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!