Roxyann- the end of the laborador era

Tonight, our laborador of 12 years passed away after a 36 hour illness. She was the consummate pet,gentle,loving, accepting, obedient, wonderful hunting companion, and a lure to young males in the neighborhood til the end. She loved the smell of quail, pheasants, grouse, ducks, fresh pot roast gravy and Thanksgiving turkey tidbits. Every collection of water was her fountain and swimming hole; retrieving the dummy an artform, especially a triple blind retrieve. She stayed clear of skunks, porcupines, and dead fish, she had her standards. Tomorrow we will lay her to rest in the grounds she loved to dig and smell; rain and snow are expected but our wet eyes will be her final bath. Eric

How is Jack doing?

Margie and I are in Oakland and have spent the day seeing Jack through surgery to correct a congenital blood vessel malformation in his chest that constricted his esophagus and trachea. The Pediatric heart surgeons here treat this as a routine, not-very-exciting case, with straight forward technique,correction of the plumbing to a normal state and an expected complete recovery. The care and facilities are wonderful and we are grateful for this gift. We will pay a farewell visit tomorrow, stop in Stockton to visit uncle John and aunt Ellen-Mom's brother and his wife- and then head back to Medford. Thanks to all of you who kept us in your thoughts and prayers during this challenging time. Eric

new news

The muses have been visiting me at night again as there is a new development in our action filled lives.

Our first grandson, Jack, the new hope of expanded Overland lineage, was eight weeks early, spent seven weeks in the NICU in Oakland, went home and had a series of brief but frightening breathing pauses that sent he and his parents back again to the Pediatric intensive care unit, application of assisted ventilation, tube feedings, CT scans, cardiac catheterization, and multiple specialist consultations. On the 19th he will have his chest opened to surgically correct a congenital vascular ring which surrounds his esophagus and trachea and interferes with swallowing and breathing. Jack is in good medical hands and we are fortunate that this problem was detected and defined. Surgical outcomes are very good. His parents, Liz and Tim are fed up with hospitals, trips to-and-from, medical crises, and just want a healthy boy home for the holidays. They seem to have forgotten that they have invited a total stranger to live with them for the next 18 to 24 years, will easily spend 0.5 to 1.0 million in 2007 dollars on him, and may have to sell the house some day to get him out from under them. We will travel down to Oakland and meet up with Liz's parents to see Jack and lend whatever support is needed.

I am finishing my fifth month of therapy for my tumor and apart from the two weeks per month associated with my monthly chemotherapy I feel pretty good. Fatigue, sleepiness and weakness are my main concerns, but I feel good enough to dream big plans, just don't have the umph to pull them off. The week of chemo isn't much fun, especially when Ralph and I meet and pray to the porcelain goddess. Another brain MRI in a couple of weeks and plans for the next two months can be made.

Thanks to all of you for your loving support. Christmas cards will be going out this and next week with personalized thank you's. Eric

Slow dance

This composition came from a 16 year old women who is suffering from terminal cancer. As a member of the club which no one wants to join she wanted these thoughts passed on. We will all have our opportunity to look into the abyss and recognize what she is saying; don't wait.

SLOW DANCE

Have you watched kids
On a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground?
Ever followed the butterfly's erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading light?
You better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.
Do you run through each day
on the fly?
When you ask how are you?
Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done
do you lie in your bed
with the next hundred chores
running through your head?
You'd better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.
Ever hold your child,
We'll do it tomorrow!
And in your haste,
Not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch,
Let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time
To call and say, "Hi"?
You'd better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.
When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift....
Thrown away.
Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the the music
Before the song is over.

I have kept a promise to keep this thought alive. Use it, copy it, share it, in memory of the young one who recognized in a few months what many of us take years to awaken too.

Thanksgiving is a week away. We will be giving thanks. Eric

Update on the noggin

A brief update on my situation. I had my brain MRI last week and returned to my three treating specialists this week for their collective opinions. Doctors like well meaning friends and relatives always start the meeting with "how are you doing?" I think it is important to keep the replies fresh and informative so now I tell them that "I 'm still on the right side of the grass."
The MRI showed a hole where there was suppose to be one and some bruising from the surgery and radiation where there was suppose to be some and no surprises. Of course little terrorist cells could be lurking anywhere in the residual brain preparing to grow, enlarge, and cause mayhem, discord, terror, general anxiety, and put this lump of clay on the WRONG side of the grass. To reduce this likelihood, in concert with my doctors, I have started on a systemic poison to kill the terrorist cells in my brain. Realizing that there would be collateral damage from this chemotherapy my other systems became self centered and starting asking questions and complaining about their well being. I pointed out that this lump of clay wasn't a democracy and that there would be no voting. The immune system would take the biggest hit from this poison. The other 12 systems could just pipe down and suck it up for the common good. The gastroenteric system was the noisiest complainer and I adjusted my rules about showing favor of one system over another and offered him a fruit smoothie each morning. It was either that or having my friends continually ask "did someone just step on a duck?"
My chemotherapy is amazingly benign and I'm worried that my pharmacy may be giving me the Chinese brand. The plan going forward is five days of progressively higher doses of chemo out of 28 and MRIs every two to three months to follow the beast in my brain. No news is good news but this thing will play out over the next two to three years-hopefully with repeated observations that there is nothing new there. We will be watching the brain tumor center blogs for evidence of proven enhanced therapies.
A funny thing happened yesterday that shows how crazy we are. I suppose when some guy(or women) first tamed and hopped onto a donkey, camel or horse, he/she said enough of this walking, from now on I'm riding. My privilege to drive an automobile was restored by my neurosurgeon Dr Ross.[Dr. Ross you are a credit to your species]. Until one loses that freedom of movement granted by the combustion engine surrounded by steel and plastic, one doesn't realize we are addicted and the loss of freedom gnawed at me day and night. My lovely patient wife ferried me all over the Northwest the past five months and I offered a continuous verbal and non verbal tutorial on proper driving technique but it just wouldn't take and caused me a tremendous strain. So even though I don't have anyplace I really have to go, I'm free again and I think I'll go out and give my car a hug, take a picture of me and my SUV and send it to Dr. Ross. I'm sure he has quite a portfolio by now. We will never give up the freedom off movement that goes with a personal conveyance like a donkey, Ramcharger, Impala, Barracuda, Mustang, etc.
Last week my son Tim and wife Liz made Marjorie and I first time grandparents. Jack was seven weeks early but this characteristic of impatience is a common Overland trait and I understand his desire get out grab life and start wringing the living out of it. The little guy is hospital bound until his breathing and heart beat are stable enough for the doctors-probably another two weeks. The function of his waste disposal systems have provoked a lot of interest among the family so if your broadband service has slowed down a little the past week, it is our fault. Thanks Liz and Tim for this gift, we can't wait to spoil him.
Overall I am feeling better, stronger, weight is back up, and now free(see above). I am fueled by hope, gratitude for the numerous kindnesses extended to me by my wife, children, relatives, friends, colleagues, and strangers,and strong desire to overcome so that I can give back to my community. Like many of you I have looked into the abyss, feared, reflected, and now consider myself fortunate for life has a grandeur that I shamefully took for granted until this awakening.

Love to all, Eric

update on operation ice cream scoop from a new grandpa

The writing muses abandoned me and procrastination set in causing massive writers block. New news and rapidly approaching 100 day mark compel me to comment about the little pricks that bedevil each of us daily. I have my first followup brain MRI on Wednesday and then a series of MD visits where they collectively scratch their heads, stroke their beards and say in three part harmony, hmmmm. I'm hoping they will look at my brain and say, you know, there is nothing there, which may go a way to explaining why you're such a nut case. I have to start chemotherapy again next week for five days out of every 28 and do this for a year if everything seems to get better. If this doesn't work then back to San Francisco to review other options. I will get bimonthly brain MRIs to moniter the noggin.

Fatigue and nausea are still the main symptoms. I try to exercise with walks, hikes, short bike rides, and work on the rowing machine, which feels good at the time, but the next day overwhelming fatigue sets in which I don't understand and this takes a day or two to resolve then I try the exercise again. Someday I'll break free and resume normalcy.
I traveled to Montana to see my brothers Paul and Casey in Missoula. It was fun to see Montana decked out in fall colors after a 40 year absence. Paul took me down the rivers of our childhood and we memorialized the great childhood we experienced by trying to outwit cold blooded animals with brains the size of a lentil into biting a small concoction of colored fur and feathers on a small hook. It was fun and sometimes we were triumphant and we felt good. Nowadays it is strictly catch and release but in the 1950s is was very much catch and cook; in fact much of Montana obtained its daily protein from wild game when we were growing up and after a while the term "fished out" became common.

Fishing is still lots of fun which is weird. Why would educated, literate, theater-going, proponents of liberal education and travel find pleasure in fooling a primitive cold blooded animal? It must be something in our genes- nature not nurture- because I have taken non- fishing adults and got them seriously hooked on the sport- long past any hope for nurturing to play a part.

About forty years ago I met a wonderful woman from Montana and after chasing her about I got the nerve up to ask her if she would swim upstream with me. We nosed into the current, found a comfortable niche and not to get too graphic, we spawned. One always wonders if their offspring will return to their home waters and be successful, too. This last Saturday we learned that we were first time grandparents. He arrived about seven weeks early though, about a five pounder I'd say, and a definite keeper. We will go introduce ourselves later this week so I can measure him for his fly rod.

Fond regards to all, Eric

Waiting....

For Godot? No.... For Guffman? No....

For Good News!

But we have no news just yet. (Sorry for the lack of content, TE!) We are enduring the lllloooonnnngggg wait between the end of radiation and first round of chemotherapy and the MRI (scheduled for 10/31,) which will give us some idea of the status of the inside of Eric's head, and will serve as the base line for future studies. We are warned that due to the trauma from radiation, it could look worse than the one that was done right after his surgery. But we'll hope for the best.

In the meantime, we are always grateful for your continued friendship and support. Many thanks!

Marjorie

Cowards? No. Brave? Not so much...

I found this essay by Leroy Sievers from his blog site, "My Cancer" on NPR to be very apt:

September 25, 2007

Does Cancer Make Us Cowardly?

“How many of us would love to run away from our disease? From the treatments, the side effects, the pain? ... We can't run away. So we are left with only one choice. Stand and face it. ”

I was watching an old episode of Boston Legal the other day. I won't try to summarize the plot, but a cancer patient was on the stand in a trial. In the course of his testimony, he said, "Cancer makes cowards of us all." It's one of those lines that grabs your attention. It was clearly meant to. And I kept thinking about it long after I was done with the episode.

I think it's wrong. Wrong meaning incorrect, not morally wrong. Cancer, as we all know far too well, is scary. It's more than scary, it's terrifying. It's worse than any horror movie out there. Sometimes the fear it brings can be almost paralyzing. Except that it's not. I think cancer tries to make cowards of us all. And fails.

To me, a coward is someone who runs away, who fails to act out of fear. No cancer patient is a coward, for one very simple reason. We're not allowed to be. How many of us would love to run away from our disease? From the treatments, the side effects, the pain? At some point, we have all felt that. But it's just not one of the options. We can't run away. So we are left with only one choice. Stand and face it.

We've talked before about how often people tell us how brave we are. I don't think that's right either. We are challenged by this disease, and we rise to the challenge because there really is no other choice. People are much stronger than they think. It's just that many people are never tested.

My cancer has scared me. It scares me pretty much on a daily basis. It scares me when it hides, when it grows, when it surprises me. But make me a coward? Never.

-- Leroy Sievers

Overland - 1, Glioblastoma multiforme - 0

That’s the way I think of the score, to date!

Eric has successfully navigated the first round of therapies, both the radiation and chemotherapy. The last of six weeks of radiation treatments was Wednesday, 9/19. Always one to get good marks, Eric received a terrific certificate from the gang at Providence Radiation Therapy commending him for his wonderful attitude, invoking the spirit of Chingachgook, and of course, perfect attendance! The picture taken with the amazing linear accelerator that shot the zaps to his bean, shows how he decorated his mask. Superheroes, take note! The following day, he took his last chemotherapy of this initial round --- 42 straight days.

Sometime around the end of October when some of the radiation trauma has had a chance to subside, a new MRI will be done to provide the new base line study for future comparisons. And after the month’s break, it’s expected that the chemotherapy will begin again on a 5 days on, 23 days off cycle for the next year or so.

In the meantime, we are looking forward to his regaining some of that signature vim and vigor that he complains of missing during the treatment. We are cautioned that the fatigue can linger for some days or weeks. However, the phrase “can’t keep a good man down” could have been coined for Eric, and he is already making plans for how to best spend these next weeks. Watch out, fish!

This week we have been blessed with visits from Maryann, who came home to reclaim her pooch, as well as giving us a boost, and Eric’s brother Mark, who is always wonderful company and took on his to-do list of chores very cheerfully.

Thank you all for checking this site. We appreciate being able to do these mass updates --- which help to keep us from talking about ourselves ALL the time.

Marjorie

Sunday- a day for reflection

Sunday a day for reflection. Three more radiation treatments and five more days of chemotherapy, then months of rest, healing, and thanksgiving.

I don’t know the author of this poem, but borrowed it from “The Healing Power of Humor,” by Allen Klein.

My life is but a weaving between me and my Creator,
I cannot chose the colors, He weaveth steadily,
Sometimes He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper and I the underside.
Nor ‘til the loom is silent and the shuttle cease to fly,
Shall the Creator unroll the tapestry and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful in the weaver’s skillful hands,
As the ones of silver and gold in the path He has planned.


Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
and children’s faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like the curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirits still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all that you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost,
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)


And now for a laugh at ourselves.

Things you’ll never hear a Rogue Valley Redneck say:

I’ll take Shakespeare for 1,000, Alex!
Wrasslin’s fake.
Honey, did you mail that donation to Greenpeace?
Who’s Richard Petty?
The tires on that truck are too big.
My fiancee is registered at Macy’s.
Checkmate.
Isn’t she too fat to be wearing that bikini?
Hey, dearest, here’s an episode of “Hee Haw” that we haven’t seen.

Peace to all, Eric

The Monk Who Flunked Three Times

Well, we are 2/3s the way through radiation and have eight more photon salvos fired into my medial temporal lobe to go and 11 more days of daily chemotherapy. For those of you who skipped human biology sections on the brain the temporal lobe is helpful in emotional control, following directions, spatial orientation, and short term memory processing. This explains why it can be removed in men and people won’t notice a difference. My surgeon saved about 1/3 of my temporal lobe and that is why I’m still wacky me. He did have to sacrifice my small-talk center which was a vestigial structure anyway and underdeveloped. I consulted a brain rehab specialist about getting my small talk center jump started so I wouldn’t feel self conscious when I got back among my people. He suggested using some commonly appreciated widely disseminated popular themes to notify people that I was struggling to reconnect with the people. So, if we are talking and I casually ask, “do you think Brittany Spear’s navel is starting to sag?” or, is it possible that the universe was once the size of Paris Hilton’s brain?” remember that I am struggling to find another area of the brain that can handle this heady stuff that concerns Americans these days. Feel free to jump to a timeless topic that has trouble philosophers and scientists for eons, like Saint Thomas Aquinas’ question, “how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?”

Speaking of Monks, my head is responding to radiation with selective death of hair follicles that supported luxuriant brown or black hair-always the envy of my wife- with survival of thin gray whispy stuff that makes me look like a monk who was a moral flunk out crossed with Yoda. I”M going to speak to my radiation specialist about a rebate.

I have lost my Vim and Vigor with this “treatment” and have sent out a mayday call for anyone with surplus Vim to beam me some and I’ll send it back with interest better than you’ll get at any bank.

This being Sunday we should have more religion than the mention of St Thomas Aquinas and other monks. So here it is:

The American Indians taught by the oral tradition-like the Israelites. An elderly Indian was talking to his grandson about the conflicts that go on inside people. The battle is between two “ wolves” inside all of us.

One is evil, filled with anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and resentment.

The other wolf is good, filled with joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, kindness, benevolence, truth, compassion, and faith.

The grandson pondered these concepts for a while, then asked his grandfather. “ Which wolf wins?”

The grandfather replied, “ the one you feed.” Thanks Paulette.


From Wally:

An old farmer’s advise

Keep skunks, bankers, and lawyers at a distance.
Life is simpler when you plow around the stumps.
Words that soak into your ears are whispered...not yelled.
You cannot unsay a cruel word.
Sometimes silence is the best answer.
The best sermons are lived, not preached.
The biggest troublemaker you’ll ever deal with watches you from the mirror every morning.
It doesn’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.
Forgive your enemies. It confuses them.
Drink upstream from the herd.
When you wallow with pigs, expect to look like a pig.
Don’t argue with a fool. People can’t tell the two of you apart.
Most stuff people worry about never happens.
Every path will have puddles.
Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you’ll enjoy it a second time.
If you think you are person of some influence, try ordering somebody else’s dog around.

Again from Paulette, who is always teaching: True love is neither physical nor romantic. True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be, and will not be. The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best of everything, they just make the best of everything and never forget Who to thank.

Eric

Things and PEOPLE to be thankful for.....

Today will mark the two thirds point in Eric's radiation therapy --- 20 out of 30 zaps are done! It's not getting any easier, but it's great to reach a milestone of sorts.
We are most thankful for the good care that he is getting from Drs. Haugen and Dibb. And I am thankful that they have all that fancy pants equipment right here in Medford, so that we aren't sitting in a rented Winnebago in a parking lot in Portland for six weeks of daily radiation!

It's always tricky to start thanking people by name who have done kind things for us, because invariably there are more than can be listed. Isn't that a wonderful problem to have?

Here are a few who have helped particularly lately:

Dear friends who have provided nourishment of every kind: flight (Tom Glatte) and flights of fancy (Petey, Tom Espinosa), books and balloons, flowers and much delicious food, notes, cards, emails and clever jokes (Paulette, Jeff, Adrienne, Bud, Don, Gary!). Dear friends who have invited us to share special celebrations --- Forsyths, Petersons, Johnsons, Noyes, Palamaras --- thank you!

Pulmonary Consultants PC --- the best office in the world! The wrist bands are the best. We'll get that photo posted here soon. I treasure my beautiful notes and poems even after the flowers are gone. John, for looking after all of us on ICU day, we are grateful. And Dan, for all your help with Dad, we thank you especially.

Old roomies --- Brenda, I love the eye thingy and the CC "hang in there", and Linda, your positive vibes are with me every day! And to rest of that old gang --- Sally, Barb, Jessie, Ed, Judith thanks for your good wishes and support.

Former patients --- for all the beautiful testimonial letters of thanks and support.

Agape 12, Chapter CP, Chorale chums, RCC Foundation, AMFF Board, Craterian family, Pat's Painters, Gardner Way, the Gourmands, NPM, RWIC, the Rabid Readers, G'Diggers, Tom H. and Co. at Providence, and the Medford Rogue Rotary --- everyone has been wonderful.

Susie and Carol (Penwell & Lowenberg, that is) who we love and who got us through June 29 - July 15 and beyond...!

Lyn and Reeve, who also belong to the club no one wanted to join, for information, support, camaraderie and love, we thank you and that club's dearest alumna, Helen.

Ruth, Tom, Rachele, Jeremy & Rebecca for being our 'other' family, the Swiss family Rohner, and our new families, the Sperrys and the Christensens.

And most especially our own family: The brothers and sisters-in-law & our own beloved young'uns, Sean, Tim, Liz, Maryann & Henrik.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Happily, we know from Eric's cerulean blue mohawk days that no hairdo --- or lack thereof--- diminishes his handsomeness! However, it seems that almost overnight, the hair in the radiation field area of his bean has disappeared. Or as my grandfather used to say, " There it was................ gone."

He has almost finished the third week of both radiation and chemotherapy and is bearing up remarkably well, despite various discomforts, which good taste prevents my detailing on the internet!

Again, we thank you all for the generous good wishes and support.

A MERRY HEART DOETH LIKE A MEDICINE . PROVERBS

I suppose Moses and his fellow campers sat around the campfires at night and swapped good jokes. Wish they had written some of the better ones down. Today the politically correct and sanctimonious among us have closed the damper on telling jokes. On a recent trip to Canada we got a joke or cute story from every gas station attendant or waitress. Never hear that here now. I suggest a 1% discount on the price of purchases if preceded by a pleasantries and a good story.

At the risk of riling the chronically angry, I’m posting a few good ones. Lighten up everyone! Or as the kids say “quit harshing my mellow.”

Marguerite and Elnor went to the county fair every August and Elnor would find his way to the helicopter and pine for a ride. Marguerite would say, “it’s 50 bucks apiece and well, 50 bucks is 50 bucks.” This went on for years. In their 80s and again at the county fair they stood beside the helicopter and Elnor longed out loud again for a ride. He embellished how long he had waited and that time was running out. The pilot overheard the well rehearsed exchange between Marguerite and Elnor and offered them a deal. If he took them up and either of them uttered a peep it was going to cost them $50 a piece, otherwise the ride was free. Elnor jumped at the offer. Marguerite was hesitant but always a good sport, agreed it was a deal.

The pilot took them up and pulled out every trick he new as a former Marine attack chopper pilot. Back on the ground he throttled down the engines and turned back to Elnor and said, “I’m surprised, I thought I would get something out of you two.” Elnor replied, “ I almost said something when Marguerite fell out, but you know, 50 bucks is 50 bucks.”




Subject: Fwd: MAKING A BABY..Know anybody who might need some help???


MAKING A BABY...

(There is not one dirty word in it, and it is funny. Enjoy! If you
haven't laughed today, you will now!)

The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a
surrogate father to start their family. On the day the proxy father was
to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife goodbye and said, "Well, I'm off
now the man should be here soon."

Half an hour later, just by chance, a door-to-door baby photographer
happened to ring the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.

Good morning, Ma'am", he said, "I've come to..."
Oh, no need to explain," Mrs. Smith cut in, embarrassed, "I've been
expecting you."

"Have you really?" said the photographer. "Well, that's good. Did you
know babies are my specialty?"

"Well that's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a
seat" After a moment she asked, blushing,? Well, where do we start?"

"Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the
couch, and perhaps a couple on the bed. And sometimes the living room
floor is fun. You can really spread out there." "Bathtub, living room
floor? No wonder it didn't work out for Harry and me!"

"Well, Ma'am, none of us can guarantee a good one every time. But if we
try several different positions and I shoot from six or seven angles,
I'm sure you'll be pleased with the results."

"My, that's a lot!" gasped Mrs. Smith.

"Ma'am, in my line of work a man has to take his time. I'd love to be
in and out in five minutes, but I'm sure you'd be disappointed with
that."

"Don't I know it," said Mrs. Smith quietly.
The photographer opened his briefcase and pulled out a portfolio of his
baby pictures. "This was done on the top of a bus," he said.

"Oh my God!" Mrs. Smith exclaimed, grasping at her throat.

"And these twins turned out exceptionally well - when you consider their
mother was so difficult to work with."

"She was difficult?" asked Mrs. Smith.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I finally had to take her to the park to get the
job done right. People were crowding around four and five deep to get a
good look."
"Four and five deep?" said Mrs. Smith, her eyes wide with amazement.

"Yes", the photographer replied. "And for more than three hours, too.
The mother was constantly squealing and yelling - I could hardly
concentrate, and when darkness approached I had to rush my shots.
Finally, when the squirrels began nibbling on my equipment, I just hadto pack it all in."

Mrs. Smith leaned forward. "Do you mean they actually chewed on your,
uh...equipment?"

"It's true, Ma'am, yes.. Well, if you're ready, I'll set-up my tripod
and we can get to work right away."

"Tripod?"

"Oh yes, Ma'am. I need to use a tripod to rest my Canon on. It's much
too big to be held in the hand very long."

Mrs. Smith fainted.





Subject: Wedding Anniversary
Ed was in trouble. He forgot his wedding anniversary. His wife was really angry. She told him, 'Tomorrow morning I expect to find a gift in the driveway that goes from 0 to 200 in less than 6 seconds AND IT BETTER BE THERE!!'

The next morning Ed got up early and left for work. When his wife woke up she looked out the window and sure enough there was a box gift-wrapped in the middle of the driveway. Confused, the wife put on her robe and ran out to the driveway, and brought the box back in the house. She opened it and found a brand new bathroom scale. Ed has been missing since Friday. Please pray for him.



I was walking down the street when I was accosted by a particularly dirty and
1. shabby-looking homeless woman who asked me for a couple of dollars for dinner.

I took out my wallet, got out ten dollars and asked,
"If I give you this money, will you buy some wine with it instead of dinner?
"No, I had to stop drinking years ago", the homeless woman told me.

"Will you use it to go shopping instead of buying food?" I asked.
"No, I don't waste time shopping, "the homeless woman said."
I need to spend all my time trying to stay alive.
"Will you spend this on a beauty salon instead of food?" I asked.
"Are you NUTS!" replied the homeless woman. "I haven't had my hair done in 20 years!

"Well," I said, "I'm not going to give you the money. Instead,
I'm going to take you out for dinner with my husband and me tonight.

The homeless Woman was shocked.
"Won't your husband be furious with you for doing that? I know I'm dirty, and I
probably smell pretty disgusting.

"I said, "That's okay. It's important for him to see what a woman looks
like after she has given up shopping, hair appointments, and wine."


The Honeymoon is over


Please excuse the rough language in the following story...I would've
deleted
them, but the story wouldn't be the same.
>
> A young couple got
married and went on their honeymoon. When they got
back, the bride
immediately called her mother.
>
> 'Well,' said her mother, 'so how
was the honeymoon?'
>
> 'Oh, mama,' she replied, 'the honeymoon was
wonderful! So romantic...'
Suddenly she burst out crying. 'But, mama, as soon
as we returned, Sam
started using the most horrible language -- things I'd
never heard before! I
mean, all these awful 4-letter words! You've got to
take me home...PLEASE,
MAMA!'
>> 'Sarah, Sarah,' her mother
said, 'Calm down! You need to stay with your
husband and work this out. Now,
tell me, what could be so awful? WHAT
4-letter words?'
>
>
'Please don't make me tell you, mama,' wept the daughter, 'I'm
so
embarrassed, they're just too awful! COME GET ME,
PLEASE!!'
>
> 'Darling, baby, you must tell me what has you so
upset. Tell your mother
these horrible 4-letter words!'
>
>
Sobbing, the bride said, 'Oh, Mama...he used words like: dust, wash,
iron,
and cook.'
>
> 'I'll pick you up in twenty minutes,' said
the mother.
>



1. Due to the climate of political correctness now pervading America, Kentuckians, Tennesseans and West Virginians will no longer be referred to as "HILLBILLIES."
You must now refer to them as APPALACHIAN-AMERICANS.
And furthermore
HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT WOMEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:
1 She is not a "BABE" or a "CHICK" - She is a "BREASTED AMERICAN."
2. She is not "EASY" - She is "HORIZONTALLY ACCESSIBLE."
3. She is not a "DUMB BLONDE" - She is a "LIGHT-HAIRED DETOUR OFF THE INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY."
4. She has not "BEEN AROUND" - She is a "PREVIOUSLY-ENJOYED COMPANION."
5 She does not "NAG" you - She becomes "VERBALLY REPETITIVE."
6. She is not a "TWO-BIT HOOKER" - She is a "LOW COST PROVIDER."
HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT MEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:
1. He does not have a "BEER GUT" - He has developed a "LIQUID GRAIN STORAGE FACILITY."
2. He is not a "BAD DANCER" - He is "OVERLY CAUCASIAN."
3. He does not "GET LOST ALL THE TIME" - He "INVESTIGATES ALTERNATIVE DESTINATIONS."
4. He is not "BALDING" - He is in "FOLLICLE REGRESSION."
5. He does not act like a "TOTAL ASS" - He develops a case of RECTAL-CRANIAL INVERSION."
6. It's not his "CRACK" you see hanging out of his pants - It's "REAR CLEAVAGE."




>>
>>In pharmacology, all drugs have two names, a trade name and
>>
>>generic name.
>>
>>
>>
>>For example, the trade name of Tylenol also has a generic name
>>
>>of Acetaminophen. Aleve is also called Naproxen. Amoxil is also
>> >>called Amoxicillin and Advil is also called Ibuprofen.
>>
>>The FDA has been looking for a generic name for Viagra. After careful
>>consideration by a team of government experts, it recently announced that
>>it has settled on the generic name of Mycoxafloppin.
>>
>>
>>
>>Also considered were: Mycoxafailin, Mydixadrupin, Mydixarizin, Dixafix,
>>and of course, Ibepokin.
>>
>>Pfizer Corp. Announced today that Viagra will soon be available in liquid
>>form, and will be marketed by Pepsi Cola as a power beverage suitable for
>>use as a mixer. It will now be possible for a man to liter ally pour
>>himself a stiff one. Obviously we can no longer call this a soft drink,
>>and it gives new meaning to the names of "cocktails", "highballs" and just
>>a good old-fashioned "stiff drink".
>>
>>
>>
>>Pepsi will market the new concoction by the name: MOUNT & DO.
>>
>>Thought for the day: There is more money being spent on breast implants
>>and Viagra today than on Alzheimer's research. This means that by 2040,
>>there should be a large elderly population with perky boobs and huge
>>erections and absolutely no recollection of what to do with them.




Enough for today. Remember a merry heart doeth like a medicine. Eric

AH, IT'S AMERICA

In June 1965 as I was finishing my year in Europe we traveled through Russia, into Finland, Sweden and being broke, hitchhiked from Stockholm to Uppsala and caught a ferry to Copenhagen. Phil Hosterman and I arrive at 1am, asked a fellow for a ride to the nearest hostel, but he dropped us off in the red light district. We weren’t interested and found a park with benches and prepared to sleep the night there. It began to rain, we noticed light coming through an open door on the edge of the park and made out way into a an official-looking building labeled “The Botanical Institute.” We stretched out on a couple of benches in the foyer and tried to sleep. A fellow came down the stairs and we asked if it was all right to spend the night there and he said he didn’t know, he wasn’t a professor at the institute. He disappeared upstairs, but returned a few minutes later and told us to follow him. He took us to the top floor, into an apartment and introduced us to his wife, who was on the faculty of the Botanical Institute. The told us that we could stay with them. This family put us up, fed us, and drove us all over Denmark for three days demonstrating all the historical landmarks dear to them. This act of kindness– where did it come from? We were told that when the Nazis occupied Denmark, the Gestapo ordered all the Jews to wear armbands with the Star-of-David identifying them as Jews to aid the deportation process to the death camps. I haven’t been able to verify this but we were told that all the Danes put the arm bands on. Where did this act of solidarity come from?

In 1969 a notice appeared in the student lounge at the University of Minnesota Medical school that minifellowships were available to study for three or four months in Yugoslavia. I had a wonderful experience in Yugoslavia in 1965. This area was a fusion point of Islam, Christianity, Greek and Russian Orthodox religions, and was ruled then by a Stalinist era Dictator named Marshall Tito. The country was still recovering from the ravages of WWII caused by the Nazi occupation and subsequent liberation by the Russian and Allied armies. The suffering and horror of war was fresh in every ones memory. I was anxious to get back to Yugoslavia and this fellowship looked like a promising entre. I applied, was accepted, and joined 30 other medical students from the US in Beograd in September 1969 for three months of study in a Communist system health plan. The stipend for this came from the Yugoslav government as a way of paying America back for the food sent there to ward off starvation shortly after WWII. I joined up with a fellow named Jim Everett from Emory Med School and a Yugoslav medical student named Mile Mejandjia, who acted as our guide and translator. We were told to set up a medical research project and report back in three months with a written paper and give an oral report. The Communist system had passed laws that all citizens were guaranteed access to free medical care and a special system was in place to see that all pregnant women were seen regularly during and after the pregnancy. We decided to look at infant mortality in a rural province near the Romanian border to see how the system worked. We went to a central record keeping office and with the intercession of a Beograd Medical School professor got a list of the names and addresses of all (35 in all) the children that had died within one year of birth in 1968. Over the next two months we scoured the province for the parents of these children and delicately asked details of their health care and circumstances leading up to the death of their child. We were never turned away and often invited in for meals or offered a bed for the night when it was explained that were from America. We learned that the caused of infant mortality in Yugoslavia were the same as those in America and the rest of the world: poverty, lack of education, poor access to health care in spite of the promises of the government, and racism. Infant mortality was high among the Gypsies who were dark skinned, clannish, commonly lived outside the law, and reviled by the general population and this racial group avoided the official system and had their babies at home on a dirt floor.

On a free weekend we traveled to Split, a small city on the Adriatic sea. We rented a room from an elderly gentleman and he offered us a seafood dinner for a nominal cost. He prepared a bed of coals from dried vine cuttings from his vineyard and roasted us tuna, peppers from his garden, and we washed it down with his wine. Midway through the dinner he posed a question. “Do you realize that America is the only country that never invaded us?” He went on to detail three thousand years of Baltic history recounting successive invasions, occupations, suppressions of local cultures, and the build up of resentment and desire for retribution and revenge. He went on, “we have a superlative in Yugoslavia, ah, it’s America, which means it’s the best in the world.” We didn’t explore the full depth of this sentiment offered by this elderly man but we knew that the sacrifices of our grandfathers, fathers, and uncles, and countryman, many of whom paid the ultimate price to rid Europe of brutal tyranny, followed by food and aide for the starving underlie the hospitality and warm kindness we received in this Communist country.

This is a bit of a rant, and I apologize. We were given a legacy of worldwide good will by our grandparents and parents through their vision and sacrifice. I didn’t do anything in Denmark or Yugoslavia to warrant unusual kindness but received it none-the-less. I wasn’t old enough to appreciate it’s significance at that time, but now sense that we have let the prize wither and see it slipping away. What will be my generation’s legacy to the world? A Hellfire missile fired into an open doorway from a Predator drone 65,000 feet in the air? Or an open hand reaching out to all people saying, “how may we help?” Are we joining the ranks of those who call for retribution and revenge that plagues Yugoslavia still and we witness to our horror in Iraq on an hourly basis? Do we fuel this mindset or ask of people to look to a greater and higher purpose for our short sojourn on earth? I know my children and close friends yearn for leadership that asks the best of us. My Rotary Club gives me faith that many people want to extend that hand of kindness and hope to the rest of the world. We have the talent and resources but need the “lense” that concentrates the sun beam to focus our will and energy toward that highest purpose. Is there a Lincoln, Roosevelt, or Martin Luther King out there who can be a lense for America, or is it up to each of us individually?

Two Down...

Weeks, that is. Two weeks of radiation and chemotherapy will be wrapped up today, out of the approximately six week course of the daily treatments. The chemotherapy will continue with a less frequent, but larger ---- if memory serves --- dose.

Eric is tackling the treatments with his typical purposeful attitude and good humor. However, the predicted fatigue and episodes of dizziness and nausea are visiting. As a result, we are still in the "no call zone" --- both by phone and visits. He looks forward to days ahead when he can schedule some good visits with friends we miss.

In the meantime, the emails, cards, jokes and acts of kindness from all are more appreciated than you can ever imagine.

Again, MANY THANKS!

Thought for the day

May the sun share it's healing warmth with you,
the wind wrap it's soft caress around your limbs,
the moon bring quiet nights and lay rest to your concerns,
and the stars beam the healing grace of the Creator's universe
to sooth your soul. Anon. Eric

Hope is a thing with feathers- a poem for the day

"Hope" is a thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops- at all-

And sweetest - in the Gale- is heard
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little bird-
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of Me.

Emily Dickinson," Poem 254," ca 1861

More Pie!

Hard-hitting reporter Sean G. Overland once again coming to you with the latest on Dad. Tomorrow I head back to the utopian vision that is Los Angeles, but before I leave, I wanted to offer something of a correction. I have been gently reprimanded by the family for the rosy tone of my previous report. “The People deserve to know the hard truth about Dad’s condition,” said an anonymous, highly-placed source within the family, “no matter how upsetting.” Now, personally, I suspect an ulterior motive: if our friends think Dad’s doing better, they might stop bringing pie. Over the weekend we enjoyed the most spectacular peach and huckleberry pies. So with apple season right around the corner, let me assure you that Dad is still a very sick man. And the only know cure is more pie. And maybe cookies.

Also, it is a great comfort to Maryann, Tim and me to know that Mom and Dad have so much love and support here in the Valley. It is very, very much appreciated!

Giving thanks

A friend of mine underwent prolonged radiation therapy and when he heard that I was facing the same he called and offered his support. He asked what I was going to do when under the radiation unit, lying still for 15 minutes every day for 6 weeks, did I believe in prayer and I replied “no” not prayers of supplication but prayers or expressions of gratitude for what has been my good fortune to receive.

The effects of brain surgery, medications, insomnia, and a nightly visit from God’s assistant who asks troublesome questions has put my mind on spin cycle with an unbalanced load setting off the alarms and no one available to pull the plug. At my friends suggestion I thought I should give thanks to all who wittingly or unwittingly by commission or omission guided me through my childhood.

We were observant Catholics although were born into a mixed marriage- Dad was Lutheran. At Sunday mass Father McConnell would mount the pulpit and thunder at us about this and that. Mainly, he reported that we weren’t contributing enough and that Rome and the Holy See no longer considered us missionary territory and we would have to support the church better. He was also concerned about the lack of Sanctity, a theological concept, that quickly bored grade-school aged boys.

One Sunday Fr. McConnell lit our pilot lights and launched us on a quest for the holy grail of knowledge. He rose in the pulpit, dazzling in his purple rainment, and with a grand gesture swept his goldrimmed glasses off his face. Color rose in his neck and face to match his vestments, he pointed at his flock and began warning of the dangers of carnal knowledge. The pews began to shake as the dads clenched their jaws, and held their sides, the kids looked up and down the pews and whispered loudly, “what’s that?” Grandmothers and mothers clucked and hissed, twisted a few ears, a pinch here and there trying to reestablish order. This was big! Jimmy Froelich grabbed a collection envelope and wrote it down. We’d look it up when we got home. Unfortunately, “carnival”did not capture the sentiment that electrified the church that Sunday. But we had other sources-the Catholic high school boys-they were wise and experienced. Every Friday afternoon at 3pm the Catholic gradeschool kids were walked over to the church for weekly confession and we mingled with the upper classmen. We were lowlifes and barely tolerated by the high school boys and had to endure the shoving, shoulder punches and trash talk that clarified our position in the pecking order. Efforts to expand the concept of “carnal knowledge” were greeted with taunts of “homo”, “pervert”, “dirt bag” “dusch bag”, but gradually the larger concept began to take shape and our pilot lights flared to full flame as we began to appreciate the deliciousness of the possibilities.

There were other moments in the confessional line. One day Margo, in gradeschool, beautiful, fair and innocent got sandwiched between a two groups of highschool boys. A rose among the brambles; the juxtaposition just invited speculation, didn’t Sister Fabiola see this? Do something. Finally Margo came out of the confessional and one of her classmates quickly asked her, “what did you get?” Meaning what was your penance? “Two Hail Marys she replied.” “ Aw what did you do give your sister a shove came the chorus from the older boys?”

Bobby Sturdevant came out of the confessional next. The usual inquiries. “What did you get?” Four stations of the cross, four novenas, ten Our Fathers, and ten Hail Mary’s. Wow! that was a big sentence from Fr. Harris who was known to be kind and lenient. Jack Daugherty the local high school strong man and not to be fooled with opined that Sturdevant had probably touched himself. A throng of sixth grade freckled white faces with open mouths swung around to the source of that knowledge and someone croaked out a feeble “what?” Daugherty snarled at us ”would you perverts get out of my face?” and gave someone a shove that sent a bunch of us sprawling. The quest for ultimate knowledge again stoked. What the Daugherty boys knew would soon be ours.

The Jesuits must have been concerned in the 1950s because the litany of sins revealed each Friday by the boys, at least, never changed. This was because each boy searched his conscience about the sins of the past week and though everyone promised to sin no more the confessional line was planning central for the high school boys who prepared to confess the sins originating from last weeks kegger at the same time they were working on the details of this weekends’ parties. We listened, got pummeled, and learned. Mom pulled us out of the Catholic Madras and sent us to the public high school. When the nuns got wind of this they shook their fingers at us and warned us that they smoked marijuana out there and ostracized us from subsequent school activities. The friends who stayed Catholic the rest of the way through high school did fine as did those of us who defected.

Our dad was a depression -WWII participant like all the dads at that time and couldn’t stop emphasizing the value of a job. He had the usual maxims: “many hands make the work light”, “a sharp tool is a job half done”, “don’t go in the house empty-handed’, and he considered himself lucky that during the depression he got a job that paid 50 cents a day. He also worried about being in debt and lay awake at night worrying about his $15,000 - 3.56% interest home mortgage. We asked him what he did when his dog sled broke down on the way to school in rural Minnesota to get a rise out of him. He didn’t bite or spit the hook.

He always got us good summer jobs and I imagined it went like this. He was a dentist and some fellow would come to the office and after pleasantries were exchanged dad would wash his hands, say “open wide”, put his dental drill on max speed, place thin sharp instruments under the guy’s nose and inquire “you wouldn’t have any jobs for high school boys on the hay crew this year would you?” Dad opened a lot of doors for us all over Montana, the National Parks and as far as Alaska. We learned.

One magical place that took up a lot of our time was the Swan valley Northwest of Missoula. There was a dude ranch called the Diamond L bar ranch there. They had horses for the guests, back mountain travelers and big game hunters. If you had horses one needed wranglers. I loved these guys. The lived life to excess,cussed, chewed, rolled there own cigarettes and dispensed life’s secrets to young boys who were patient and hung around at the right time. They had real names. Not Frank, Richard, or Fred. They were: Smitty, Riley, Whisky Dick. Smokey Joe and Assout Jones. The latter moniker resulted when Jones departed company from a bronco and on his way back to earth slid along a barbed wire fence that sliced his Levis in a way that left part of him hanging out. There was an outhouse behind the corals. It was special because it was a four holer. The wranglers would collect there early on Saturday and Sunday mornings to get the horses ready and take care of business. As the guys sat there they rolled their cigs, rubbed their temples and took oaths that this was definitely their last hangover. Sometimes the hoped that they hadn’t caught something last night. Some stories got farfetched or defied credibility and Riley would say’ “that’s a pile of horse feathers.” That one stuck with me. One time one of the rickety toilet seats was askew and created a minor sanitation concern. Smitty gave it a kick with his cowboy boot but wasn’t satisfied with the outcome, got a hatchet and gave it a couple of additional whacks. The next user was surprised by the sharp end of an exposed nail. There was salty language, recriminations, and only the hangover headaches prevented the guys form getting real rambunctious. One of the guys leaned forward and said “sometimes better is the enemy of good enough.”

There was a dance at the Seeley Lake grange hall every Saturday night. People came out of the woods well lubricated before the dance started. One Sunday morning one of the wranglers said “wuz zat you at the grange last night?” I said “yeah.” “You remember that cute little filly fluttering her eyelashes at you from that dance floor? “ ”Yeah.” “ Just remember this kid. Behind everyone of those is a jealous lodgepole savage who picks his teeth with a 2x4 and doesn’t consider Saturday night any fun unless he breaks someone. Watch your step!” Yessir! Fist fights were part of every Grange dance. Sometimes a knife was flashed, but real men took care of business without need of guns.

Our mothers considered these men bankrupt in every sense of the word but I loved them and took every opportunity to be at their sides. Thanks, fellas for the education.

In 1962 my parents delivered me to the University of Portland - another try at a Catholic education. I walked into the admission office and they couldn’t find my application and said they had no record of me. Fr. Horton, the dean of students, looked me over and asked me what kind of grades I got. About a ‘B’ I said. I didn’t tell him that Miss Bioleau gave me an ‘F’ in Spanish which crushed my mother as her vision of educated boys began to dim. It didn’t seem like a good time to bring up the ‘F’. My mother was brought into the discussions since dad had surrendered at the time of their marriage all matters dealing with Catholic education. Fr. Horton explained the situation again. Mom played the alumni card. Dale Brown in Missoula ran the local hardware store and had graduated from the University of Portland in 1948 and spoke highly of his education. Horton ran his fingers over the admission numbers and supposed they could find a spot for me, but the freshman dorm was full and I’d have to room with a senior. Not a problem since the Missoula Catholic high boys and wranglers had pretty much covered the important stuff already.

I didn’t know how to study and muddled along. Father Ambrose Wheeler csc took me under his arm and was my mentor. He taught us biology and while we dissected frogs and prepared chick embryos for examination he would crank his stereo up to full volume and boom out the 1812 or Emperor symphonies. He was modest, kind, funny, a friend and comfortable with the vows he took to be a priest. Like my parents he considered it a mortal sin to be given an opportunity and pass it up. He talked about studying in Europe and thought the University should have such a program. Would we be interested in going? Was he kidding. This was the era of nickle beers and free love. Oregon was a blue nose state and we were missing out. Europe sounded like a mecca. In August of 1964 the university inaugurated its Salzburg, Austria program and a small group of us headed by Fr Wheeler spent the next year in heaven. Imagine being 19, single, male, studying art, history, language, hitchhiking, Europe on $5 a day, and the fact that Austria alone, never mind Germany or Czechoslovakia had over 200 breweries that had to be investigated. We ranged from Istanbul to Moscow, Gibraltar to Edinburgh. A year in heaven.

Fr. Wheeler helped me get into medical school and has been a lifelong friend. After he returned to the University of Portland his order assigned him to run an orphanage in Bangladesh for 17 years. They took homeless boys off the streets and taught them to read and write. Five times daily these boys bowed toward Mecca and prayed. One of his charges became the Bangladesh ambassador to the UN.

Mom and Dad, thanks for teaching us to seize any opportunity and to doubt but not be ruled by self doubt. Father McConnell, you lit the flame that started my interest in biology and eventually medicine. Loyola high school boys, wranglers, thanks for the tips and advise and all the rest of you that got me home safely on Saturday nights, thanks.

Fr. Wheeler, you opened up worlds for us and our lives have been rich. Thank you for that gift. You have a special place in my heart. May God extend your years.

Report From the Front

Intrepid journalist Sean G. Overland (AP) reporting to you from the front lines of the War on Tumors. I’m honored to be embedded with these fine, brave troopers for the weekend – eating their food, sleeping in their barracks, petting their dogs – so the least I could do is share with you their amazing story.

As you have undoubtedly heard, General Ross attacked and quickly destroyed the enemy’s secret hidden base less than three weeks ago during Operation Ice-cream Scoop. While major military operations are now over, it would be premature to declare “Mission Accomplished!” For we now must seek out and destroy the remaining terrorist cells hiding in the remote and rugged hinterlands. These evil-doers are fanatical and can not be reasoned with. They hate us because of our freedom. They must therefore be eliminated with extreme prejudice.

The release of nuclear and chemical weapons has been authorized. Wednesday saw the first of many planned unconventional strikes. Chemical weapons, while expensive at $150 a day, promise to be highly effective. And no one ever said freedom was free. Our troops have also begun to employ the latest in nuke-yoo-lar weapons. These precision devices seek out and zap the remaining Glioblasto-fascists with highly-accurate bursts of radiation.

Now, you may be wondering, “Chemicals? Nukes? What about the children?” And there will undoubtedly be collateral damage and friendly-fire incidents. While the lifeless bodies of terrorist cells will certainly be found among the wreckage, also lost will be valuable members of the coalition, including T-cells, macrophages and other allies who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We will always remember their sacrifice. But, as Lenin reportedly once said, “If you want to make an omelette, you have to break some eggs.”

But seriously, Dad looks great. It’s hard to believe it’s been less than three weeks since he had open-brain surgery. His surgical scar is rapidly disappearing behind a salt-n-pepper crew cut. He seems to be perfectly normal, but for an occasional break to put his feet up for a few minutes. He has no side-effects from the chemo or radiation so far, although we expect them to get worse as the cumulative radiation dose grows over the next six weeks. By then, we’ve been told to expect spotty hair loss and fatigue.

In closing, it couldn’t be more beautiful here at the house. The weather is spectacular. Mom’s flowers are still in full bloom. The days are sunny, but the nights and mornings are getting cool, turning our elderly dogs back into frisky puppies. The acorns, melons and squash are full-sized but have yet to turn color. We found a bright green Praying Mantis the size of a cigar next to the garage yesterday. The busy ground squirrels and darting lizards provide a constant source of fascination to the dogs. In short, Nature’s wonders continue to unfold in Happy Valley.

Reinforcements have arrived

First born son, Sean G. Overland, arrived yesterday afternoon and will be with us through the weekend. His father is overjoyed to have a break from his usual chauffeur (chauffeuse?) who is literally driving him crazy. Not my fault! Better safe than sorry! I blame the poor rear visibility of the Volvo (boxy, but safe) for needing 5 or more maneuvers to exit a parking space...

Along with his superior driving skills, Sean brings his expertise in the chore and errand department, great dog-spoiling talent, and a whole boatload of witty repartee and new jokes to keep up the spirits of all here on Gardner Way. We may have to send him home with an extra suitcase ----- Grandpa's zucchini is threatening to take over the 5 acres.

Brave New World

From Marjorie:

My first blog, so be kind.... Before Maryann set this up, I'd never even read a blog, much less written on one. All the blogging took a hiatus while Eric and I, Maryann and Henrik drove down to San Francisco--- Maryann and Henrik to the airport to return to Rochester and Eric and I to visit Tim and Liz for a couple of days before Eric's appointment with Dr. Michael Prados, neuro-oncologist at UCSF, the West Coast hot shot who'd been recommended by all our local physicians.

Our group had originally included the beautiful pooch, Stella, but like so many first time visitors to Oregon, she fell in love with the place (and Saber Klouda, the chocolate lab across the street,) and begged to stay. Eric, Grandpa Hunt, our lab, Roxyann, and I had all fallen for HER, and were solidly on her side during the debate! We convinced Maryann and Henrik that Gardner Way would be more fun than Rochester for a few weeks, and that we needed her here. So Stella, Roxy and Grandpa held the fort while the rest of us gallivanted.

As I look at the previous blogs, I realize that we haven't kept it up to date very well. Before we left, Eric had his radiation planning session with the esteemed Dr. Haugen, had the grand tour of the incredible facilities at the radiation therapy department at Providence and was fitted for his mask. Think Darth Vader meets Spiderman. We were back today for Day One of radiation, and Eric had a chance to model it. Chemotherapy begins tomorrow under the watchful eye of the wonderful Dr. Dibb.

Having successfully been weaned from the steroids, Eric has begun to feel more and more like his old self, and by this past Monday ---- just two weeks after the surgery--- felt pretty good. He will feel even better when he starts to get a good night's sleep.

Our appointment at UCSF was most encouraging. Dr. Prados approved of all the treatment decisions made by our crack team of local experts, and will be a great resource keeping us appraised of new developments in the field. I have always believed that if anyone can beat this illness, it's Eric --- and Dr. Prados agreed that he has everything going for him: the small size and location of the original tumor and certainly his otherwise excellent health and function.

And just as important as those physical advantages, is the terrific outlook which comes in no small part from the generous outpouring of support from all quarters. We have the strongest team imaginable and for that we are most grateful,--- from our team leaders, Dr. Donald Ross, Dr. Dean Raniele, Dr. Chuck Dibb and Dr. Ken Haugen ---to all the family and friends (and friends of friends!) who have offered beautiful thoughts, prayers, love as we start this new chapter together.

Thank you.

Leaving on a jet plane

Henrik, Stella and I are heading back to beautiful Rochester NY tomorrow. I won't be posting much first person commentary to this blog for a while, so it will be up to Dad to keep it going ... I don't imagine this will be a problem.

The outpouring of love and support to my family during this past month has been overwhelming and incredibly touching. I beseech everyone to keep that desire to help alive by continuing to extend a hand to someone in need. The greatest gift my dad could receive is the knowledge that the combined energy and skills of those around him are working toward bettering the world. Whether it be volunteering for a shift at a free clinic or picking up litter on the side of an otherwise beautiful road, each act radiates out and touches people in ways you can't imagine.

Now exiting soapbox stage left...

Finally, laughter has continued to be a saving grace during this past month. Thanks to Tom Espinoza and Petey Lao, Dad is now doubled over reconnecting with Calvin and Hobbes and listening to David Sedaris' quirky family tales. Fell free to pass along any good comedy writing, CDs, DVDs, jokes ... Dad prefers material that isn't particularly sexist/racist/homophobic, but rather pokes fun at the common realities of daily living.

The little brat comes to heel.

I had my brainiectomy on the 23rd of July, demanded discharge from the hospital on the 25th so I could recover and rest. I had been put on corticosteroids to reduce the swelling in my brain, had been on some morphine for a slight headache, no sleep, no exercise, I was crawling out of my skin like a snake, nothing worked right, and at 4am every morning God’s secretary would tap me
awake and start asking probing questions. One would think he, she, it, would know what time zone we were in.

A week later I had my radiation therapy planning session at Providence Medford Medical Center. After a kind explanation of what needed to be done, Margie and I were left in the linear accelerator room. Ooh! Laser beams, hums, don’t touch signs, DANGER, HOT; I’m an MD, they won’t mind if I poke around. I don the rubber gloves, gotta be careful!, start rifling through drawers, cabinets, the accelerator, quite important that all this stuff works right and doesn’t radiate the wrong part of me if you catch my drift.

Suddenly there was a disturbance in the force, and yikes, worse I was in the grips of a tractor beam. COME!,HERE!,SIT!,STAY!,memorialized commands from Labrador dog training days. I didn’t think that Margie had been listening in. I dutifully assumed my position at her side, took her hand and insightfully noted that it was time to put the little boy away. She wearily replied that she didn’t have the energy or time to deal with a 4 year old now; and didn’t we just pay for a lobotomy?

Later the same day a phone call from number one son to catch up. Dad, you are shouting. You sound like you are on coke. Dad, if you are the only drunk at a party no one else is having any fun. Yikes! I remember those days, some guy full of loudmouth soup bellowing, groping, careening around the room. Everyone else recoiling and in defense mode. Could that be me? Tough love from my kid. That night at dinner my daughter- a fourth year medical student- raises her hand up and says, “dad you are at a 9 and we need you down here at 3", my god, a 62 year old guy with ADHD. I was wearing everyone, especially my wife out. My mind has been on spin cycle with an unbalanced load, alarms ringing for 2 weeks and no way to pull the plug.

Thirty years ago a young women cam to me as a patient with an autoimmune disease that required corticosteroid therapy. She reported back after a couple of weeks that she was going crazy, hadn’t slept, felt like shedding her skin, was driving her family crazy, hurt all over and that this wasn’t working for her. I used all my cultural cues: male, white, eurocentric, christian (in name), scientifically trained in the finest medical institutions to inform her that this medicine was best for her and, well, “toughen up.” She was tough and pushed back and we got her less toxic successful therapy. Now I find myself a whirling Dervish and know of what she speaketh. Sorry, ‘A’ for those painful times. Someone said that stupidity and arrogance cause antibodies, but they are slow to come to proper levels to help. Some of us are innately a little slow too, but I was blind and now I see, perhaps through God’s healing grace.

I’m coming off the corticosteroids and expect a report back from the tough love troop on whether I can be taken out in public yet. The rambunctious behavior coupled to the blue Mohawk created concerns that my wife’s fine reputation, honed here for 28 years, would be irreparably tainted, and the only thing the family could control at the moment was to put Chingachgook back in his childhood haunt.

Staples come out today!

We are headed to see the noble Dr. Ross today for Dad's post-op check. The staples will come out and hopefully Dad will be able to stop his steroids, which are making him a little... frisky.

All is well out here. Keep the good energy flowing!

Amendment to Chigachgook note

In my last paragraph I mentioned that I expanded my vocabulary in my pre Confirmation preparations by making liberal use of the magazine "wrack" in the barber shop, and the word that has stuck with me the longest is is " centerfold". Immediatedly remove from your minds any notion that we would have received such trash in our mail. Had my mother or Sister Fabiola caught the slightest whiff of that stench I wouldn't have been left with a knuckle to drag on the ground.

From Eric: Chingachgook returns to his childhood haunts

As a small boy, growing up in Indian Territory in western Montana created a fascination with all things First American. James Fenimore Cooper’s story “The Last of The Mohicans” captured my imagination. Chingachgook, was the Last Delaware Mohican to survive after the evil Huron warrior Magua unsheathed his knife into the breast of Uncas, Chingachgook’s only son. He was brave, noble, uncorrupted, and a likely participant in the Algonquin Confederation which held in principal that personal benefit in harmony with national gain rested upon the precept of unified agreement and a natural distrust for despotic government. I had to have a Mohawk. My chance came when my mother ordered me down to the barbershop for a spring shearing in anticipation of Confirmation pictures. I ordered one and the barber said he had to check with the War Department first, which was a very unfair testimonial to my mother’s true station in Missoula. “No go, kid. Your mother is on the way down to tear my shop apart.” Drats, foiled.

Deep in the residual child we all harbor I yearned for the companionship of my hero, Chingachgook. When I learned that I had cancer my spirit guide came forward and said we will run this gauntlet together. My Mohawk was reality and I was ready with Chingachgook at my back for brain surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, and months and years of uncertainty.

Fortunately, my Neurosurgeon, Donald Ross, used “chingachgook” as his computer password in college and he enjoys a special place in my heart.

I am now a week out from surgery and slowly regaining some physical confidence but no sleep or exercise for 10 days has left me depleted. I am starting a two month round of MD visits, radiation, chemotherapy. My fashion consultant mentioned that this would entail public appearances and that I wouldn’t be taken seriously, or worse might raise concern for ths wellbeing of this man’s family. Since we are heading to San Francisco for a brain cancer consultation I was taken aback by this assertion and wondered if I had lost touch with the people. I had imagined that walking into a bar in SF with a nice blue Mohawk and enough studs in my head to alarm TSA and look like a snow tire might bring a round of drinks. The Neurosurgeon said no alcohol, other members of the family mentioned that I was a sartorial dyslexic and should get help, so tonight in the spirit of the Algonquin Confederation I have returned my spirit guide to his secret place to be called forth again in desperate times.

Sorry if this grosses people out. Flyfishing enthusiasts are always looking for new products from which to tie flies. I have blue hair to donate. If any fly using this product imperils our beloved steelhead runs because of its success then it must be withdrawn. Any financial gain from sale or reproduction should be donated to The Kids Connection for the purpose of teaching them the art and science of fishing, but from which they will learn hope and patience. May I suggest the name Chingachgook for the fly?

My education at the barber shop in Missoula didn’t end with Chingachgook and his hair do. The Carnegie Library was next store and visited proudly and frequently for sources of new excitement. The Library didn’t provide all information needed for a young lad approaching his confirmation and since I was attending the local Catholic Madras my access to a wide array of important biological information came from the post office, and the word that still sticks in my mind most vividly is “centerfold”.

One week down, 1560 weeks to go!

We had a pretty good weekend. Dad was up and active both days, probably doing too much, but YOU try to tell an Overland man to take it easy...

He is experiencing some side effects from the steroids he has to take to prevent brain swelling (most notably insomnia) but is otherwise feeling well.

Yesterday Dad was able to hop into the water feature and tend to his lilies. The sunfish took a liking to his knobby knees and did some nibbling. In the evening we enjoyed the delicious bounty of Grandpa's garden with fresh vine-ripened heirloom tomatoes, petit pan squash and corn on the cob.

Since learning of Dad's diagnosis and spending time with him leading up to and following his surgery,

the moon seems fuller,
the wildflowers more vibrant,
the music more poignant,
the conversation more lively,
the food more sumptuous.

Although we wouldn't wish this on anyone, the hidden gift is the ability to look around and see the utter beauty in the world.

Another day, another Renee Flemming CD...

Dad continues on his journey of rest and recuperation. He swings back and forth between feeling OK and feeling crummy, but his general trajectory is good.

One request we have is to keep the phone calls to a minimum. Email and posting on this blog is a great way to get a message to Dad, but he generally doesn't know how he'll feel from one moment to the next. Plus, after 40 years of night call, he gets a fight-or-flight reaction every time the phone rings, thinking there's an emergency and he is needed to save the day. While I'm sure Mom appreciates Dad's attempts to establish an airway, it's probably best that he not be woken up when he gets a few precious moments of rest.

If you feel like you want to do something nice for Dad, think today about some way to appreciate the world and make your immediate environment better. Smell a flower, gaze upon a songbird, give thanks to mother nature for another sunset, listen -- really listen -- to a beautiful piece of music.

Thanks again to everyone for all of your love.

What's blue and white and awesome all over?

Eric is stronger every day.

Last night we drove to the top of Hillcrest and went for a 30 minute walk. We were treated with a gorgeous sunset and delightful breeze.

Again, thanks for all of the kindness that is being extended to my dad and our family.

Better Every Day...

Day 2 on the home front, and Dad is getting better by the moment. He's making it up and down the stairs unassisted and was able to eat his normal breakfast today. He's currently listening to classical guitar music and relaxing (if that's possible) with the newspaper.

We are so grateful for the cards, emails, pies, cookies, meals and blueberries!

Eric is home!

Eric came home today (7/25). He is currently resting and trying to shake off the last remnants of post-operative nausea. The surgery went according to plan, and the talented Dr. Don Ross was able to remove the major bulk of the tumor from the right temporal lobe.

Eric probably won't be ready to receive visitors for the next day or two, but your positive thoughts and well-wishing is making a truly positive impact.

After a trip to San Francisco in early August to consult with the brain tumor experts, radiation and chemo will begin in mid August.