Sometimes ya Gotta Fake It.

Today, Jim's Physical Therapy begins, and who have they nominated to hold shut his johnnie as we sprint (think Tim Conway) up and down the halls of the Stem Cell Unit?    Moi!  Obviously it is a position of great prestige, requiring a certificate (marriage will do) and the ability to shout "I need some help here, someone...."  in the several languages spoken on the 7th floor of Feldberg.  I knew this would be coming, as I have seen suspicious bald people inching up and down the halls, accompanied by a significant other and an IV pole.  

I will lather on my best smile, conjure up the enthusiasm I usually reserve for Hand Painted macaroni necklaces, (for ME?!!! oh, how beautiful,... I will wear it always under my bathrobe) and remember gratitude and how we are building to a better future.  Do I really  have to enjoy it, or may I fake it?  

The Beard Hung In and So Did Jim!!

Merry Christmas (or facsimile thereof) to all.  Jim spent Christmas in bed, with his new stem cells incubating and doing whatever it is stem cells do on Christmas.  (Pause for a visual... snow scene, little stem cell skaters gliding in figure eights to the Skater's waltz).  Since his infusion, he has been somewhat confused, had his first infection (in the line installed to feed him everything from stem cells to platelets to meds) and gained 40 pounds of water weight.  One hand is cartoonishly huge, and the "team" is collectively scratching their heads, since when they give him a diuretic, his kidney function flags.   Need to figure that one out.  That hand is not gonna fit in a cookie jar as it is.

The great news tonight is that he is officially off the neutropenic precautions...which means his blood count is on the rise.  At a certain plateau, it is considered safe to gradually introduce "the world."  Actually, after careful observation, he may want to reconsider re-entering the world as it is.  But I guess everything is relative!  The tenacity his dad's DNA bequeathed him has been a gift to date!

For the rest of us, Christmas was in many ways like other years.  Big gathering of the clan here on Christmas Eve,  lots of kids and confusion, savories and sweets, ripped wrapping paper and scary knives required to penetrate the packaging.  (My theory is that the same people who send lead-laced painted toys and questionable foodstuffs are also responsible for wiring and sealing toys with such machiavellian flourish. Could be terrorists!)

Special Delivery!!

Christmas Tree.... check
Bags of pecans.....check
bags of stem cells..three down, six to go....check!

Jim started receiving his stem cells yesterday.  Lynn and I got to the hospital around 10, and had only a minute to wish him luck before the white coats came in with their precious cargo.  He was sedated and only very vaguely remembers our being there, but the trip was still worth it.  This morning I  spoke with him and they will resume the re-infusion and will give him the final batch this afternoon.  


After that....we wait.  Patience was one thing I always knew I needed to acquire, but the weird part is that waiting to for it only makes you impatient.  


And of course, the real world presses on, deaf to the things that have crowded our days.  Bill collectors are relentlessly precise,  gas tanks empty with impressive regularity, and, well, just forget about covering my gray hairs which have their own persistent agenda.  The tree stands bare in the living room, but at least it is upright.  One especially annoying "friend" on Facebook gloats over her comp-leted shopping and wrapping. *
My dining room table is under about a foot of paper that I think blew in from the World Trade Center.  Just random clumps begging to be filed.  But there are spritz cookies to be made.  Maybe not this year.  Making those little suckers stick to the pan and not the press pushes my patience to the tippling point even on a good day.


Last night the TV in the office blew up.  I heard a "pop" which to my musically trained ear sounded like "POP".  Maybe a fuse or tube or something, followed by something electronic making ghastly sound  inside the TV.  A truly frightening and ungodly racket.  I knew it needed to be shut off/disconnected, but thanks to Jim's training at the Rube Goldberg Academy of Wiring and Aeronotics, where was no obvious place to look for the plug.  Certain that if I touched the wrong spot, this was it for me, I carefully stepped over the boxes and files abandoned a year ago and managed to at least make the sound stop.  My sense is that this TV with only about 100 hours on it is toast.  Aah well.  Got to have something to keep the boredom at bay!!


*Note to self:  drive by and egg her self-inflating Santa.  

FINALLY!

Well, it happened!  I took Jim to the hospital Friday morning and they admitted him for his transplant!!  With a little luck and Divine intervention,  Jim will start receiving the chemo to kill his blood and plasma cells this morning, and will get the stem cell transplant on Tuesday.   It should only take 15-20 minutes for the cell infusion.  I can barely get my mascara on in 15 minutes!!   First, however, they will put in a line through which the chemo will be pumped, and also the stem cells.  I'm leaving for the hospital soon to be there with him  for the Melphalan (chemo drug).  


Someone asked me what the hoped-for outcome of all this effort, drama and anticipation is.  Excellent point!  The goal of the transplant is to kill all his blood cells (in which the cancer has been reduced) and inject the stem cells which will go deep into his bones and start replacing the blood cells (minus the cancer).  In three months, we will know whether the desired remission has happened or not.   The best we can hope for is remission, because the myeloma ALWAYS comes back, but it can be months or a decade, of reasonable health, depending on the individual.  


My dad, as I mentioned before, had a kidney transplant back in the late 1970's  That was such drama, because the donor was his brother, and it involved invasive surgery.  Then there were all the drugs he needed to take to prevent rejection.  But this is so benign it feels almost like voodoo.  Fifteen minutes of easing a tiger into your tank, and not even a needle hole to bear witness to the occasion.   


I know there are ethical questions regarding the stem cell research on embryonic cells, but it will be exciting to discover how many diseases can be conquered in the next decade.  Then again, if lots more people live, what does that do to the already dodgy social security and entitlement numbers.  Do we want people to die all over the world, just so the ranks of those who depend on the social services doesn't reach the cracking point for everyone who needs them, and then malnutrition and starvation will just slip into the place formerly occupied by disease in the list of causes of death?


I need some coffee.   


And a magic wand.

GREAT NEWS!!

Jim's oncologist called a few hours ago to say Jim had produced a million stem cells over the past two days.  Dr. L. says he will probably have enough by Friday to end the pheresis.  This is EXCELLENT news, and since you've had to wade with us through the disappointments, I wanted to let you know things are looking up!  Too bad I'm too dignified to do a cartwheel. Yes, that's what proscribes it.   My dignity.  Oh, and my knees,  my back, my hands...anyway,, that's me on the right.

Roller -- Coaster

The past two weeks have been grueling, although Thanksgiving day was a welcome respite from all that preceded it.  After a rocky start last Monday, Jim finally had numbers high enough to allow them to do the first apheresis.  All week his blood counts kept improving (okay, so they kept pumping platelets and whole blood into him to bring the counts up!)  Friday, he had improved dramatically (the platelet count had gone from 1 to 43 *(50 being what a healthy person has; it has to be 30 to try to harvest he stem cells).  We were feeling just a little cocky, having such success in the blood count department.  But then a call came from the hospital, saying this Monday they will evaluate whether he may continue on pheresis because the amount of stem cells he is producing is inadequate.   Back down the in the emotional elevator shaft to the basement. Bump.  This isn't the end of the effort to do a stem cell transplant.  It just prolongs this agony and throws question marks all over the place.

As a side note, Jim's hair is about 75 % gone, including a lot of his beard.  He is handling this with the same philosophy he long ago espoused regarding snow removal... God put it there, he can take it away.  However, he is leaving a Hansel-like trail of whiskers everywhere he goes.  I saw his clean-shaven face for about 4 months in 1968.   Then he grew the beard, and he hasn't seen his actual chin since. Our kids have never seen his face before. With it falling out at a rate of 60 strands a day, a more torturously slow opening of a dubious gift there never has been.

For my part, the "Mom" gene has prompted me to start carrying (dragging, actually)  a huge quilted bag containing all the goodies anyone could possibly need, from peppermint flavored dental floss to gluten-free cookies to juice boxes. A sticky lint-remover is perfectly gagging on the all the hair falling on the collar and front of Jim's black top coat.   Speaking of an exercise in futility!  I have reading material, writing material, a hypodermic needle with Jim's Neupogen shot, rolls of coins,  and a gas mask. (not really... just checking if you were paying attention!)  I also am regularly rummaging around the bag trying to find my nemesis, the damned parking garage ticket. Unless it is stickered by the receptionist, it will cost more to get the car out than we originally paid for it.  And because I am somewhat distracted these days, (!) my inner masochist never puts it in the same place twice.  So into the bag I dive, thinking how handy a miner's hat with a light would be.  Then come the little prickles of sweat on my forehead.  What happens if you can't produce a ticket? Irrational panic sets in;  I am fretting about getting the car released while Jim is getting another unit of platelets.  Priorities, Linda.  Snap out of it!  

Once in the cramped pheresis unit, I sit as compactly as possible... not unlike flying economy class on a cross-country flight.  Quilted bag tucked under my chair, coat under me, purse hanging from the side of the chair, glutes contracted to reduce the overall profile.   The temperature in the unit averages about the same as the surface of the sun, so periodically I leave to grab a gasp of cool air.

It strikes me that cancer is the perfect example of Political Correctness.  In the unit, there is a girl with a guide dog on the floor next to her bed. In the bed next to Jim is a young guy, not yet thirty, I would guess, immersed in typing on his cellphone.  A woman patient, speaking in a somewhat loud voice orders lunch on the phone, specifying gluten-free. My ears perk up.  Turns out she has been gluten-free for 12 years.   Her lunch arrives.  The frankfurt looks like a shriveled finger, the roll is shedding lots of crumbs on the plate; she is NOT a happy camper, and doesn't much care who knows it.  That's the thing.  This experience of being ill can drag down a usually cheerful person, but it rarely improves someone who starts out miserable.  Still, I am amazed by how, at least on the surface, people go about their visits with dignity despite baldness, and consideration for others even though wearing a face mask interferes with their oxygen line.   It really is a testament to the human spirit, because there is enough aggravation inherent in this business of being devastatingly ill to push anyone's buttons.   I'm beginning to understand why it is hard to name the real heroes.

Anyone see a stem cell around here?

Let me begin by apologizing for the format problems blogspot seems to be having. I have lost all paragraph spacings, size and photo capabilities, but I think I should post anyway. Will fix it when the fix is available. (Mom, I hijacked it and altered some settings...'yer back to the normal editing. You're welcome. Love, your favorite....)

Beth Israel has been our family's hospital for over 40 years.  My dad had kidney problems (lost one in an accident as a young kid, another was removed with a malignancy. BUT they discovered he was born with THREE, so they hooked that one up and it sustained him for many years, until it died.  Then, after several years of dialysis, he got kidney #4 transplanted from his brother, Paul, who happened to be an A-1 match.  That one sustained him for ten years or so, and then new and unrelated lymphoma was discovered, and he died one autumn morning 1986, right in Feldberg 5 at Beth Israel.   Fast forward to the 1990's and my mom had a quintuple bypass surgery, and in 1992 got a pacemaker at BI.  Subsequent to the bypass, when she was able to be discharged from ICU to a regular room, fate played another of its little jokes and threaded her stretcher right into the same room in which Daddy had died.  Needless to say, she was removed to another room, post haste. On the happier side, three of Lynn's babies came into the world at BI, and eventually little Drew. 


Through it all, the same light blue privacy curtains with a zippy green and cobalt striped plaid has formed a continuum for me, sort of a visual chicken soup for the soul.    When Daddy had dialysis, same curtains.    Seeing them now is somehow a great comfort.  It is invaluable to have somewhere you can reliably turn to for wisdom and help.  Boston has many fine hospitals, but for our family there is never a question.  I have huge faith in BI, and consequently I feel free to make reasonable requests  and just generally feel I am among family. 


Jim was supposed to have the pheresis Monday, but his white cell and platelet counts were way too low so instead they pumped 2 units of blood and one of platelets into him.  We went back Tuesday,  and the story was the same. Still too low! And so it went all week.  Fast after midnight, be there at 8, get a blood test, and tell him it came up short.    Bless him, he stays the course, never complaining.  His arms and legs are so full of needle marks he looks like a lotta miles of bad road. And he has enough alien blood coursing through his veins to nullify his birth certificate.

In terms of frustration, exhaustion and disappointment, this week may have been the worst to date.  One thing we know for sure, the December 1 date for transplant has been pushed back.   On Monday, we go back to repeat the blood tests,  but we really need to redouble our prayers and positive thoughts. We are gathering here for Thanksgiving, with 18 of us bowing our heads. We only have seating for 12, so the words "Stuffing" and "Squash" will take on whole new meanings.  Do you think bleachers would be tacky? Given the foot ball connection, could I make it work?   What if I put a platter of buffalo chicken wings and a keg in the living room and leave the WII on?    I'm undaunted by tradition... outgrew needing to make the puff pastry cornucopia abounding with all kinds of breadeliciousness long ago. Been there, did that, got the tee-shirt.  Eat your heart out, Martha.  Given our housing outlook, next year we may harken back to the Wompanoag tradition of sleeping outside in a tent.  


But for this year, the turkey will tango with the gravy (gluten-free and regular); the stuffing will come in three varieties (vegetable-free, gluten-free and just plain free)   It will be a communal undertaking, with potatoes coming in the door all mashed, and pies galore, both "please refrain from gluten" and "not so much". Overall conviviality will be the order of the day, unreasonable hostess that I am. 

We are blessed with a family who often gets along extremely well, and actually enjoy spending a day together, minus the few who prefer the game on the tube.   Thank you, God, for this family, for keeping us all alive for another year, for uniting us with very special people who carry us through the tough days, and who make the easy days some of the very best of our lives. 


Happy Thanksgiving, you kind folks who follow "A Change of Plan."

Cautiously Optimistic

After the usual, now-expected little glitches, Jim is officially under way for his SCT. Last Thursday, the nurse in charge of the clinical study administered the first of two vaccinations customized with his own blood cells. These have been kept frozen since April when they were extracted from him, and are now "under his skin." Next time they inject him with the remaining serum will be after the SCT. That big day is now expected to be December 1, subject to change depending on whether they can fish out ("fish out" isn't the actual medical term. "Aphereis" is ) enough stem cells in only one day or as many as five. It's hard to keep one's hopes in check. Of course, we won't know until the end of February whether the effort was successful in creating a full remission. We're assured they extract enough stem cells for TWO SCTs so this could happen again within the year, but only if the first falls short of expectations.

Jim spent a night at the Beth Israel Hilton, getting Cytoxan to build up his stem cells and suppress his immune system. Jim looks amazingly well, although ten of his newly found pounds have slipped away again . (looking under the bed)

His hair and beard will start falling out in a few days, due to the huge hit of Cytoxan they gave him. We had planned a coming-out party for his face last Sunday, which coincidentally was his birthday. No one has seen his whole shaven face since 1969. Unfortunately he was under the weather, and came down just long enough to eat some meat and potatoes, then went right back up to bed. Later in the week, I convinced him to let me trim it all back some, the doing of which made him look 10 years younger. Of course, that would be more impressive if that didn't still make him 56, but we'll take it! Later this week we will get out the shaver and finish the job--- after we take a few photos.

For the coming days, the main event du jour will be administering a shot of Nupogan to enrich his stem cell count in anticipation of the apheresis starting on November 16.

So how is everyone holding up now that the transplant is approaching? Jim seems to be handling things with his usual Spock-like aplomb, neither excited nor anxious. His approach to life is like sailing a boat in a swimming pool. No waves, no gales, just predictable calm. Wish I were more like that. I'm still pretending the whole thing isn't happening. Nice to have one rational person in the family, even if he is usually high on who knows what.

I have been toying with the idea of trying to resurrect Dinner Belles, the catering business I started in the 1980's. Free-lancing as a caterer would give me flexibility and if I could convince some clergy and funeral homes in the area to recommend me, maybe we could keep this roof over our heads. I find catering funerals perversely satisfying. The mourners are always so delighted to find free food! I have done other kinds of occasions, but of late, this is my niche market. The downside is the lack of repeat business!

Are We There Yet?

Great news! Jim has hit 150 pounds! (the sound you hear is him correcting me with typically scientific precision-- "that's 149.1 pounds, actually") So I upped it by an extra Twinkie. Sue me! Since he has been off chemotherapy, he has been happily downing normal meals and snacks. Boy, nothing like a wife who can pack the weight on ya', right? That trait is the single most coveted quality in third world countries like Ethiopia, although scandalously overlooked here.

The other good news is that the doctors are again planning for the SCT. (!) Originally Jim was told he would be dropped from the clinical trial he had been enrolled in, given that more than a year has passed since he was diagnosed and signed on to the trial. Today, they told him a special exception had been granted, provided he gets this transplant soon. They are looking at November as the preparation period when he will be gearing his body up and making the stem cell collection. Collecting the stem cells will take anywhere from one to five days, depending on how many there are in his blood. (in the millions!!) Once that is done, he will be admitted to the hospital a week later, possibly the day after Thanksgiving, maybe sooner. They will administer powerful drugs which will kill all his red cells and immunities dating back to when he was kicking his crocheted booties off. His immune system will be laid bare, so there will be a time of being a "bubble boy." Once his blood counts reach a particular level, he can be released into our pristine home.

Now, a few of you are lucky enough to know my home rather well. Matt came by the other night and gave me several hundred pointers on how I might improve conditions. Something about... "Mom, NEVER buy fruit again that is not in a can!" Seems the autumnal bowl of apples so highly recommended by Martha Stewart which was buried under a ream of forms and mail on our table had become a magnet for some wildlife I hadn't anticipated. Now, these things, judging from their size, should have brains the size of, ummm, salt granules. However, they are clever enough to avoid common methods of extermination (meaning my trying to clap them dead). I opened the microwave the other day and one flew out. Red eyes and all. To my chagrin, I have discovered they have a propensity to fall headlong into a glass of red wine. This observation was made when the little b****s dive-bombed into a glass of merlot I was enjoying. In fact, two of them were frolicking playing "Marco"-- "Polo", when I noticed them. Ignoring comments of "well, they are just protein," I was forced to toss the entire glassful down the drain. Perfect example of "no wine before its time!"

In sincerity, the project of getting the house in immaculate condition intimidates me beyond belief. Are they really sending someone home with ME, who needs me to never make a mistake? Me, the high priestess of mistakes?? The penalty for a mistake might cause an infection that could kill him.

I haven't felt quite this way ever before... not even when they placed my first born in my arms and wished me luck. I knew she would survive. Babies do. But this is the most responsibility anyone has ever handed me. Suddenly I'm back feeling like a small girl, lost in Filene's Basement.(RIP) My mom and grandmother would take me there and lose me four or five times in the crowd. It was the Irish version of "coming of age". At six, you have no sense of direction, no money, and you don't know anyone; it's a wonder I wasn't permanently traumatized. (Maybe THAT's when it happened!) Unintended consequence, I grew up recognizing a Chanel suit at 50 feet.

So the moral of this blog about plans, and the likelihood of needing to change them, is that life has this way of expecting far more of you than you think you can deliver. Most of the time, delivering is under your control, but not easy. So never leave apples on your table.... they attract fruit flies.

Oh, and don't let them tell you different; it's Fuh-Leens, not FI-leens.

Gulag on the second floor

Hello, you faithful readers. My blog calendar tells me three weeks have vanished since we last met and I was retreating to the cellar and my stash of chocolate. Well, reluctantly I am back in circulation. The last 21 days have been mercifully quiet and devoid of health issues to report. Jim and I ventured into Boston this morning for his appointment with the oncologist. His red cell count is low, yet again, so he is getting topped off with two more pints of blood, even as I write this.

The current 'fantasy' is to go forward with collecting the stem cells for transplantation. It is scheduled for about a month from now, subject to bringing up his blood count. Revlamid has done wonders tackling the myeloma, but is also suspect #1 in the mystery of what's suppressing his body's ability to make new red blood cells. They have decided to suspend Revlamid for the next month or so, to give his body time to produce more red cells. His weight is okay, although a touch down from last time. We are getting all the dairy and fat-rich things into him that we can, but he is certainly not eating with any gusto.

A few things have gone away for Jim in the past year. He lost his taste for coffee, for one thing. He has also forsaken the barber and the beard trimmer in favor of more of an Al Solzhenitsyn vibe. Originally he expected to lose his hair and beard either from the chemo or certainly with the SCT. But as that has gotten kicked ahead so frequently, the hair is reaching Rapunzellian proportions. Just the other day, I caught him hanging his head out the window. Not only that, he looks like a regular Evel Knevel on his recumbent bike.

For someone who watched a fair amount of TV in his day, he has not watched any in many months. No music either. Nor does he answer the phone. And I come back to how funda-mentally different he and I are. I have never been too sick to answer the PHONE! R U Kidding? Of course, obviously I have never been as sick as he. I miss hearing the car coming in the driveway before dinner. (I could always hear it as I was frantically trying to defrost something and cover it with tomato sauce before he walked through the door. Don't knock cinnamon toaster strudel with tomato sauce til you've tried it.) And we used to have so much to talk about... he, the inveterate watcher of those McLaughlin people who are always talking over each other, and me always talking over him. Things will undoubtedly change yet again, once he recovers from the SCT whenever that happens. We are both altered by this experience and it will be interesting to see who we are if life should return to "normal."

SHE WHO RANTS!!

Well, we should have continued to stay away from the hospital on Wednesday, but noooo, we went in, flushed with glory and hopes to start the process of the Stem Cell Transplant. But God has other plans for us, apparently, because Jim's weight gain which was the source of so much optimism, disappeared in 2 weeks, along with an additional five pounds, bringing him down to 130 pounds. DRAT! He is experiencing some dizziness, which makes his walking unsteady, thus thwarting any attempt at walking for exercise. Oh, also the red cell blood count is down, so he needs another couple of blood transfusions to go with the ones last month, and the ones the week before that. Um.....REALLY???!!

Oh, and the SCT? Isn't happening until he gains back the weight or the burden of recovery could kill him!!! I knew we shouldn't get our hopes up!!

We keep trying to get food into him, but after 2 bites, he feels sickeningly over-full. Shouldn't have sweets; although they are rich in calories, they are bad for diabetics. How about a PBnJ sandwich, or a bowl of spaghetti? Nope, they contain gluten. It's like an evil puzzle, trying to figure this all out, made grave by the knowledge that if the weight loss continues, irrespective of the cancer, Jim could be in dire trouble.

He remains very calm... drugs will do that for you. Of course he doesn't have much choice given his energy levels. I must say that there has been more kindness and common sense in BI Boston than anywhere I have been in the last 10 years. Consistently, people just seem to take care of one another, patients, staff, medical personnel, other care-givers. Virtually no one has been less than exceptional.

The icing on the cake came this evening, Nut-job, our resident squirrel has apparently spoken so warmly of our hospitality last winter that even this early in the fall, there is the sound of many, many paws in the second floor walls. Sounds like Park Street Underground. Creeps me out entirely. Used to be just in the ceilings, but this winter is shaping up to be the landlocked version of Noah's Ark.

I AM GOING TO

LOSE

MY

MIND !!!!!!!!!!

Psst. If I'm not back by Monday, toss some Dove Dark Chocolate bars down the cellar stairs. I will be the one in a fetal position, mould overtaking me, hugging my dusty, empty ceramic Aunt Jemima cookie jar someone gave me back in 1979.

P.S. Don't tell.

Marriage is an Institution, and so is an insane asylum.

We liked last week's results so much we didn't go back this week, so the next visit is Wednesday. Eating hasn't been such a cake-walk for the past week, and staying awake is more of a challenge. The "getting the Revlamid two step" has begun, with a promise of delivery on Tuesday. We'll see.

Yesterday was our 39th wedding anniversary. Yes, fourteen years of wedded bliss. If anyone had said a 24 year old right-brained travel agent/music teacher could find happiness with a 28 year old left brained nuclear engineer whose IQ was greater than his weight (okay, he was in good shape) I would have believed them. That's how naive I was. We have been through thin and thick together (even our profiles). We moved to Maryland six months after we wed, where he had a job and I had extended family. I commuted to AAA Headquarters, just a block beyond the White House. Our first apartment there was nice, with a big balcony and a pastoral view. Through some ingenious jury-rigging, Jim was able to bring in hockey games on WBZ. We'd drink chablis, watch the evening lightening storms, sitting on cushions out of the balcony, while the cooling rain pelted down. Life was good.

Then we bought a town house. Three thousand down. Cathedral ceilings, brand new, with a room destined to be a nursery. Lynn joined our lives while we were there, and Jim worked for Bechtel and NUS. But homesickness stirred in us both, so he scored a job at Boston Edison, and back to MA we came, Baby on Board. This was 1974. We passed papers on a cute little cape on the day Nixon resigned the presidency. The rest of the 70's flew, and with Three Mile Island, came the end of the "charmed" part of our life.

Work issues and a general decline in nuclear power plant starts left Jim in an untenable position. On the plus side, Laura put in her appearance, and we knew we needed a larger house. Oh My. So we held our breath and bought our current house, a place we have adored and loathed alternately. It has charm, it has character, it has history, it has no insulation, unless you count 130 year old horse hair. There IS no such thing as a small repair. To this day, we lose communication with feet, fingers and the tips of ears every year between November and March, the ultimate unexpected consequence of home-grown cryogenics. We have lugged a forest worth of tree parts into a Vermont Castings stove (7 cords in one winter) then tried heating by a supplemental gas heater in the kitchen that left a permanent basket-weave tattoo on Matthew's forearm where he fell on it. Last year, we had two electric faux fireplaces going. With Jim feeling cold on the hottest summer days, I really can't imagine how we will keep him even tolerably comfortable, which is one reason for selling this place.

The 1980's were tough. Although we gained Matt in '84, we lost my dad to lymphoma in '86. Jim was gone weekdays, every week, commuting to Long Island, to Syracuse, to Groton CT. I hauled wood, hauled the kid, hauled catering. Jim's eccentric dad (who will be the subject of my first book) came to live here while Jim was away. Wunnerful! Jim brought computers into our life, self-teaching every night. His brother became a quadriplegic, my sister developed Lupus, we had a fire, I ground up two kitties under the hood of our car... I had an ectopic pregnancy... lost the diamond out of my engagement ring, then just over a year later, Matt joined our lives. I started my catering business. The 80's were very BUSY and sometimes in a good way.

The 1990's really were all about Jim settling in as State Nuclear Engineer at Mass Emergency Management Agency, part of the Commonwealth. Insurance, income, some security, then getting RSH off the ground, which has been the great passion of his life. We traveled pretty often, attending conferences, presenting papers, holding workshops. We saw Paris and Nice together, and Japan, New Orleans and the radon mines of Montana. And Washington.... lots of Washington. Matt and Laura joined us to see San Francisco, the wine country, the gorgeous scenery along the coast to the south, and on a trip to Orlando.

So here we are today, about to begin our 40th year, with no more certainty about our future than we had on this day so long ago. Jim weighs about what I did as a bride (but doesn't look half as nice in my wedding gown). We foster the small flickering light of optimism as best we can. I've learned life is full of opportunities to take a huge risk. One of the biggest is the decision to commit to one another for life, as we did. Too bad young kids can't fully appreciate the awesomeness of "as long as you both shall live".

Then again, I'm still finding out!!

Overtime!!

Wonderful news. Jim's test results came back, and the Revlamid has kicked the cancer down to where he falls within the "normal" range making him a candidate once again for a stem cell transplant. They hope to fast-track this, since there are only several weeks left in the clinical trial, so things could proceed quickly. He has also gained another five pounds in an inspired collaboration between Jim and the Burger King, which is quite the mental image if you know Jim. Ronald McDonald, eat your heart out. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my catering business, though!

So I guess now we all need to climb aboard the believers train. The transplant could be as little as several weeks away, or if that timing can't be accommodated, further into the fall, but apparently the stars are coming into alignment. We met with Jim's oncologist this morning before the test results were know, and he was encouraging. Jim's reaction was a little like someone finding out the Pope was coming to the US: detached, calm, glad, but not what you would call giddy. Sometimes he can be inscrutable to me, a mere woman. We will be married 39 years on September 12, and I still don't understand parts of him at all.

Even now, when we are in overtime innings.

The First Anniversary is Paper, right? BTW, this is NOT Jim! or me.

We are finally at the one year anniversary of Jim's diagnosis. When I was young I thought it would be so cool to know what the future held... of course now I realize it is best this way. For whatever improvement in planning that prescience would provide, there would possibly be things that would shake your confidence in survival.

But survive we did, and Jim is showing some improvement. A week ago, he was still steadily losing weight. He drank Ensure because it was possible to track exactly what calories he was ingesting, (ever the scientist) but there were days he didn't get enough and his weight kept dropping. This week, he tried crackers and peanut butter, and a concoction of white sauce and hamburger on eggs, he dreamed up himself, (a little like Biscuits and gravy) plus a few judicious burgers from BK. Yesterday he weighed five pounds more! *note to self... skip the Whoppers.

The first time we saw the oncologist we learned the term "M-spike" (a kind of barometer of how much excess protein there is in a patient's blood.) Ideally, healthy people have zero excess protein. When Jim was first tested in August 2008, his M-spike was 5400. Seventy-five percent of his bones were affected by MM. The initial chemo did a lot of good by reducing it to 2500 but then it leveled off. Now he is beginning the fourth round of Revlamid, and his M-spike yesterday registered an amazing 880, which is cause for great joy. They even alluded to getting him in line for a Stem Cell Transplant, but on the "Fool me once, shame on you, Fool me twice, shame on Me" premise, I wince at the possibility. So disappointed already, twice. Lets just keep beating back the myeloma, and see how things go. He needed another two pints of blood yesterday, to help his red cells which were reduced by the Revlamid. One side-effect of Rev. is the possible formation of blood clots and embolisms; the same is true with the medication he is taking for his appetite. A cost/benefit analysis can best be done by flipping a coin. With the grace of God, he will avoid those side-effects.

Meanwhile the company that ships the Revlamid continues to pursue the lopsided game of matching wits with me. This time it was over a week with daily calls, before they deigned to ship the drug. This, because of restrictions and regulations imposed by an agency of the Federal government. If one regulation is good, six is better.

Can't wait until the Feds are in charge of all my medical stuff. That should straighten things RIGHT out.

The other big news is that our house is officially on the market. It was an emotionally charged decision, but in the bottom line, we need to do this now. We'd like to stay in town, but we'll have to see how enthusiastic a reaction we get. In this round, we are planning only to market to contractors, since the house is built on two lots. That will keep an endless parade of tire-kickers from traipsing through the house. If someone wants to preserve the house (please, please God) they could just lop off the kitchen and build a new one on the Webster Street side while retaining a lot for new construction. Still a pretty sensitive topic, coming on the heels of everything else, but we will prevail!!

Not for nothing, Muckerheide means "stick together strongly" in Hindi.

No it doesn't. I made that up.

I can't tell you what it means. I know, but I can't tell you.

Home of the WHAT?

Last week Jim was neglected a bit while we transformed the cellar, but seems no worse for wear. I rolled him an Ensure each time I passed our room, and he read a lot, napping and seemingly insulated from the chaos outside the door. He continues to take the chemo in pill form here at home and sees the doctor once during each protocol.

We had helpers and boxes everywhere, punctuated with occasional notes of hysteria that hinted in the direction of 'going postal'. Two strong young men we hired carried out several defunct appliances, sharp old bed frames, railings formerly on our front porch (In 1994 I had visions of incorporating them into an island for the kitchen-- wouldn't that have been adorable? wwit) and all manner of heavy items. In 2 hours, half the cellar was perfectly cavernous. "My" side still suffers from an over-population of cookie sheets, many of which are older than Lynn, humongous platters and a large set of fish plates with which I am reluctant to part. (my English professor would be so proud I wrote such an absurd sentence just to avoid the last word being 'with') Oops.

In all this, it is natural to take inventory of the past and try to look to what lies ahead. Some people (not very many, but some) live 10-15 years with MM. Most of those who survive the longest have had a stem cell transplant, (sometimes 2). It is possible. When asked his dreams for a future once his MM is in remission, Jim still wants to stay the course and continue his life's work of redefining the limits on radiation exposure. See, even after 40 years' evidence to the contrary, I still hoped he MIGHT say, "why, Beloved, I want to sail with you around the world, and sketch you while you sleep! (Smacking forehead) I'm apparently a slow learner.

The last medical appointment revealed Jim had lost 3 more pounds, putting him at 136. His red blood cells were down to 20, so he needed a transfusion of two units of blood, which added another 6 hours to the appointment. He has also been given a medication to help him feel hungry. Forget the Revlamid... that's the one they should have clearly marked so someone doesn't it take accidentally.

Optimistic signs are that he relished two doughnuts (not on the celiac diet, but, 'oh well') Saturday and woke me at 6 am today to tell me he thought a "Whopper" from Burger King might be something he could eat. Not at 6 am, my friend. Even if I were willing to get up and drive there. Hopefully having fantasies of junk food is gonna put calories into his diet even if we never get there.

PS: One night later, he even came along for the ride to BK and ordered the aforementioned Double Whopper with a thick shake on the side. I was convinced it was a fools errand, but went along with it to humor him. And he FINISHED it! Several hours later, no repercussions, so this is real progress.

WWIT

Jim has had a much better week, being awake and up substantially more. All the kids and grandkids were here for a family dinner Wednesday, and he came down and stayed several hours. That hasn't happened for a very long time.

A saying goes, "If you bite the head off a frog, first thing in the morning, the day is guaranteed to improve." Thus inspired, I decided to purge the cellar of all the stuff that has been crying out to be removed. Water has been seeping through the field stone foundation. I think they used paper mache for grout, since it crumbles each time I touch it . Everything is covered with mildew or rust, and filled with dampness, just for a start. Truly, this is the tenth circle of Hell.

Visualize me muttering to myself as I go through this process. Not just occasionally, an entire run-on conversation.

There are souvenirs for every decade of our marriage... mostly my stuff. If I had to summarize it all with one phrase, it would be "What Was I Thinking?" (henceforth, WWIT?) After 6 hours down there, my forehead is bruised from smacking it with my palm, and declaring, WWIT?

I acquired a whole lot of stuff because I was a caterer. In the middle of the cellar floor rests a huge industrial meat slicer. Worked the last time I tried it, but the intimidation factor is key. Sounds like a B52. Keep or off load? Offload. (note to self-- don't sell any more sliced ham. ) Big baskets that once displayed dainty sandwiches but are now kissed with mould. Fa-ling!!

Wet cartons. More wet boxes. Nose keeps running.

A pasta maker... no, wait, TWO pasta makers, one a yard sale find, the other from a friend who wised up sooner. Pasta is two pounds for a buck. But nooo, I had some perverse need to make it from scratch. WWIT? Pitch them... no wait... yard sale them. There's one born every minute.

Some stuff I have accepted as part of someone else's purge. I have a virgin salad shooter that is likely to remain so. Yard sale. I accepted a stainless steel, industrial-sized dual soup warmer, as big as a golden retriever (not counting the tail). Lotta soup. Out of here.

Are there mice hiding in some of these boxes, waiting for me to reach in..... Wonder if there is a carton big enough and dry enough to haul me out of here if that happens?

Adrian is Laura's boyfriend. He is also my "knight in well-worn shorts". He does so much around here, including all the landscaping and mowing. But beyond that, he is a Good Man. I bestow the title of "Good Man" very judiciously on a few men who are better, more honorable than average. Adrian is tireless in doing the heavy lifting, whether it is hauling junk out to the dumpster we just rented, or being there to cradle Jim's bleeding head while I called 911 some months back. More than anxious to be helpful, some days his quiet kindnesses are the difference between my getting through or sitting on the floor, sobbing at the futility of it all.

So, again, how did I get all this stuff? Well, for one thing, I became self-appointed conservator of all my mother left when she died. Holding on to her things made me feel I could keep a part of her. If she had treasured something, I sheltered it. WWIT? Of course most of what I love is upstairs; the 1960's stuff is in the cellar... or was. Do I actually plan to USE a fondue pot soon? Plonk. In the barrel!

Some things arrived when friends moved and had too little room for all their stuff so it came to live with me because I had a "big house". Little did they know I would be in charge of the watery execution of their possessions. Then again, many have been with me for upwards of 10 years, so they really can't get their shorts in too much of a knot.

Probably five years ago, I became engrossed (okay obsessed) with the question of what to do if there were a nuclear attack on Boston. Suitcase bomb...it was speculated about in the news, and Boston is in the Big Three along the northeast coast. Since Jim would be occupied and in the MEMA bunker as the state nuclear engineer, I might be faced with providing for the entire family for a while, in our basement. I researched for what was, until now, the most depressing summer of my life. How far would the fallout spread? What would we need to shelter in place? Have I taken complete leave of my senses? Will I need an aluminum foil helmet? At that time, the cellar was relatively dry, if dusty. Since then, the mice have nibbled at everything the mould didn't reach first. My supply of paper masks reek of mildew, and would render one unconscious almost instantly. Still haven't opened some of the well-sealed boxes, but my kids jovially referred to it all as "Mom's Scared-y Box" Just you wait and see how hard they bang on the door the very first time someone detonates just a teeny nuclear device. I still haven't decided if I will let them in. They'll have to apologize first.

Ok, I have an idea, lets beat Martha Stewart senseless. It's all her fault I thought I needed all these flipping goomsies and tchotchkies in the first place. (note, still no culpability on my part!)

I hereby charge my kids that when I am called to my reward, (whatever it be) get a dual-sized casket (do they do double-wides in caskets?) and cram as much of my clothing, shoes, trinkets, table linen and other useless stuff in there with me. Mahogany deviled egg plate from a long-ago cruise to Haiti (WWIT?) between my feet. Lay things right around my face... just jam as much in as you can. Taking it all with you sounds to me like only fair way to go. Maybe the Egyptians were on to something!

A reprieve from the hum-drum.

Nothing new to report this week, really. It was a total hair-ball to get Jim's Revlamid, even with the aforementioned problems. No sense in boring details, but it ended with me chasing down a UPS truck on Highland Avenue somewhere between the Library and the Town Hall (about 5 blocks). Jim's chemo schedule had two days of missing it, in the middle, due to glitches, but I assume that isn't hugely meaningful.

For your loyalty and good will, I will stop writing now and invite you to a site that has given me much pleasure. The photographer has an amazing eye, and the soul of an artist.

http://soulofthegarden.com/intro.html

Bookmark this and set this aside until you have some time to look through the images the artist has photographed. I started with Paris, but eventually worked my way through the whole thing. It is almost too rich for one sitting, but it does represent a celebration of things I most admire.

Things Looking Up a Little

One in three people develop cancer in their lifetime. For one in four, it is the cause of death. So if you are our age, it isn't your imagination that you hear about more and more cases. It is simply that people aren't dying of diseases like polio, nor small pox, nor diphtheria. Cancer, which is actually many diseases with a single process, has merely risen to the top of the ranks. As we age, our chances of having those rogue cells develop becomes greater.

With multiple myeloma, only 15,000 cases are diagnosed each year in a country whose population is 304,000,000 (give or take) making it roughly a 1 in 20,000 chance that any particular person will get it. It represents only 1% of all cancers, and 2% of cancer deaths. And wouldn't ya know, Jim got it.

Today we sat waiting for him to be called into the lab at Beth Israel, one of the finest hospitals in Boston. As he rose to get his blood collected, he hooked one of the feet of his cane on a chair, and started a slow-motion spiral that seemed destined to leave him sprawled on the floor. To my astonishment I heard a familiar voice loudly exclaim, "Jee-sus Christ!!". Against all odds, he managed to regain his balance while all the receptionists, nurses and interns leapt to their feet and simultaneously moved in our direction. Of course, Jim was mortified but otherwise unharmed. And after a moment I realized the voice summoning the Lord in a Jewish hospital was none other than mine. All I could envision was a pile of bone fragments lying on the floor in Jim's new shirt and pants. Falling is the greatest (avoidable) hazard Jim faces, so... well, that's my story and I am sticking to it. I am happy to report lightening did not strike!

The Revlamid continues to slowly lower the cancer burden in Jim's bones, and although we have JUST now reach a new low, we'll gratefully take what we can get. He is anemic, enough so that he may need a blood transfusion, but that explains some of the recent sleepiness. His BP was 85/55 when we arrived at B.I. Actually, he did very well today at the hospital, and even asked for soup for dinner! Before bedtime, he commented that he really did feel better than he has in weeks.

Amusing side note... when we returned home (he even volunteered to push the cart when I insisted I needed to stop at Trader Joe's near the hospital because they have a wine department, and a girl's gotta live, ya know?) there were several phone messages. Both were from our community hospital, now a satellite of Beth Israel, where Jim was admitted briefly in March. Their radiology department was calling to schedule an MRI...ordered back in March. Luckily for us, the MDs in Boston had performed it in March when he was re-admitted through their ER. (you remember!)

Reminds us of why we drive the extra miles to the city.

Que Sera Sera

I wonder where we were at the moment it began, when the first cell of this dreadful disease mutated in Jim's body and refused to die. Because of his involvement in RSH (Radiation, Science, and Health), I have sat through lectures and read papers explaining apoptosis (the cellular suicide going on millions of times in your body each day) among other details of cellular biology. At some random moment, one cell begins to grow and multiply out of control. It seems somehow unfair that we were unaware of instant such a monumental change taking place in our lives. In my heart, I know it was at least 3 years ago, but most likely much longer ago than that. We are already coming up on the late-August first anniversary of his diagnosis.

I remember a few years ago he was complaining about his legs and hips. Jim rarely complains (whereas I find complaining of a headache almost as effective as taking Alleve). But this kept him in bed off and on, and we chalked it up to not enough exercise and the ravages of time. Not long after, he had several trips to the emergency room because his fever spiked, his heart and BP were crazy and he was just a mess. They tested for lyme disease the first time, then the next time, they sent him home with no particular diagnosis. Finally I demanded that our family doctor keep him in the hospital until she could tell me what was going on. After many tests, they decided he had celiac, which, while true, didn't feel right to me. Celiacs manifest all kinds of symptoms, but fever was not among them.

We changed doctors, and lost another 6 months making the adjustment, and concentrating on his blood pressure, the benefits of walking, and diabetes meds. If not for the ER doctor who noticed broken vertebrae on a routine chest x-ray, we might have lost more time discovering the beast. I kept pleading with them to consider his abject exhaustion, only to be dismissed with "well, you know, when you get older, you start to slow down. Maybe you should nap too." Like I need encouragement.

Yesterday Jim did eat a little food, for the first time in over a month. But my fear that he would become too weak for the stem cell transplant has been realized. Until we can get him up and walking around, he is a poor candidate for the SCT according to his oncologist. This isn't the end of the road by any means... tons of people keep the disease at bay with ongoing chemo. We have known from get-go that this would always be a game of pushing the disease back, not curing it.

And so we go on from here, accepting what is, and clinging to faith that things will work out as they are meant to.

Down Time

Life hurtles forward with entire weeks sifting between my fingers. Jim continues to maintain a steady and predictable course. We had an appointment yesterday with the oncologist, and he felt Jim was improving... based more on observation than numbers since the blood tests hadn't all come back. He is weighing the possibility of scheduling the Stem Cell Transplant for about a month from now. Who knows? We will get excited when it finally is a fait accompli! Meanwhile, Jim rests most of the day, reading a little, and that's about it. He seems to have retreated into an emotional dry-dock, not answering the phone, not even going through the motions much any more. We need the SCT and the promise of feeling better if he hopes to avoid total physical and emotional atrophy.

One of the unexpected benefits of this whole thing is that I discover that my super-woman control-freak tendencies have gotten flabby (along with a few other things.) Once upon a time, I was convinced each bit of news would morph into a mandate for me to go "fix" everything and everyone. And upon reflection, I think, at times, I did a helluva job. Now, however, I pause and consider the cost/benefit of my getting involved...prioritizing, if you will. If someone else will "fix" it, then I take a step back. If there is an argument I am apt to fold quickly. Very little carries enough importance for me to get satisfaction from "winning". Same with advice. One lesson I have learned is that most people who seek advice already know what they are going to do, so my repeating myself is an exercise in total futility. I have developed an aversion to getting other people's "issues" all over me. Hopefully I can learn to moderate, to distinguish the places where I can really make a difference, as opposed to being the sponge, mopping up after someone's hysterical vent. At this ripe old age, I am finally realizing dispassion isn't always a bad thing.

A little post script to this is that Jim just heard from the oncologist, who wants to keep him on an additional round of Revlamid, which would take any hope of SCT into the Fall. But it seems to be tackling the cancer very well, and the hope is that he would be in better condition to have the SCT succeed in restoring him to good health. So it looks like we will have another month or two of "down" time. In MM, down time is a good thing.

Peaceful Ride, for the moment!

Gosh, I am getting really terrible about updating this blog... my apologies. Jim is doing okay which is why, if there are no posts, you can safely assume we are working on minor toe-stubs, instead of major crises. He completed the first course of Revlamid, and is now on the second. Real food remains a problem, but Ensure helps with his caloric intake. That, and Jello with whipped cream. But Father's Day he was better, and celebrated with a little fish and rice. I know that sounds like a bad day at a Laotian prison camp, but for us it was a tiny victory.

We've had numerous celebrations since the last blog. Lynn had her birthday, and I had mine. She is still younger than me. By a lot. The grandkids are about to get out of school for the summer, (let the fighting begin!) so there have been the requisite concerts and playoff games (I am especially bad at making playoff games and may have my title of Grammy revoked by the Orwellian task-masters who regulate such things)

Throw in a bridal shower, catering for a friend's birthday party, a couple of medical visits, and all you have left is a substantial pile of dust bunnies, the cap from a water bottle some feathers from the comforter and a ring from the Flying Horses. Oh, no, that was what was left from moving our bed into Matt's room last. Sorry. Nice thing about a new room is that it is so empty when you start out. If you can't fight the clutter, just move. Feels like a free night at a Motel 6!!

Love you all for bearing with us on this remarkable ride.

HalfaBlog: We're still here!

The days have slipped by again, with no news remaining good news. Jim has experienced none of the dramatic side effects that the chemo medicine could have elicited. The only problem seems to be that all food tastes terrible and even his favorite custard feels like a steel ball on his gut. An average day consists of pudding, jello with some fruit in it, and the dietary supplement, which is something he actually seems to enjoy. Gone is coffee (!) ice cream, meat, vegetables, the daily banana. We will be visiting the doctor on Tuesday for a check-in and then again, after the course of medicine for this round, is complete.

Jim rarely leaves the house, but made the effort on Sunday to attend a baseball game/birthday party for grandson Bryan. He was only there for about forty five minutes, but everyone was glad to see him. It's funny, but when you see the "patient" in one setting all the time, it becomes part of a predictable picture. However once you are in a previously familiar setting, the puzzle piece that "looks different" comes across pretty dramatically.

The great news this week is that our daughter Laura had a thyroid biopsy which came back negative on Wednesday. Our daughter, Lynn, had her thyroid removed about 10 years ago because it contained two small malignancies, so we were very concerned for Laura. The other news is that our son Matt moved out of the "west wing" and to the top floor of a brownstone in the South End, much closer to both jobs. It's a wonderful, funky neighborhood, part brownstone, part little shops and restaurants. He is really pumped about it, although getting his TV and bed up four flights of stairs took a little of the edge off. Aah well, tomorrow is a new day!

I'm off to treat Lynn to a pre-birthday celebration with my sister. Where do Girls Gone Shopping go? IKEA! It came 4 years ago and none of us has ever been. I'll lose my well-earned reputation at that rate.

The Ripple Effect

It was a week ago that Jim finally got the call that the Revlamid was being mailed to him. He was treated to an oral interview to determine if he understood (OMG, enough already!!! ) that this should not be handled or otherwise transferred to a woman of child bearing age. The FDA is nothing if not stupefyingly redundant.

Thus far, the treatment has been uneventful. All he does is take three pills daily for 21 days. They then give him a week off so they can be sure he understands about potential birth defects in any current children he intends to launch (father) as well as talking with his physician to make sure he tells Jim to be careful. Aaaaaarrrgggggggghhhhhh************ the sound of Linda going screaming into the street. This medication costs us $20. but our insurance company pays $18,000 per month. It might have been more cost-effective if they had just approved the second MRI on time, so we could be gearing up for the SCT now. Hmmm....

I have recently been rolling around in my head the thought that we really have no way to know how our lives and especially our actions can have a ripple effect far beyond our wildest imagination. I recently learned that a family originally from our town, who are home-schooling their four boys (the fifth boy is too little) say the Rosary every day before class begins. And each day, Jim, who never met them, is remembered in these prayers. Every day, four little boys pray for a person they don't know, yet they do it each day. Wow. I remember back when my dad was having his fourth kidney installed. There were prayer groups of all denominations offering up their faith by petitioning for his recovery. This kind of effort isn't correct for everyone... it must come from sincere belief. But there are a thousand other responses that someone's ripple

elicits that make us better people.

Little ripples emanate to places far from the source. Sometimes we become a horrible warning, (!) but more often the result is a selfless response. Being aware of this should encourage us to take careful aim as we pitch our pebbles into the water. Certainly, none of us is alone.

Twiddling......still Twiddling

Jim had his orbital MRI yesterday. (photo to right is NOT it.) Laura took him in and back. The "team" is still trying to track down Revlamid ... weird that bureaucracy and health warnings have made this drug so elusive. And sorry, I have the same problem with this as with other "warnings". While I understand that Thalidomide (the black sheep of the Revlamid family) causes birth defects, pregnancy is fairly low on my list of concerns, somewhere between terrorists fouling my personal Cabernet Sauvignon supply, and the threat of a heat-seeking missile homing in on my disconnected septic tank.

One can only imagine the warnings. "Do not share chemotherapy medications with others. (!) Do not allow children to play with this drug. ( As the clothespin game? Drop the Revlamid in the bottle?) " May cause drowsiness, so do not use drug while sky-diving." and the ever-popular " This drug should not be used as a flotation devise." Who thinks these things up? My personal favorite of this genre came on a propane torch labeled, "Do not use this device for drying hair." In the dark, sick recesses of my mind, a little smirk still flickers at the mental image.

My two cents... we should do far less warning and presuppose that people have a grain of common sense. And those who don't should proceed at their own risk. If, however, these warnings are merely designed by bureaucrats and liability attorneys to sustain their billable status, we should be rising up as one to tell them to KNOCK IT OFF!!!