.  He belongs to the fire department and has probably saved lives and houses in his town.  I see good things in his future, even if he has already rolled a car.  Live and learn.  He wants to be a lawyer.  Good.  I will probably need one.

Best to have it in the family.

*********************************************************************************************8

As an afterthought, for those of you reading this who think everybody in New Jersey is in the mafia or wants to be, let me get this straight:

1. Not all people in Jersey are in the mob.

2. Not all people with Italian sounding last names are in the mafia.

3. Not all women in New Jersey dress like those women on the television show.

4. Not all women in Jersey WANT to be like those women on that tv show.

5. Nobody really acts like that but those four women and their families.

6. Nor is there this strong desire to throw away money on gambling, glittery clothes that make one look like an expenive street-walker,  huge houses that need help to keep clean, and schools for kids who want to grow up to be just like their mommies in every woman in New Jersey.  It is fiction, it is fantasy, it is totally unrealistic and they're doing it for the money, you'd better believe it.

7.  I stress again, not everyone in New Jersey is connected to the mafia or the mob and not everyone in New Jersey wishes they were.  The Sopranos and the Real Housewives may have counterparts in real life, but I do not know any of these types and I fully intend to keep it that way.
 

If you think any of this is real, you need a reality adjustment. Come to New Jersey. It's a beautiful state to visit.  We're already too crowded for you to stay, but you can visit.

Several times I have mentioned that some people have written to me that I am some kind of hero to them.
That's mindboggling, to be sure.
I'm the least heroic person I know.
When it comes to this cancer thing, all I did was what I figured every other person in the world would do...fight it with the help of God and the doctors. 
I mean, what choice did I have?

Far be it from me to roll over and play dead, or wait to die.  Not when there was a pretty good chance of beating this type of lymphoma.  Of the 43 types of this particular disease, I guess I must have had one of the easier types to lick with chemotherapy.  I dunno.  But I'm thankful that whatever one I had was one that the poisons could wipe out.
No matter what they did to the rest of me.

I am certainly no hero.  I cried, mostly right when the doctor told me I had pancreatic cancer.  I know for a fact that unless caught extremely early, there's little chance of a cure.  Those PSAs that Jimmy Carter and Matthew Modine have put out, and now William Hurt, well, they are pretty much doom and gloom.  And obviously, they let the world know that more money is needed to pay the doctors and scientists who are looking for a cure. 
When I heard that that was what I had, man, my whole world collapsed.  I might have died right there.  It would have been a whole lot easier than slowly dying from the cancer.  But, somehow, I just didn't think that was right.  I knew in my heart and my mind that something just didn't jive, that I couldn't die from that.  Nope, not me.
Even when that gruesomely smiling pain doctor visited and told me he'd keep me comfortable to the end (in months, cheer up, kiddo, you won't feel much) I just couldn't accept the thought of dying.  My kids.  My Mom.  The rest of my family and my friends.  Nope, I couldn't picture me telling them I was going to die.
Thankfully, I didn't have too much time to think about it.
After that awful news, why, Herb and I clutched each other and cried and worried, but I don't remember how the rest of the hours went.  I remember the pain guy coming in, and how I really disliked him but figured I'd better be nice so that when the end did come, he'd make sure it didn't hurt too much.
GOD.  Having to think of stuff like that.

Then my angel.  My angel came and took away all that fear.

And it was an angel, to be sure, because she turned out to be right.

And I was brave when they put the needles in me and through me.  I was brave when they carved out a bit of my pelvis for the marrow sample.  I was brave when I had my heart tested in some machine and I was brave (but pissed off) as I waited in the basement hallway while some other less fortunate person had a CT scan in my time.  Brave?
No.  Tolerant.
Brave is fighting off hordes of people with guns and swords or bombs or grenades.  Brave is hoisting the flag on Suribachi.  Brave is slogging through jungles.  Brave is watching someone you love die a horrible death but not letting on that you know they are dying.  Brave is helping the elderly with their daily chores.  Brave is donating body parts you can spare, but only just, to strangers.  Brave is so much more than tolerating something.

That is, I guess, what brave is to me.
But to someone else, maybe what I did or how I handled this latest crud really was brave.  Maybe it was something they thought they couldn't do themselves.
However, if they have not been in the same position as I was, they just wouldn't know.
Had they found themselves faced with the pain and ugliness and fear of cancer, maybe they would have responded in the exact same way.

After all, what choice is there?

Roll over and allow the disease to win without a fight?
Or fight with every last bit of strength one has within until the bitter end.
Bitter end.  Or sweet end.
You can't know what kind of end it will be unless you get there kicking and screaming and fighting with every ounce of anger and love and hate and fear inside you.

It should be there inside everyone.  I think it is.  I'm not special.  Yet it was in me, so I figure it is in everyone of us.

And I have news for everyone.  These last few days while I was waiting to hear how the PET scan went?  I was plenty scared.  I cried on Saturday while discussing the future with my husband.  I cried in my sleep.  I cried when I was alone and after each phone call I got from anybody asking if I knew how the test had come out.
I cried when I thought about dying and how everyone else would go on living without me and I wouldn't be there to see what was going on in their lives.  I felt hollow and alone and on the very edge of the end.
But that little Irene voice in my head wouldn't let me give up, no matter how low I felt.  Hah!

The character played by Alan Rickman in Galaxy Quest said it best.
"Never give up, never surrender."

Grrr!
Anybody reading this who doubts they have hero in them, I suggest you look a little harder.  A little deeper.
It's there.

Stop the presses!
Irene Peterson is in remission!
The cancer is gone.
Okay, I have to go back for follow-ups and check ups and to have the port flushed out periodically, and there is alway a horrible chance that it might return because these things do happen, but for now, right now, this very minute, about half an hour since Herb and I talked with Dr. Khalid,

The hitler-cancer is no more.

Y e s!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you all those who have stuck by me during this freakin' ordeal.  Thank you to all the people who have called and written and sent me jokes and cards and precious gifts and flowers and hats and everything.
Thank you doctors and technicians and nurses and hospital people.
Thank you insurance company.

Thank you God.  So very much.  This is the fifth time You've gotten my butt out of danger.
I do so appreciate it.
(So does the kid, even if she won't say it out loud.)

Sometimes I think I lead a charmed life.
Other times, I think I have the absolute worst luck in the world.
But wait--not today.

As I was sailing through the air, heading to my doom down the steep cliff, I remember reaching out, trying to grab at bushes and trees and roots that stuck out of the side of the mountain. Like in a cartoon, I guess in those milliseconds, I could grab on to something and save myself.  Well, all I did was scrape the hell out of my hands and slip through the air, bouncing a few times on my butt as I went down, down, down.  All that was missing from the cartoon was the splat at the end.
But, ya know, sometimes those cartoons have weird endings...like the person going down sprouts wings and flies away.  Or a dinosaur leans a gigantic neck over and the falling person grabs on, continues to slide down and the dino becomes a prehistoric roller coaster.  Well, not in real life, not in my life.  However, Somebody up there must really like me because I didn't splatter on the rocks below.
Instead, I fell into the gigantic hand of a trogu.  Gently, softly, it gave a little with my weight, but I was caught and for a tiny second, I thought I might be dead and dreaming, but nope, there is was, a huge ape, bristling with dark, shaggy fur, its black eyes searching my face with true worry etched in its expression.
My savior!

I clung to its massive neck when that huge callused hand brought me closer to its massive chest.  I think I may have even cried a little against the warm, soft fur as the trogu carried me over to a fallen tree and ever so gently set me down.
Its eyes followed my every move, searching my face.  Then one huge finger wiped away one of my tears.  Gently.  I barely felt it brush against my cheek, though I felt those tears that just didn't stop coming.

Then its fingers started to dance in the air, signing so quickly, I had to shake my head, tell it to slow down. 
"C U O K"
The trogu smiled, baring teeth with really big yellow fangs, but I had lost any trace of fear.  In fact, I doubt I will ever be really scared again, not after that fall...nope, I do sincerely doubt I will ever be scared, no matter what happens to me.

I nodded my head.  "OK," I signed, my fingers stinging from the scrapes and the dirt imbedded in the cuts.  Hey, I've hurt more falling from my bike as a kid.

The trogu tilted its head, I bet doubting I told anything near the truth.

So I held out my hands, turning them to show the scraped skin.
"W A T E R" I signed.  Raised my eyebrows.  Sheesh, I wish I'd actually tried to learn more signs.

The ape nodded and gave me a small smile. 
I reached out and patted its arms, smoothing the fur a little.  And I smiled back.  Then, its hand went around me and scooped me up and off we went.

The trogu village wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it might be when Acdurian told me they lived in pens.  In fact, I didn't see any.  What I saw were a series of large sheds, lean-tos, really, made of bamboo or something similar with jungle leaves woven into a roof.  All the trogu were out and about, taking fruit and vegetables from a pile in the center of the village, but they all stopped when we stepped into view.

Several of the smaller, probably younger trogu hid behind adults, but a few (there may have been about fifty-sixty that I could see altogether) came forward.  Hands flew, grunts ensued, there were head nods and small smiles.
One of the little ones offered me a banana.
I peeled it and must say I enjoyed it as I was really hungry.
Another brought me a small hollowed gourd full of water and I used it to wash my hands.  The water was cool and in no time, I felt much better.

I signed thank you over and over.
These creatures, these beasts as Acdurian referred to them, were lovely.  Clean.  Wise behind those small black eyes.  I could just tell.
And they could feel.  They exhibited more emotions than any of those Atlanteans had shown me, especially Acdurian.
And just about then, I wondered where he was.
Didn't he realize something must have happened to me?
Did he even care that I hadn't come back down the trail?
Did he care about anything?

Screw him.
These gentle trogu were miles and miles above him in my book.

"U O K now?"
My rescuer kept asking me.
I really was better, so I nodded and, suddenly inspired, signed, "How you speak with hands?"

"J showed us.  J mama.  Good J."
I had to smile.  The trogu regarded her as a mother when I couldn't.  Odd, that.  But telling in a way.
"Why did J show how to sign?"
The big grin spread over the trogu's face.
"So we can talk."  Then an odd sound issued from its throat, I swear it sounded like a giggle.

"J more smart than Master."
Oh, this was interesting.  Maybe J was nicer than the master.  To the trogu.
"Where J?"
 I had to shrug, then signed, "Far away."
"You look for J?"
Well, I guess that's what I was doing, so I nodded.
"Tell J come back to trogu.  Bad things here."
This got my attention.
"What bad?"  My fingers were getting shaky. 
"Big bad.  Master make bad."
Stumped, I thought a second.  "Where bad?  Can I see?"
The trogu shook its massive head.  "No see bad.  C not see bad.  J left.  Big bad come."
"What is bad?"  This was getting harder and harder to sign.  I didn't have the right words!

Reluctantly, the trogu looked to its fellows.  Several shook their heads, a few nodded.  Decisions.  I asked again, "What is bad?"

From behind the adults, the younger trogu started making noises...a real racket.  Horror showed in their faces and they covered their ears.

"Bad ears.  Big (here it made an abrupt exhalation that sounded deep in its chest)."
And the hands went up into the air then with wiggling fingers, it showed stuff coming down.

Did the trogu mean the volcano?
The Master made the volcano erupt?
What?  What could they mean?
I turned and pointed to the volcano, raised my eyebrows in question, hoping they understood.
All of them shook their heads.

Ears.  Big noise.  Bad.  Horror. 
Here, my 21st century brain is now thinking atomic bomb.
Prester John was from around 1878 or so.  Not atomic, but they had bombs, I'm almost sure. Cannons and guns. 
Nobody in the 1100s had bombs or guns.  Did they?  Once again, my ignorance of history didn't help.  Think, Loey!  Think hard.

"Did J hear big noise?"
The trogu shook their heads.  Mine signed "J good.  Master bad J gone."

I let that sink in.  Had my mother somehow done something to mess with Prester John's mind?
Oh, how I wish I remembered what I'd read about this guy...or somebody who really was PJ, or maybe I read about this guy in my future life.  Ignorance.  The uncles always warned how dangerous ignorance could be.  And if my mother had broken the time travel rules here, who knows what had happened to change PJ into being bad.
Too much, not enough.

Shit.  What could I do now?
I guess I had better get back to the palace.  Fast.
I wonder whether anybody missed me.
But I sincerely doubted it.

Somehow, despite their protests, I convinced the trogu that I had to go back to PJ's place.
"To know big noise.  Use ears.  Help."
If the look on my rescuer's face didn't read, 'yeah, right', trogu couldn't think that way, but I know, I felt, they didn't believe me or want me to go back.
"Please."
More fast signing, some grunts, high and low in pitch, more signing, then finally, I was scooped up into those huge hands and away we went.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

I truly wish there were pets involved.
If somebody had given me a hamster to hold on to, or a guinea pig or a puppy, I'd have been a lot happier than I was.  I do suppose that I've voiced that opinion before, but this time, it would really have been nice because I was stuck in the machine a tad longer than I thought I was supposed to be, and I was stuck in the middle.
Claustrophobic people do not do well in that situation.

My right hand vein collapsed, so the guy, James, had to use the left hand.  Luckily, it worked.
I got the isotope or whatever radioactive stuff it is called then had to wait 45 minutes for it to travel through my body.  Then when in the machine (sans bra, which is pretty scary in itself) they had to stop something and start again when I was asked "where is your Hodgkins, Irene?"

I don't have Hodgkins.  I have NON-Hodgkins lymphoma...totally different.  Or supposedly.  So I told James that there was something located above the diaphragm but most of it was below the diaphragm, what I had been told by the oncologist.  That the mass was near the spleen and pancreas.

So he said he had to readjust the machine to cover more.

Somewhere in there I mentioned that this was sort of life or death for me...I don't think he got it, but well, to me, IT IS LIFE OR DEATH.
If there is something worse, or something more, and they can't treat it, well, let's face it, I'm dogfood.
Now, I don't like to think this way, but still and all, that glass is half empty all the time for Irene.
And I haven't seen any angels other than Dr. Khalid, and I'm not sure Muslims count as angels, not live, in the flesh ones, even if they are doctors bearing good news. 
As I told my brother on the phone this afternoon, I worry and it is what I happen to do best.

Remember the other day when I said to the primary doctor that I wanted somebody to tell me the cancer was all gone and that I was going to be all right?

 

I haven't changed my mind.

Yesterday I ended up at the Long Island Romance Writers' luncheon.
My friends got me there, propped me up and got me home safely.

Wow.
If I had been a bit more human, I would have been on top of the world.
Know how I managed?

I faked it.
I put on the persona of a human and acted my way through it all.
Actually, I didn't do too much talking, but I listened and eventually found the agent representatives I thought might possibly be interested in a book about cancer and pursued them.   Well, I dunno whether pursued it quite the right word, but I managed to wobble to where they were and waited to catch their attention and tried to speak coherently about what I'd been through lately.

Yeah, there are hundreds of memoirs of people who have fought cancer and either beat it or died and their relatives got their books published.
Yeah, I know how tough it is going to be to find someone who wants another book about cancer.
Yeah, I'm relying on my unique style and voice (if I still have it) and yeah, I haven't written anything worthwhile since I got sick and even my kid says I've lost it.
But, yeah, I have to do something about this cancer thing...kick it in the teeth as it were by writing a sharp, nasty, ballsy review of all the crud I have had to endure for the past six months.

That's my goal.  Kick the Hitler-cancer in the nuts and bring it down.
Hey, I can't find a cure, I can't lay my  hands on other people and heal them, but I can make them laugh and let them know what they  might be in for should they be stricken by lymphoma.
Damn.
I want to do SOMETHING positive.

I don't want to have lost all my beautiful hair for nothing.

"Let's get out of here, Clopidogera!"  If it were possible, Acdurian waxed paler than his normal faintly blue look.  He actually reached out and grabbed my arm.
Which resulted in the largest trogu bounding over to us and puffing up, I forget what you call the stance, but the one where the animal enlarges itself to frighten off enemies.
So, my guide unhands me and takes quite a few steps back, leaving me face to face with this huge ape-like creature, which, I may add, was breathing hot breath on me which smelled just like bananas.  I ducked my head slightly and smiled, not showing my teeth.
I don't know why I did that, I think you're supposed to do that to dogs to show them you're not afraid or something.
But, I was afraid.
This guy could crush me as easily as it crushed rocks and dug out crystals with its gigantic hands.
Hands that were twitching in front of its chest.
Hands that were--signing.
Holy Crap!

Lemme remember!  Lemme remember it all!  Thank you Miss Clancy for teaching us signing in sixth grade, but please, wherever you are, let me remember!!!

Fingers crossed.  R
Two fingers straight up.  U
Little finger up then swooped down.  J

R U J.
Are you...J?

Oh, shit.  J.  Jennifer.
Good old "mother" strikes again.
But, in a way, at least she did something good.  I think.

I shook my head.  And signed...what do you sign to a gigantic gorilla-like creature?  I took a deep breath and shook my head again.  NO.  J.
Lemme see what could I say?
No.  J.  Baby.  Like an idiot, I cradled my arms and swung them. 
Got a grunt from the trogu and a display of yellow teeth.

But he didn't eat me.
So, I pointed to myself (my signing is really, really limited to the alphabet and primitive signs, I swear) and made the sign for "C".

He copied it, then turned back to his mates and signed it again, with more signing too quick for me to pick up.

These trogu weren't the dumb creatures Acdurian said they were, that's for sure.

I was about to try to get into some sort of conversation, as limited as it might be (I'm not sure what one would converse with a twenty foot tall gorilla apeman about, but I was willing to give it a go) but one of the natives appeared, shouting and when he got no response from the trogu, he pulled this gigantic bullwhip from his belt and started snapping it.  The trogu cringed and stepped back.
My gut wrenched at the sight.  Here these gigantic creatures who could rip this guy's head completely off his neck with a tweak of their foot long fingers, cowered at the crack of a whip.
Once again, I get a bad feeling, but what can I do right now?

I join Acdurian who is suddenly in a big hurry to get me out of the mine.
I walked slowly, though, past heaps of small yellow crystals and discarded clear crystals and assorted gemstones, taking in as much as I can.  There's too much to be missed.  Too much to take in, as usual, but I have a feeling I need to remember everything I see and hear.
The crack of the whip stopped, and there were some shuffling and grunting, but the native never came back out.  He did stop shouting, though, and I guess everything went back to the way it had been before we got there.

We were presented with our horses and Acdurian wasted no time mounting up and moving me right along.
Once we were away from the mine, I caught up with my guide and casually asked where we ought to go next.

"You've seen the mines.  You've seen the village and our home.  Don't you think that's enough for one day?"  He managed a very small, tight smile.
"Actually," I ventured, "what's on the other side of the island?  Is there a beach?"
"Yes."
"Let's go there, and let the horses run in the waves."
"Whyever would they do that?"
The guy is so bloody thick.  "Oh, I've seen it on television back home.  It looks like fun.  Real California."
Okay, I can be incredibly lame myself.  I wanted to get him away from people, from the sight of the palace, the mine, the native population, so perhaps I could get some honest answers from him.
Acdurian gave me his weirded out uncomprehending look but turned Larry west, heading probably where I asked to go.  It wasn't long before I could hear surf and smell salt air.  My heart lifted a little, just like it always does when I'm near the beach.

And the first sight of the Atlantic was breathtaking.  We came upon it from a bluff.  All the right stuff was there, dune grass, sand, breakers and sea foam and the glorious green blue of the ocean.  I pulled Hot Stuff up and rose in the stirrups, inhaling long and deep.  Ahh.  This was all right.
Both Hot Stuff and even old Larry seemed to enjoy the run in the waves.  Even Acdurian, the most glum guy I'd ever run in to , cracked a smile or two. 
But back on the sand, walking the horses slowly, he got all serious again and started talking. How was I to explain California and TV?  Ulp.  Then he hit me with an even bigger question.
"Clopidogera, back in the mine...with the trogu...you seemed to be rather sympathetic to them."
Hmm?
"I don't know what you mean."
He cleared his throat.  "What I mean is, that I observed that you seemed to...try to communicate with them.  What was that business with your fingers?"

He didn't know.  He thought they were simply dumb beasts, incapable of thought or communication other than their grunts and basic animal stuff.
Should I tell him?

I think not.
Maybe I'll keep this to myself for a bit.  Dunno why.

"I get along well with all kinds of animals.  Smiling, speaking softly, reading their body language, it helps.  No big deal.  They're rather sweet, though, to work so hard and not complain."
He made some sort of weird sound in his throat, but said nothing more.

The sun was high overhead.  I was getting hungry but there wasn't any surprise picnic basket tucked anywhere I could see.    Acdurian got the horses to circle the beach which actually circled the volcano, and brought us up to the other side of the island.  Palm trees and thickly leaved tropical foliage rimmed the dunes which soon gave way to more stable ground and when we rounded a bend, I stopped Hot Stuff and gasped.

Acres of burnt trees, blackened stumps ranged before me.  A forest fire in the jungle? 
Acdurian pulled back and turned Larry to come back for me.
"What's this?  Fire?  You allow fire to run through the jungle?  Aren't you afraid for your town?"
He shrugged, something he's very good at.  "This is how the Master makes charcoal.  It is all quite organized and contained.  No need for anyone to fear."
"Boy, you guys must do a lot of grilling."
"What?"
Thinking out loud, I always seem to do that lately.
"You must like to cook your food over the charcoal, right?"
Acdurian laughed.  "Cook over charcoal?  The master uses the charcoal for his experiements, as he calls them.  The one where he blends the charcoal with the yellow crystal and that awful powder the natives scrape from the caves that harbor the bats."
"Bats?" What could the old jerk need guano for?  Fertilizer?  Made no sense.
"Yes.  There are many caves where the bats rest.  Nasty places.  We Atlanteans never go near them.  Such an unpleasant odor.  And we dislike unpleasantness of any kind."
"I'm sure."  Yeah, they don't really like much of anything, now, do they?  Animals, guano, noise, cruelty, natives, trogu.  Which reminded me...
"How did your people find the trogu, Acdurian?"  We rode on, past the burnt stands, into a lovely green meadow with a stream running through it.

"Science.  Ungodly Atlantean science, according to the master.  He is always talking about god, his god.  The god he has made the natives worship.   And science, his science?  It is not nearly as good as Atlantean science...used to be."
"Is there no more Atlantean science, then?"
"Only what the master has been able to realize.  Most of it was long lost until he appeared in Opar.  And he has a great mind, don't get me wrong.  But he doesn't know half of what he needs to know to make all the devices work."
I touched the time travel device tucked in my belt.  He sure figured out how to use that, though, didn't he, smart guy.  And if the Atlanteans were so smart, how come the whole continent blew up and left you few to survive? 
The horses had steadily been climbing up the steep slope of the mountain.  I'd been so involved in my thoughts and trying to figure out how to ask my questions of my guide and not get his casual shrug that I hadn't been paying much attention.  Hot Stuff and I had actually passed Acdurian on the path.  When I looked back, he had stopped and was checking his stirrup or something, so I just let Hot Stuff do her thing.
And then, I don't know what happened, but old Hot Stuff had stopped short and I went flying over her head into...nothing.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Okay, so I went to the primary physician to get my thrush checked out. It's okay, he still wants me to continue some of the meds just to make sure it's all gone.  He's a good guy and even though the meds are tedious, okay, I want to get this crap over with.

So, he says to me...all in all, what do you say your health is right now?
I thought about it and said, I think I'm about at 65%.

Then I said...you know, all I want is for somebody to tell me--Irene, you're gonna be all right.  You are cured.  Yay!  Let's celebrate.  We'll have a party.

He scrunched his face up and said, in typical doctor manner, well, no one can tell you that, because often times you get rid of one thing and something else happens, like you get done with a full cardio test and walk out the door and die of a heart attack.

Gee, Ron, that was encouraging.
But, you know, that is truly what I want.  I want somebody to say, "Irene, the cancer is gone.  The cancer is all gone and the chemotherapy did its job and you're gonna live."

Yes, oh, yes.  Live! 
There's all this stuff I have to do.
I have these books, these stories I have to get down and out to the public, not just to my Mom, who is my biggest fan.  I have these kids to see settled and happy.  I have Herb...I can't leave him alone.  He'd be so bored.  (Unless he buys a Camaro with my insurance policy and goes ramblin'.)  He'd be lonely. 

I HOPE.

Yes.  The cancer is gone.  You are in remission.  You are cancer free.  You ain't gonna die this time.
Most important.  You ain't gonna die this time.

My older brother and I were talking about cheating death the other week.  He survived Vietnam and untold horrors and I remember all the little marks he had on his person when he came home, home to our house first before going South.  It was a day or so in the real world.  He had all these marks all over his arms and legs. 
He said they were the marks left by bullet grazes.
Jesus.

He does have a warped sense of humor, and he was pretty weirded out right when he came home (It was like hours, or a day or so, not much more out of the battlefield.)  But, ya know, I do know he survived hell.  So, add those things to his heart attack/subseqent bypass surgery and I am willing to bet there are things he has survived I know nothing about, I guess he's cheated death pretty much.

Me too.

The car crash.
The first cancer.
Now this crap.

That's enough, thank you very much.
Yep, God, that's enough.

Oh, yeah, btw, thanks for all the help!

Opulent Opar.
That's got a nifty ring to it, doesn't it?
I mean, consider this:  the main street leading up to the golden palace is a river of gold and quartz, heavy on the gold part.
The palace itself is made of, from what I can tell, solid gold, although there's something weird about how anybody got to make it.  Gold is kind of soft, the walls are hard and probably have been here for a long time. This is no work of Prester John. I'd think the Atlanteans built it with their superior technology back when Opar was a mining colony.
Moving right along, there are jewel quality gemstones everywhere.  The kids grind them into marbles--I swear--and play with rubies and emeralds and saphires the way we'd play with glass moggies.  Aggies?  I never was a big marble fan.
The people I've seen are all well fed.  I haven't seen anyone looking wan or the least bit sickly, although they may be carted away or locked away at the first sign of illness. I'll have to ask my Atlantean guide about that.
And, just about every piece of decoration in the palace is encrusted with cut gems.  The mirror in my lav is not so hot, but the frame that holds it is worth a king's ransom, at the very least.
Even the bathtub is spectacularly encrusted with amethysts, except on the bottom and inside, where they might hurt a body.

Yeah, this is living the rich life, all right.
Somehow, I must be mentally ill to think there's something wrong, something sinister behind all this.  Maybe it's my nature to be so cynical.  Something in my background, my upbringing by a bunch of college professors, doctors all, or perhaps--haha--my genes, makes me wonder.  I dunno.
Anyway, enough of that, I'm meeting Acdurian and going for a horseback ride through Opar.  He promised to show me the wonders and I'm digging the idea of being on a horse.  Ride 'em cowgirl.

"So, Acdurian, where to?"
My guide, looking somewhat perplexed by my question, tilted his head to one side.  "I have never...um, that is...ah, yes, I thought...well, where would you like to go first?  Are you sure  you can handle the mare?"
It was good to be back in my clean jeans and my own boots.
I adjusted myself in the saddle, somewhat English in design, but with a slightly higher back and more padding at the knees.  Nice slick stirrups, though, that my boots fit exactly right.  "Through some of the villages, down in that valley over there, then maybe, if we have time, up the mountain to get a good overview.  You said something about the mining operation, that it was interesting.  And then, there are the ruins."
He nodded, smiling slightly.  "That's a long day in the saddle."
"I was born in the saddle," I quipped back at him.  I don't think he gets my sense of humor, though because he sort of vaguely smiled back.
So, I touched my heels to the mare and off she went, smooth as silk, a wonderful even gait that had me rocking.  Maybe a little stiff in the morning, but I was digging it.

The village was a bit disappointing.  Instead of native huts circa the proper time, there were what appeared to be those thatched roof country houses--the kind John Wayne dragged Maureen O'Hara into in The Quiet Man--more Irish or Scottish than African.  I puzzled on this internally, and my guide took over for once. 
"The Master cleaned up the hovels of the native people, first thing upon his arrival here many years ago.  They lived in poor conditions with no sanitation to speak of.  Prester John gave them clean water, shelters that remained solid through all weather, and heating systems, all tied into the underground volcanic vents.  We Atlanteans had this long ago."
"Why didn't you pass it on to the native people when you got here?"
He shrugged.  "We have lived in Opar for thousands of years.  Among ourselves."
Some reply.  But it told me reams about the Atlanteans.

Moving along, we followed a wide stream into a lovely lush valley where in the distance, white towers rose and glinted in the sun.  The horses stopped at the edge of the valley, giving us the opportunity to look down at the glistening magnificence below.  Wow.  Nice stuff.
As we entered the valley, however, I noticed that the buildings were not quite as solid and clean as I initially thought.  There were cracks in the facades and some of the golden ornamantation appeared to be coming loose.  There was an air of tiredness, of Old Russia trying to put on a brave face, about everything.  In their day, these buildings must have been incredibly beautiful.
Now, to me, they just looked faded and worn and very, very tired.

There were people about, the tall, glistening blonds with pale skins that all resembled Acdurian.
They turned to notice us, then went about their business, whatever that was.  No one seemed to be in any particular hurry.  No one seemed to be engaged in much of anything.  There weren't stores or stalls or horses or fish stands or banks or schools.  Every once in awhile, though, above us swished a small boat-like thing, carrying Atlanteans somewhere.  The air boats.  Ah.  They didn't look too scary.  But, I was glad I'd chosen to ride.
"This is our temple," Acdurian pointed out one large edifice to the right.  Now, this building looked pretty well kept and sturdy, clean, too.  And populated.  There were scores of air boats lined up and people walked solemnly to the gaping golden doors.
Glancing up, I noted for the first time the enormous crystal at the top, where in one of our churches, say, would have a steeple or cross or something.  In place of that, well, there was a giant clear faceted rock, at least two meters across, soaking up the sunshine and if you looked closely, a thin blue light streamed down into the temple.  Hmm.  This power source PJ had spoken about?  What did they use it for in the temple?  Air conditioning?  Lights?  Hmm
"I must beg your forgiveness, for a moment, Clopidogera," he said as he began to dismount.  "I will be but a moment, but I will go into the temple and return shortly."
So, with that, he left, and there I was, so I got off the Hotshot (what I'd named my mount since apparently the Atlanteans do not give names to animals) and let her do her thing while holding the reins to Acdurian's horse, the one I'd named Larry.
Minutes later, my guide returned, looking somewhat flushed and a bit cheerier and more than a little bit handsomer.  Peculiar.  But, I guess, his trip to the temple had given him an uplift of spirit.  Church can do that to a person.

"Where to now?"
"I thought perhaps you'd like to see the mines.  They're adjacent to the village, not too far away."
"Cool."
"Hmm, I thought it was rather warm for this time of year," he mused.
"Oh, Acdurian," I had to laugh, but then I had to do some thinking.  How to understand "cool" Hmm.  "That's just an expression.  It means that something is neat, or great or just wonderful or just right for the moment.  I like the idea of going to the mines, therefore, it's cool.  Not temperature-wise, but great or wonderful."
"Or just right for the moment?"
"Exactly.  Let's go."

The mines, it came to be, were located at the base of the mountain, which, it turned out, was an extinct volcano.  A native took our mounts and another ushered us into the opening of the mine.
It didn't make me duck and I admit to being slightly claustrophobic after being stuck in a closet as a child, waiting for someone to find me and thinking that just thinking would bring a rescuer.  Mental telepathy or just being mental.
I remember not wanting to cry out for some reason, but not now just why I was so dumb.  I do know that it was dark before anyone came looking for me and I'd been in the closet for hours and hours.  Hence, small,confined dark places and I do not agree in general.  This mine, however, was enormous and well lit by crystals gathered in metal baskets along the walls.
It was hot inside, though, and there were mounds of dirt and rock and crystals scattered about the floor.
And there were--oh, good GOD--there were giant ape-like creatures shoveling out rock in search of crystals.  Acdurian explained as I gaped in horror at the sight of these gigantic furred creatures, we're talking Mighty Joe Young size beasts, that they were what sounded like trogu,  genetically engineered by the Atlanteans to work the mines.  When I asked them how long they had been doing this, he shrugged and said probably since they'd been created.  That probably meant when the Atlanteans first arrived in Opar, if not before.  If they'd been created on Atlantis, they could have existed for thousands of years.
"Where do they live?"
He shook his head at me, gave me that vague 'I don't care' look of his.  "They have pens out of the mine."
"Pens?  Not houses, not rooms?  Pens, like you keep pigs and farm beasts?"
He thought about that for a few seconds.  "Well, yes.  Did you expect us to keep them in our houses?"
Humph.  Paradise was spoiling for me.
"Well, in their own houses."
He laughed. "That's quite amusing, Clopidogera.  These creatures were bred to work in the mines.  They aren't anything more than animals.  They can be trained to dig and pick out crystals.  They can be taught to transport the crystals where they are needed.  They do not speak, they cannot make themselves known, only their simplest wants, those of any animal.  They breed true, they have mates, I am told, and they take their young with them to the mines when they are old enough to lift and shovel.  What would you have us to with them?"
He had me there.
I didn't know what I'd do with them.  But they looked so worn out.  So dusty and tired.  Then, on the floor, one of the creatures started making noises and pointing at us. 
Other trogu stopped working and turned to look at us.
They started gesturing and in general getting aggitated and pointing.
Not at us.
At me.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Today started off poorly.  I didn't get much sleep last night and so woke up feeling kinda bad.
Nothing really happened to make things better except for Pauline (the doll!!!) showing up with her lovely chicken tetrazine and salad and bread and dressing for us to eat.  Considering I know I will be able to taste this, I am a happy camper.

My mouth is not cooperating as it should, however, because of this junk.  The meds I am supposed to take five times a day and let dissolve line my mouth with a plastic-like film and while the tongue does not look like a rock that hasn't been moved in eons, it has this covering on it and no taste buds except for sweet.

For example.
Herb made sausage patties for breakfast, asked me if I'd like to try.  So I ate one.  Took a bite and felt the rough texture on my tongue but no taste.  So I chewed it and as I swallowed, I could taste it, sort of.  Not whilst in my mouth, though, whilst on the way down the hatch.  Sadly disappointed, I settled for yogurt and fruit cocktail for breakfast, which tasted real
Tea didn't taste good, but I had to take my regular pills with something wet.

For lunch, I thought, stupidly, that I would be able to taste some of the left over pizza Elyse brought home from the famous Chimney Rock Inn where she went last night.  It was pepperoni and mushroom. I couldn't even detect any cheese on it, but the crust was horrible (to me) as it was cracker thin and whole wheat.  Bleah. Whoever thought up THAT idiocy???

No good.  My stomach is roiling.  I'm freakin' hungry.  But the mouth is not cooperating fully.

Herb had planned on making a seafood supper for us tonight.  I know I can taste shrimp now, don't know what else he was going to make, but I think he mentioned some of these giant scallops, which I also know I should be able to taste.

Yes!
Please!  I deliberately haven't taken any of those dissolving pills since noon. I would like to try to eat something with taste today. It's been eons!
I'll do them later, sort of.

And, Pauline's masterpiece will serve as dinner tomorrow because Elyse's college roommate is coming for a visit and it will save Herb from having to come up with something large to eat.

Thank you, Pauline.  I hope seeing me in the hats and laughing was a partial repayment for your kindness.  The scale is certainly not balanced.

Don't you wish your girlfriend were hot like me?

See?  All it takes is a trip to the doctor's and some meds and I feel so much better than I did when I thought I was going to die.
Evidently, now this is again Irene's version of what was wrong with me, there is this stuff in your mouth, necessary to keep it going right and all, that the doctor referred to as "flora".  Like the stuff in your guts and all that you definitely need to keep digesting and all that healthy stuff.
Well, the chemo, in one last wicked shot at me, decided to totally wipe out this flora stuff and it went as far as all the way back in my throat.
My tongue looked like--no, I don't want to use that visual.  Just figure out that it looked corroded and covered with yellowish gook that would not go away no matter how much I spit.

So, the doc, who is a sweetie, btw, a major in the Air Reserve or National Guard or something, listens to me patiently.  He is a very patient guy.  He listened to me go on and on about how lousy I felt, talking with my Helen Keller tongue, and he writes two prescriptions for me.
One I have to dissolve a tablet in my mouth five times a day then swallow the liquid (thank heaven it has no bad taste) and the other is the exact same pill one gets for vaginal yeast infections.

Don't bother going there.  It is too horrifying.

Yes.  This is a yeast infection, just like you might get after taking heavy duty antibiotics for something else, then your female parts revolt because you've managed to kill off those necessary good bugs down there with the antibiotics.

Okay, if I have to spell it out, it's the same stuff you get for crotchrot!!!!!

Whenever I try to be polite, it never works.  Got get get crude to be understood by the masses.

But, okay, it's one day later and I feel better.  Not 100%, to be sure, as the chemo is still wreaking havoc on my bod, but the mouth is better.  It hurts to swallow because the back of my throat is sore as hell, but that, too, will pass.

As for the cold and the junk in my lungs, that appears to be breaking up, also!  Hallelujah!
I have a prescription for an antibiotic for that, but I'm afraid that if I take THAT, I'll kill off all the good stuff in my mouth and BLAM~~~I'll be right back where I started from.
Now, the object of this exercise is to go forward, right??
We're getting out of this mess and getting healthy and back on our feet, right?????

Please, please, let's get better fast.
I have places to go, people to impress and books to write~~~~~!

Last night, my throat sealed up.
I don't know what happened, or why it is still happening, but I can't freakin' talk or breathe right.  My tongue is swollen and covered with that crud, the worst it has ever been!
And when I try to suck in air, there are these noises telling me that my lungs aren't clear of something.
Yes, it is gross to talk about this.
I understand. But for the sake of remembering this horror, I'm writing it down.

The mucus in my head is clear.  When I hork up something, it has a greenish yellow color, but that doesn't happen very often. I wish I could get rid of the stuff in my lungs.
The oncologist prescribed me some Levaquin (sp) but we didn't get it filled.  I thought I had a cold.  Now it's much worse.
So, since I can't talk, somehow I gotta get an appt. with the primary doctor (of course, it is Jennifer's day off--rats!!) and get Elyse to take me.  Herb said he'd call for an appt., but that might not be until later this afternoon.

Okay.
This is the lowest I have been since I thought I had pancreatic cancer.
Yeppers.
I thought I was going to die last night.
Very depressing.
I sincerely doubt right now that I could swallow a pill.
Lower than a snake's belly, that's me.
Depressed?
Nah.  Why should I be depressed over the thought of almost dying?
Hell, I've been there already.
Sincerely.
And it may still be in my immediate future.

Here it is, folks!
The mighty Irene who everybody has thought was so strong and brave is now talking about dying.
Again.

Sorry.

(One of the resident squirrels is making the rain fall from the wet leaves outside the window.  How cool.)

Yug.
I feel like toasted crap on a stale cracker.
My tongue...aargh.  It's covered with lichen and swollen and I can barely talk.
Shall we even begin to think of tasting anything?
Just brushing my teeth, trying to get all the gook off from my tongue, hurts.

This is really too gross to go into.
I will put it all in my book, though.
To warn people.
To tell them what they have to look forward to when they get this type of chemo.

But, in the end, I can take it.
Sure, so I go a few days (12 or so) without tasting or actually eating anything.  I can certainly afford it.

Here's something to contemplate, however.
So far, I know I have for certain lost at least 74 lbs.
Had I been a thin slip of a girl, I'd probably be dead from that already.

So, going along with Pollyanna and playing the GLAD GAME, I'm not dead yet and I have no intention of giving in to the devil.  heh heh

And, I am by no means slim.
It would be nice, sure, but there's still some left to play with and I'm not sure how I can possibly get rid of the bits that hang so unattractively, but there you are.

Inside, I am still what and who I always was.
Too bad it's only on the inside.

I've felt better.
Still shaky, still scared to walk the ten steps to the bathroom in case I fall and hurt myself even more.
I feel pukey, too, even with all the Emend in me.

Today is supposed to be a gift from God.  The sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky, nice gentle breeze.  Oh, how I wish I were down the shore...even just to be THERE, not even at the beach.
I dunno what's wrong with me, but THE SHORE has become this little bit of Nirvana or something, some place to aspire to be.  I'm going mental.

My cheeks are aflame.
I have no eyelashes.
I look so strange.  That person in the mirror can't be me.  She's so ugly, and old, and bald, and dangling. 

Here's a secret.
Yes, my chemo is over.  I cannot get any  more chemo ever again.  I'm undergoing the same old bad stuff that follows the poisoning.  I know it won't happen to me again, that all I have to do is wait out these next pathetic days, undergo the tongue thing and the no taste thing or the bad taste thing and the rockiness in my step and everything else.
And I still don't know whether I'm going to live through this.
That bothers me.
The secret?
I'm afraid.
I'm afraid it is all for nothing.

This can't be all there is.
(I'm down so far, everything looks up to me.)

Chemo day.  I feel like total shit.
I also learned some things that nobody told me before I started on this journey.
Like that the chemo drugs might have affected my heart.  And my eyes.  And other internal important things.  Nobody told me these things, or they muttered them whilst leaving the room, but it was news to me and I kind of got more upset than I was yesterday about all this.

About looking backward, I'm going to look through all this blogging and see just what I wrote about my treatment and what I went through.  If there is anything worth letting anybody else know about this, okay, I'd try to sell it, but frankly, I can't see a whole book.
How can I maintain being lighthearted and glib when I feel so bad?

Maybe now is not the time to research.
After all, the poisons are in me and attacking God knows what now.
And doing some damage to important Irene parts that ought to remain untouched.

So, Doc Leff said I have to have a PET scan and something to check out my heart.  I never knew what that test was called though I had it in the hospital and it didn't hurt, so I guess I could survive another one.  The PET scan is relatively painless, except for the isotope that goes into my hand vein and remaining still with my arms over my head for nearly an hour.  That hurts the most.  Armpit strain on muscles barely used since I stopped raising my hand in a class.

And this cold thing...the coughing wasn't too bad during the day, but the other doc (my angel) was worried about it so she wrote another prescription for Levaquin (sp) for me.  This is what I took when I had the bronchitis.  She said only get it filled if necessary.  She did say I ought to be using the inhaler every four hours and taking the codeine every six hours after I told her I only took it before bed time.

My ribs and my diaphram (sp again) hurt from the heavy coughing I was doing.  It wasn't too bad today, but I did wake up feeling pretty low.
Surprise, my blood count was10.1!!!!!!!!!  Yay  Only I don't remember what blood that was counting.  They were all happy about that.
And I've lost another four pounds.

Tell ya, I'm melting, I'm melting~~~~

My good buddy and sister of the mind Lois insisted this morning that I write a book about my trials and tribulations regarding the cancer.
My good buddy Shelley got me going about a book, too, and I came up with some fake endorsements..."laugh riot", "you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll plotz" that kind of stuff, and I also came up with a title.
Are you all ready for this?

Something the Cat Dragged In

Is that a grabber?

And I reckon I've written plenty in this blog and in letters to my friends to fill a few pages.  Not the whining stuff, but the other stuff.  And the stuff I've felt and not written so I would not freak out my Mom and family.
Oh, how I wish I'd recorded some of my more brilliant moments with my older brother and some of the incredibly funny stuff I've told to my younger brother.

Now, it comes down to whether I really want to relive all this crap.
It has not been a bundle of laughs, certainly no laugh riot.  In fact, it's been a royal pain in the ass and other assorted places on my body.

So, I proposed the idea to Sally who thought it would be a good idea.  I shall bring it up to Sandy and see if she thinks I can actually go through with it.

Maybe I'll try to sell the idea at the Long Island luncheon. 
Just what anybody would want to hear.

Time for some personal thoughts:
Oh how I want to get back into my jeans!  This gown is killing me.  My legs and this hem dragging around and my ankles getting wrapped up--aargh.  And trying to figure out what time it actually is...he has the natives in the palace dressed up in these ridiculous outfits and those outside are dressed comfortably like native citizens from the 12th century or any other century since it's a jungle and all.  It's confusing, and considering I've been confused for quite some time, oh, well, just another thing for me to complain about. 
I've figured out that I'm supposed to try to learn things, that's always what Gramps and the uncles always told me.  That wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, I am supposed to learn.  Well, I've learned a great deal since being flung out of time and space.  And this...the hints about Atlantis, that golden river of rock and mineral or whatever it is...and the name Prester John.  I can't remember where I heard it, but it wasn't important at all and yet...somehow it isn't completely out of my memory. 
Hell, it could have been a footnote.  I always read footnotes; in fact, I'm probably the only person in the world who does read them.

Back to what's happened.

I left the laboratory and PJ, out through that golden door, to be greeted by the traveling entourage that was to guide me.  Watch me.  Keep track of me.  The women all wore this placid expression, sort of like they were numb.  Drugged?  I don't think so.  I think they were just doing what they were told was proper.  If I get a chance, I'll ask somebody about that.  If they'll even understand what I mean.  Can you just ask someone why they look so uninvolved with life?

OMG. I just thought of something.
They're servants.
Servants back in Victorian times, in any time that there were servants, were supposed to be not seen and not heard.  Then you got the upstairs/downstairs thing that they had going, but somehow, I sincerely doubt these servants do any trash talking downstairs.  I don't think their nature has developed to that stage.  Or maybe they have been indoctrinated.  I guess it has to start somewhere.

Enough of this useless speculation.  I'm going to get some dinner then make plans for what I'll do tomorrow, then maybe talk with PJ about how the time device works and get the hell out of here.  It's pretty and pretty boring at the same time.
And I'm going to pick up some of these jewels that are cluttering up the floor and put them in the backpack to bring home as souvenirs.  Some of these rocks are at least 100 carats. Some are as big as hens' eggs if not more.  (And I noticed that some of the ones on the floor in the laboratory looked like burnt out lightbulbs, you know, blackened in the middle.  Hmm.)

Dinner.  After the ladies change me into a gown that actually fits (somebody was busy while I was walking around in the lab) with this bare neck and a frill sort of thing that barely hangs on to my shoulders, wow, and is tight at the waist but I can breathe, I swish myself into the dining room.  There's this heavy drapery over what is probably windows, candles in heavy sconces nearly everywhere and a long, long table lined with padded chairs, oh, about 20 on each side.
Ulp!  Am I the only person here, alone with PJ?  What if I sit on one end, and he sits at the head?  That sounds fair enough.

Then someone else comes in behind me.  When I turn to check out who it is, I am really startled.
The most gorgeous man I have ever seen has shown up...and I think my heart actually thumped a little.  He was tall, lithe, if you can describe a man that way, ah, a swimmer's body, that's best.  Long and lean and the torso elongated, but with long legs, too.  Silvery blond hair.  Skin a shade darker than pinky pink, maybe a really good tan going there.  Sort of west coast surfer, but not.  Not when you got a load of his eyes.
Wow.  Such eyes.  Slightly upturned, long dark lashes, but a wild, aquamarine color, almost like the ocean on a very, very good day. 
Any day on the beach with this guy would have been pretty damned spectacular, that's for sure.  Yes, I know, Dan is waiting back home and I really do love him, but I am not dead and he was a gorgeous guy.
Then he spoke. 
"Hello.  I'm Acdurian.  You're Clopidogera Madder.  Shall we be seated?"
He held out my chair and sat across the table from me, going all the way 'round, moving so elegantly, like a swimmer or a dancer.  Yeah.  A dancer.  Elegant and graceful, but manly.  It's hard to describe it since I've never seen it before, so you'll have to bear with me.

I think I must have been staring.  He smiled gently and tilted his head slightly to the side as if he were studying me as much as I was studying him.

"The Master suggested I might take you around Opar tomorrow, if you would like."
Finding my voice, I managed to say that I would like it very much.
"Are you afraid to ride horseback?  If you are, we can take an aircar.  Whatever you desire."

Um, uh. 
"I'm not afraid of horses...but what is an aircar?"

I noted the sparkle in his fascinating eyes.  "An aircar?  Why, it is just that.  Perhaps you might conceive of a small boat, high on the sides for safety, with two seats.  It travels overland, only in the air.  By the magic of the crystal.  Or didn't you want to know that?  Am I speaking too much?
Have I said too much?"
I don't know what made him ask that.  Certainly he wasn't saying anything beyond my comprehension, but he was sort of treating me like a child.  Or...an ignorant female.  A little heat flashed up my spine at the mere thought.
"We don't have aircars where I am from, but we have airplanes in which several hundred people might travel in comfort.  They can eat and even sleep on the airplanes and I have indeed flown in several in my lifetime.  The idea of individual air transport is intriguing."
But what I really wanted to know about were the crystals...all those rocks littering the floors around this place, stuck into the walls.  PJ had said something about the glowing crystal in the main motor in the lab.  Did this Acdurian know anything about that?

"So, Acdurian, what's with these crystals?  What kind of power do they give out?"

You know the expression "blank stare"?
That's what he gave me.
The guy was clueless.  Completely and utterly clueless.

So I pushed just a little.

"The crystals aren't magic.  There is no such thing as magic.  They have some kind of power, but do you know how it works?"
 

At last, he responded.  "They are magic.  My ancestors harnessed the magic, but I am afraid the knowledge of that magic is long lost to my people.  If it weren't for the Master, none of the machines would have worked for us.  The airboats, the everyday devices that heat our water, cool our food, wash our clothing...these are just some of the magical machines Prester John revived for us to use.  But I don't understand how any of these things work, and certainly not the magic of the crystals.  They have some kind of power in order to make the machines of the ancestors work, but I cannot tell you how they do it.  It's beyond my comprehension, and probably beyond yours, also, so I wouldn't worry about it."
He dismissed the conversation when people came in bearing platters of food...delicious smelling roasted meat and veggies.  There was wine, too, and even though I don't drink, I hesitated to drink the water on general principles.  I sincerely doubt it was germ free, while at least I knew the wine had to be fermented and that probably killed off most of the bugs.  I hoped so.  But it tasted like crap, anyway. 

I needed to find out more about Acdurian.  "So, you are descended from Atlantis?"
He smiled and seemed to warm up a bit.
"Yes, I'm pure Atlantean.  Both my parents can trace their ancestry back to the true island.  We have the scrolls to prove it.  When Atlantis unfortunately sank into the ocean, my antecedents were among those fortunate enough to leave.  They, along with some few others, reached Opar a millenia ago, as it was a colony.  This is where all the Atlantean gold comes from, and, I suppose, the magic crystals.  Forgive me.  You have said they are not magic."  He seemed to swallow the apology, something so odd from a man.  As if it were choking him.

"The gold I have seen.  Where do the crystals come from?"
"I can show you tomorrow, if you'd like.  Would it really interest you?"

Humph. 
"Yes, I am interested in scientific things.  Natural things.  I'd love to see all I can of Opar, if you don't mind."
He smiled this wan, benign smile that I sort of wanted to smack off his gorgeous face.

"Okay, you're on, then.  Tomorrow should prove to be a very interesting day.  You will be my tour guide and I will be your fascinated tourist."  I flashed him one of my fake smiles which undoubtedly pleased him (clueless, for sure) and we finished our dinner pleasantly in relative silence.  Dessert, I have to add, was wonderful. I'm not exactly sure what it was, but it tasted of chocolate and cream and strawberries.  It was cold and delicious.

Tomorrow, buddy boy, you will be in for a real shock. I'm going to squeeze every last bit of information out of you that I can.  That way, maybe, I can figure out what's going on around here.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson