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(Kentucky Headhunters reference)

Grandson of chemo:  I have been reading about Neulasta. I have been reading testimonials from those who have suffered its wonderful effects :). It does not appear to be a pretty thing. It appears, in fact, as though OncoMan decided that if the chemotherapy was not going to make me as sick as a dog, then he’d find something else that would do the trick.

Taking this drug is not on my top 10 list of things to do before I die. In fact, it is not even in the top 1000. Jumping up and down the street naked on a pogo stick with a peacock feather in a strategically located place, well, that’s up there, but I’m not likely to get it done because my neighbors are a bit on the conservative side when it comes to things like that, even calling the police to have ducks arrested.

True. We have, among the other, prettier brands, some Muscovy ducks in the hood. They look like your normal mallard ducks AFTER an overdose of radiation and chemotherapy. They like to sit on cars and fertilize the paint jobs, which upsets some of the folks on the street (including yours truly) so when the lady came by with a petition asking that the city not feed these ducks, I signed gladly, although I am not sure the ducks would be able to read the petition when it came to that, or even be of a disposition to obey its dictates if they did. Besides, I signed the petition with the guilty knowledge that someone else in my household who shall remain nameless actually feeds these self-same ducks herself, on the condition that the ducks get to the stale bread before the dogs do.

In fact, I was suspicious that maybe the neighbor brought the petition ONLY to our house, with otherwise fake signatures, in order to teach us the rules in a polite way before bringing out the goons.

(Incidentally, my automobile has not grown any larger, but I do always have the fastest growing grass in the neighborhood which is a source of some contentment to everyone in the house but the guy with the lawn mower duties.)

And speaking of the dogs, since the police refuse to shoot the ducks or arrest them (these particular police MIGHT arrest them, for trespass and defecation of private property, if the handcuffs wouldn’t keep sliding off their webbed feet) you might argue that I could simply send the dogs out to chase them off, but the younger one would probably strike up an intimate conversation with one of them, as he is prone to do with any object, animate or inanimate that he doesn’t instead choose to eat, and the older one, the smarter one, would probably step outside, say “Bark, bark, now can I go back in? My shows are on,” and turn around and let himself back in the house.

In fact, we had the older one shaved, ostensibly for the summer, but really to prove that he wasn’t as obese as his fur made him look, and, well, it turns out he HAS been eating the other dog’s food, and apparently at an alarming rate. We now wish he had his curly golden locks back in place so that he would at least not look like a keg of beer with legs and a tail when he walks.

For some reason, the fact he is a golden retriever makes this doubly embarrassing. You hardly ever see fat golden retrievers. They are supposed to run around and retrieve things, after all. Dusty has gotten to the point where, when I throw one of his toys, he pretty much asks the younger one, Cody, to go get it for him. Geez.

So we are stuck with the ducks (and the geese) and with the dogs, and I am stuck with neulasta. If you wondered how I would bring it back around to chemotherapy, you were not alone :).

I missed the neuprogen shot today, I confess. That is, I didn’t pine for it, I simply did not go to OncoMan’s digs and get the shot. I only have one excuse, and it takes me back to decadron. The thing is, after the Tuesday chemo session, I become a rather driven individual. My wife can wake up on Wednesday morning with a completely rearranged home around her and more clean towels than she has room to store. (You see, there is a purpose for everything, and the purpose for dirty linens is that there is not room for all of the linens in the linen closet. It has taken me all of these years to discover this particular sort of yin/yang principle of laundry.)

I get into a warped time cycle as a result. The Vampire Cleaning Guy. My neighbors are starting to wonder exactly what it is I’m doing out in the flower beds in the dark at two in the morning. I SHOULD be stealing their flowers and shrubs to cut my overhead, but I’m not quiet enough for that and they are, after all, likely to recognize them, even in the new environment.

In this cycle, I am apt to roam the halls at night, throwing unsuspecting dish cloths into the washer, cleaning one of my son’s shirts for the eighth time this week even if he hasn’t worn it yet but simply thrown it around because that’s what he does with clothes, moving photographs from one room to another for no particular reason and, especially, rearranging furniture, especially the stuff that my plants sit on. I stay away from mirrors :).

It’s not a great cycle to be in. You catch the dawn but miss the day. The telephone, during the day, becomes an evil monster as loud as a neutron bomb and everyone on the other end is evil personified including your relatives but particularly those people calling to sell you something who don’t even know how to pronounce your name and, frankly, things can get ugly :).

I will make the chemo session in the morning. I will make the neulasta session the next day, even though I wish it didn’t sound like a new brand of chewing gum. And we will move on from there. If I get sick, as the scholars claim (:)) then at least my sleep cycle will return to: sleep all day and sleep all night.

There is a silver lining everywhere, if we will only look :).

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