Having spent 97% of my life trying to escape where I'm from and what I am (thoroughly Midwestern), there must be some grim satisfaction going on in the afterlife between my parents who both told me incessantly that I'd someday be glad of both my identity and my birth locality. I'm big enough, and they are dead enough, that I can admit they were at least partially correct--I have no problems with my MW identity, and even some of the MW social conservatism that leaks out of me from time to time.
We had big plans, and big holes to fill in our social agendas, each of which required that we be in Illinois and Indiana. I had yet to meet Scott's parents, I wanted to see his sister again, he had not met some of my sister's family as we couldn't make her funeral, he hadn't met my brother Jim (now the oldest and de facto head of family). And why not work in a night in Bloomington, the place I was living when we first met online ten years ago?
This all sounds harmless and fun, and functionally, it is (and was) except that one guy with cancer being driven around by another guy on an 80 hour work schedule all over the city of Chicago and its burbs, all over the state of Indiana, and all back to Chicago to catch a return flight is a act of insanity in 5 small days. But that's us.
Day One. I wake with the pukes. Gross, dysfunctionality, totally unexpected and of course unwelcome. At first I suspected that new chemo was having revenge, that all the nice anti-nauseas they'd dripped into me during my six hour intro were leaching away, leaving me vulnerable. Interestingly, by experimentation, I've found differently. This has nothing to do with chemo and everything to do with how I expel the gunk from my throat. Lesson I have learned; DO NOT engage the stomach muscles. They have no idea what you're trying to do, and they are trained to do just a couple of things well. Pass the masticated stuff along, or expel what doesn't work. Given the lack of mastication to work upon, there's a natural reliance upon answer two. I now know...
This however screwed the pooch for eating before I got on the plane, and even during the flight--but the getting on the plane was really the piece of work. A doctor can get me on a plane with open containers of narcotics and there's virtually no problem whatsoever. I look relatively harmless, have no prison record, and they can open the drugs and test them. That part of the experience is fast and painless.
On the way to Chicago, though, I carried on a couple of containers of Nutren, my food, which is sealed. Oh. My. God. No. I was shunted to the side, politely and thoroughly frisked, my hands were tested for explosives residue twice, my backpack was taken apart. Nothing of me that could be felt up was missed. Had I any residual desire for strange, the TSA agent could have gotten a surprise.
It's not that they were unpleasant at all--in fact, they carefully explained everything to me, were truly nice (bordering on apologetic) and I certainly didn't feel victimized. i was just amused by the fact that this 130 pound when soaking wet and fully clothed man was truly undergoing the kind of screening I wish had been in place on September 10, 2001.
The flight was uncomfortable, but nothing against Virgin Air, which we took--nice plane, nice ride, just an antsy Mark--I settled Scott in with a Star Trek movie and Bose headphones and realized I had read everything I purchased for the flight on my Kindle app without downloading anything new. Serious planning flaw. Tired, but can't sleep, skinny butt sore but can't adjust much, 3 hours and 42 minutes of seat twerking in a fashion that the slutty Cyrus girl can only envy.
Upon landing, we find that our first appointment was pushed up--Scott's parents were already having dinner at our hotel! I fantasized that I had an hour to not look like somebody had just pushed me out an elephant's vagina to no avail.
This, however, turned out wonderfully well. Scott's mother had particularly decided that she would like me because I've already been through enough stuff this year and she proceeded to charm the pants off of me. I am now her fan. Previously, her fearsome reputation for laying it all on the line without gloss (a famous MW trait which I deeply admire) had convinced me she'd take one look and dismiss me as having six months, and not good ones, ahead. Fears completely allayed.
Our conversation helped too because by the time my head hit the pillow there was no waking me for a solid 8 hours. Aside from the noisome bathroom and hocker breaks in sleep that I deal with, my story was a beautiful mattress in a Marriott Renaissance in Schaumburg Illinois filled with Indian people celebrating either a new Mercedes dealership or a wedding (a wedding, I kid).
Day Two took us to Tammy's house, for a day of conversation with Tammy and Jerry, Gina and Jake, her boyfriend. It was wonderful, though I have to say that I still didn't feel good enough to have her homemade salted caramel ice cream, and that is a sore disappointment. Also, I find that long conversation using my Ipad "speak it" interface can be really difficult. Typing takes calories people!
Day Three took us to Warsaw Indiana to see my niece Kathy and her husband and kids, and my brother in law Dale, her father--a 3 hour drive, a full afternoon on a porch being catty, and then another hotel room. A side trip to Columbia City, my hometown, to see my brother Jim and give Scott the experience that I refused to allow him to miss--my brother, in his full essence, holding court and messing with me. I wouldn't let a simple thing like tongue cancer deprive him (or me) or that. Some people say I look like Jim. Some people say I act like Jim. All people say I swear like Jim--and that's what I like. Cancer much? I was so tired I could barely move! Time for more driving.
Day Four? Drive like a fool, Scott. From Warsaw to Bloomington, 3 1/2 hours of Indiana. Depending upon one's perspective, that could sound bad--it wasn't the most awful. There are now Starbucks everywhere and the two things that one can count upon to lift Mr. Nelson's spirits--snacks and Mochachinos--are pretty widely available. This is not the Indiana of old, when we offered nothing but McDonald's, Arby's and sweet corn stands. This is the highly sophisticated state that is legislating itself , it's women and gay citizens back into some sort of vulgar Stone Age. Respect!
Bloomington, in the throes of starting the first day of Fall Semester, was barely seen by me--I sent Scott out to Indian buffet with Charles and collapsed on the sofa of Charles' house. There I stayed (it was 90+ outside) until it was time to honor my two recently deceased dogs who had stayed behind with Charles in Bloomington--Hector, the chow, and Hildy, the lab mix. Hector, who died the day before his 15th birthday, was one of the most perfect dogs I've ever know--self-contained, vigilant, proud, but comitted to me and to Charles above all things. Hildy was the sidekick he never wanted, a foundling, with undefinable emotional issues who couldn't live without Charles and dug me well enough. She lasted to 14, about a month past Hector, but without him, her life wasn't quite the same. They joined eternity in a little ceremony Charles and I put together for their ashes, Hector's $2500 leg plate being the only physical evidence left.
Five: oh five--back to Chicago. Four hours driving, get to O'Hare--and now, I'm somewhere over the Rockies typing on my Ipad while Scott re-reads some Sci-Fi he loves. I look at what we've just done and realize that I have no idea where my limits my, what I can do, what I shouldn't and what I can or can't--and frankly, that's all for the best.
I've spent too much of my life wondering if the rules were being followed at the wrong time. Some times the rules just get in the way. Much as I'd like the TSA to acknowledge that I don't have the strength to cause any trouble, sealed food containers or no, and bend the rules, It's often enough--in Cancerville--not such a bad idea to bend them one's self. No intelligent person would have done half of what we just did--especially not while dragging me around like Howdy Doody with a broken jaw. There would have been mattresses on every sharp edge, and battening around every assumption and medical advice instead of laughter.
It just wouldn't have been Midwestern, at all. It simply wouldn't have worked.
Wow. Can't believe you made it through the trip AND still had the energy to blog about it. So glad you guys were able to squeeze in all those visits, though, and that they went well. Hope you get LOTS of sleep the next couple of days as you recover.
ReplyDeleteOnce again, your writing amazes....thanks so much for sharing your experiences in such a vivid and meaningful way. Mike Osterman
ReplyDeleteI had no idea your itinerary was so crowded with people and the fabulous sights of Chicago's western suburbs and Indiana corn. (And Indiana Starbucks, apparently -- I only wish they were as readily available 10 years ago when I got to drive through Indiana on a regular basis.)
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