Cancer Sticks

The opening paragraphs for a new piece of fiction I'm working on.

 Cancer Sticks

            Marcus inhaled.  Completely.  Breath - succulent breath - slid across his pursed lips, cooled his throat and funneled through the narrow vortex of his esophagus.  The effect was immediate.  Pure.  Life affirming.  A particular imbalance in the universe was suddenly corrected.  The chambers of his lungs hollowed then expanded, pushing to the limits of his rib cage.  His chest lifted with the force, suspending his sternum until it was nearly weightless.  Along the inner surface of his lungs, a regiment of alveoli took action.  The tiny sacs stretched and inflated, extracted bits of precious cargo, then, with rapid efficiency, offered it to his heart.  To his bloodstream.  To the four corners of his body.

            With the breath came satisfaction.  The inhale belonged to Marcus, a keepsake of his own survival. He wanted to hang on to this breath, like every breath, enveloping it in a full-body embrace.  He did not want to let go.

            For nearly a lifetime, and an entire career, Marcus had engaged in a specific practice of inhaling.  His instrument, his vice, was cleverly packaged and contained a deadly efficient delivery system: nearly weightless, wholly sexy, marginally affordable, twenty to each convenient pack.  The practice had its own ritual.  Pull  the tab.  Tap the butt end.  Pinch the filter between thumb and forefinger.  Light it up.  The satisfaction came with the inhale.  The effect was sustained in the exhale.  Marcus knew this all too well.  He was not just a practitioner of smoking; Marcus had been an icon of the cigarette world.  The hot red glow of his tobacco, his long satisfied drags, the hazy remains of his exhale, all were shared with a captivated audience.  Marcus’ vice was his virtue.  But that was then.  At the moment there was no vice, Marcus only inhaled.  Perhaps that was all that was left for him.  His mind jostled with a slight ditty – could this be the new slogan for his life? - I have a breathing hole, and without it, I am not whole. He thought of this as he lay on a bed, attached to a machine via a tube, which gave him the oxygen to survive.

Fictional Restaurant of the Day

The People's Creperie:  Where the Peeps Meet the Crepes

The Pathology of Cancer

My mother had small-cell cancer, and it killed her.  Eventually.  The cancer left her body and went to her brain.  It took away everything she knew.

While she was alive there was a process.  She was never without dignity, but she was always curious.  She had to understand the particulars of the disease.  Down to the last cell, the last protein, the last bit of Latin terminology.

Unlike me, my mother was a nurse.  I have little interest in disease; I only care about what is lost.  But I listened because I thought it was expected of me.  I listened to pathology reports and lab results, and tried to understand what it meant about treatment options, quality of living options, life options.

The pathology was often confusing.  Ambiguous.  Confounding.  I accepted on faith that my mother had small-cell cancer, but when the cancer went to her brain they called it glioblastoma.  I only knew the term glioblastoma, because Ted Kennedy had glioblastoma.  It was in the news, part of the national dialogue.  However, when the opened my mother's brain, doctors realized her tumor was not glioblastoma, it had only looked the part.  There would have to be more tests.  Initially, the pathologist said she had spindle-cell carcinoma.  I was hopeful about this new pathology, this new term, but not for long.   Another doctor said it was, again, small-cell cancer.  Then another doctor said small-cell and spindle-cell were  identical.  Then there were additional diagnoses and names, and then, finally, someone told me she had large-cell cancer.  I knew that one had to be wrong, but it wasn't.  They were all correct.  I realized cancer could be many things, even large and small.   Indeed, that is the very nature of the disease:  cancer is about microscopic cells and large masses.

Life too is large and small.  After my mother died I kept thinking of her life as a whole, what it meant to exist over a span of decades.  Of course, as I considered her life, I was forced to recollect the moments.  Life is  dually comprised of nano-seconds and years, fleeting moments and eras, small tasks and meaningful careers, reactions and contemplations...and then, eventually, only memories.

Elvis!

Thank You Very Much

If Elvis was alive, he'd be dead by now.

Christmas Tree Cake

How Can it Be a Christmas Tree and a Cake?

I remember when I was in junior high, watching TV with my grandmother.   A commercial came on for RCA televisions.  We had an MGA set.  My grandmother was perplexed.  She asked me why RCA could advertise on our MGA television.  I tried to explain, but she didn't get it.  She was confused about the mechanics of the TV world.  She understood what the TV was, but not its relationship to its own content.  She realized that the television content was created somewhere else, but, somehow, she believed the television was more than just a receiver that transforms a signal, it was a special box with its own powers and its own agenda.  Curious. 

I don't think I am as unhip as my grandma was in the 70's.  I understand how to use most electronic devices.  I also know how they work.  I know how the content arrives.  However, I don't always understand its value.  I am not ready to herald the importance of hand-held devices.  I still want to live in a world of human contact.  It is ironic that I blog this, but it is true.  When people go out in public places and stare at their smart phones, I am as perplexed as my grandmother was.   I'm pretty sure I am not the naive party in this discussion though.  The phone, the internet, Google, Youtube are not magic.  There is no app to make your life whole.  There is no online game that will make you a better person.  The virtual you is not you.

I'm not suggesting anyone go cold turkey.  Obviously not, I'm on my computer right now.  But I firmly believe that you should never let an electronic device be something you can't live without.  Or something that makes demands upon you.  What are your priorities?  Photos aside, will you remember texting on your smartphone twenty years from now?  Could anything be more vapid?  More pedestrian?  The world burns brighter than a liquid crystal display.  It even burns brighter than a plasma screen.  And, yes, it tastes better than plastic.

Movember

Befor

After

You heard it here first.  This month I plan to grow out my back hair in order to raise awareness for the McRib sandwich.  This is altogether appropriate since the McRib's binding agent is comprised of back hair.  I've heard this from incredible sources.  Incredible!

I know I co-opted the Movember name.  I considered waiting till next month, calling my movement Backember.  But that was a painful name.  It reminded me too much of Conflagebruary, the month of self-immolation.

Hairnuary was a consideration, but that's 2012 and I'm hoping to make a fresh start.