Year One Anniversary
Memorial Day 2019
This week's song is my small tribute to all who have given their lives. May God bless and keep you.
In My Bloodstream: Olmesartan Medoxomil, Omeprazole,Tamsulosin
On The Stereo:Bring Him Home, Colm Wilkinson, Les Miserables
This is my 53rd episode. Simply put, we have shared the past year reminiscing a considerable portion of my life. You have given me the chance to thank many of you for the roles you have played in my battles with cancer, and that, for me, might be the best I could ever hope for.
I am here, now, thanks to Bristol Myers Squib and their fantastic chemistry, who allowed me into a groundbreaking clinical trial, which will save lives for years to come. They actually eliminated my melanomas, which had taken residence in too many of my internal organs. You now see their drug, Opdivo, advertised regularly on television and in magazines. That drug, not without some side effects, gave me a chance to continue my life.
The dedicated doctors, who, over the greater part of my life, have diagnosed, repeatedly, ongoing cancers have, each in their turn, successfully extended my life. They recommended the chemotherapies, the radiation, provided the cat scans, the Xrays, the MRIs, the interminable biopsies and surgeries, and treated my physical pain, which was often significant due to, not just the cancer, but the treatments, themselves. Some have stretched beyond their medical responsibilities and have become friends.
The nurses and additional professional staff have treated me, always, with respect and consideration. Even on my worst days, when I have been overtaken by pain and suffering, and was not my normal self, they understood me and forgave me. They have reached out to help and support me. They have been the backbone of every hospital and clinic I have ever visited. And I have seen many. I have told Kath, many times, that I coveted Norm, on Cheers. A bar where everybody knows your name. Everybody knew Norm's name. Instead, I was Mr. Mullen, or Robin, famous in each of those hospitals and clinics, and infusion centers, I so often frequented. That is where they knew my name. These people all gave me hope. Often, when I was in dire need.
My friends, both casual and faithful, have combined to positively keep my mood in control, and help my emotional wellbeing. Inevitably, one of you calls or writes, when, without your knowledge, I have struggled with medical situations, or even bouts of loneliness.
All of you help me, still, every single day. I cannot begin to name you, as the list would be staggering. But some, close to us through the years, know well, who you are. And, sadly, too many have passed on. Thankfully, you left me your memories.
Lastly, my family, as small as it is, have given me reason to live. My girls and their families have kept me young and active. Lately, these days, it has mostly been the duty of Kristin and Doug, and their boys, my grandchildren, that keep me thinking about tomorrow. We never leave them, without ensuring we have fixed the date for our next visit.
Kathleen Mary Mullen has given me her life. She trusted me to care for her and love her always. I regret that it was I who has needed her, for a considerable part of our life together. That cannot ever be corrected. I am here. As is she. I would not change anything in my life, because I have her.
Timberbank Blvd.
I am here, now, thanks to Bristol Myers Squib and their fantastic chemistry, who allowed me into a groundbreaking clinical trial, which will save lives for years to come. They actually eliminated my melanomas, which had taken residence in too many of my internal organs. You now see their drug, Opdivo, advertised regularly on television and in magazines. That drug, not without some side effects, gave me a chance to continue my life.
The dedicated doctors, who, over the greater part of my life, have diagnosed, repeatedly, ongoing cancers have, each in their turn, successfully extended my life. They recommended the chemotherapies, the radiation, provided the cat scans, the Xrays, the MRIs, the interminable biopsies and surgeries, and treated my physical pain, which was often significant due to, not just the cancer, but the treatments, themselves. Some have stretched beyond their medical responsibilities and have become friends.
The nurses and additional professional staff have treated me, always, with respect and consideration. Even on my worst days, when I have been overtaken by pain and suffering, and was not my normal self, they understood me and forgave me. They have reached out to help and support me. They have been the backbone of every hospital and clinic I have ever visited. And I have seen many. I have told Kath, many times, that I coveted Norm, on Cheers. A bar where everybody knows your name. Everybody knew Norm's name. Instead, I was Mr. Mullen, or Robin, famous in each of those hospitals and clinics, and infusion centers, I so often frequented. That is where they knew my name. These people all gave me hope. Often, when I was in dire need.
My friends, both casual and faithful, have combined to positively keep my mood in control, and help my emotional wellbeing. Inevitably, one of you calls or writes, when, without your knowledge, I have struggled with medical situations, or even bouts of loneliness.
All of you help me, still, every single day. I cannot begin to name you, as the list would be staggering. But some, close to us through the years, know well, who you are. And, sadly, too many have passed on. Thankfully, you left me your memories.
Lastly, my family, as small as it is, have given me reason to live. My girls and their families have kept me young and active. Lately, these days, it has mostly been the duty of Kristin and Doug, and their boys, my grandchildren, that keep me thinking about tomorrow. We never leave them, without ensuring we have fixed the date for our next visit.
Kathleen Mary Mullen has given me her life. She trusted me to care for her and love her always. I regret that it was I who has needed her, for a considerable part of our life together. That cannot ever be corrected. I am here. As is she. I would not change anything in my life, because I have her.
Timberbank Blvd.
One last story.
When our girls were young, and Kath was teaching, a friend asked for help. Not for her, but for a congregationalist of their church. The father of two little girls needed help. His wife, the mother of the girls, was hospitalized for problems of addiction. She was deemed as unfit, and he did not have the resources to care for them. Would we take them in?
Of course we did. We, all of a sudden, were about to become the large family of my dreams. The girls came to us. How hard it must have been for them. We slowly earned their trust and love. We gave them all we had. They became our daughters. We loved them every bit as much as we did Stephanie and Kristin. We were going to ensure that these girls would never again be unsure of a home. And of parents. We played with them. Read to them at bedtime. They became integral. They were not foster children. They were our children.
Their dad took them for a few hours on the weekends and we would miss them. He did what he could for them. After several months, we started to believe that we might gain permanent custody. Not much good news was forthcoming regarding their mom.
One weekend, their father came to pick them up, as usual. But this time, he advised us that his wife had returned home, and he would be taking the children home with him, for good.
We said our goodbyes to the girls, waved goodbye as they left, and cried like we had lost our very own children.
For obvious reasons, I cannot show you a picture or mention their names. I don't think we ever got over this brief time in our lives. Absolute joy. Unconsolable grief. We should have known better, but we most certainly did not.
Several months later, we found ourselves in a similar situation. This time, it was a brother and sister, whose parents were immigrants from Eastern Europe, and had suffered a massive financial setback, and had lost everything. We knew this was not to be a long term proposition, but we loved them well, while we had them. And we all knew what the outcome would be. This would be a happy ending for everybody. But, that did not shelter us from sadness, when they left.
Medical Update
I am at home. This past week, I have been coating my face with fluorouracil and calcipotriene. I would guess that you or some friend might have been through this, or some similar treatment. This treatment is supposed to be helpful in the control of skin cancer. We will see. Right now, my face has an orangey tinge. It is quite tender to touch, and could use a good rubbing to satisfy the incessant itch. A lot of skin flaked off yesterday. I remind myself of a hard boiled egg. With a beard. Facial expression is awkward to change. I feel my cheeks could crack open when I take a bite of food.
I called Moffitt Cutaneous Clinic to find out when I would be able to shave again. I was able to talk to the the resident who treated me. She said it might be a while. I suggested that answer was a little vague. I said to her, that I did not expect an exact day, but did that mean a day, or a year? I presumed she might be able to tighten up her estimate. She thought it might take a couple of weeks. Or longer. She said that I would recognize the time, as my face would be covered in fresh skin, like a baby's bottom. It would be beautiful. I told her that it was going to be the hairiest baby's ass that she had ever seen. She laughed, and said she would see for herself on Friday.
One of my girl's cute butts. Won't say which.
I called Moffitt Cutaneous Clinic to find out when I would be able to shave again. I was able to talk to the the resident who treated me. She said it might be a while. I suggested that answer was a little vague. I said to her, that I did not expect an exact day, but did that mean a day, or a year? I presumed she might be able to tighten up her estimate. She thought it might take a couple of weeks. Or longer. She said that I would recognize the time, as my face would be covered in fresh skin, like a baby's bottom. It would be beautiful. I told her that it was going to be the hairiest baby's ass that she had ever seen. She laughed, and said she would see for herself on Friday.
Now, I am working on my arms, from the elbows down to the tops of my hands. I am captive again, this week. The biopsy sites are scabbing over, and I will find out the results on Friday. I will not offer a guess as to the outcome. I will wait patiently for the facts. And I will let you in on the prognosis in seven days. In the meantime, I will continue my migratory topical cream treatments until there is nothing left of me.
I have also been troubled by some erratic behavior in my blood pressure, through this period. So we purchased, at my GP's request, a machine to monitor it twice daily. Exercise this week, and next, it appears, will be non existent. Further treatments and the possibility of surgeries are not brightening my future. With each cancer-related issue, comes some systemic problems, which causes me further grief. That is not helping my general health at all.
This has the possibility of a nasty summer. The outside temperature and my frustration are on similar tracks.
I have also been troubled by some erratic behavior in my blood pressure, through this period. So we purchased, at my GP's request, a machine to monitor it twice daily. Exercise this week, and next, it appears, will be non existent. Further treatments and the possibility of surgeries are not brightening my future. With each cancer-related issue, comes some systemic problems, which causes me further grief. That is not helping my general health at all.
This has the possibility of a nasty summer. The outside temperature and my frustration are on similar tracks.
This installment had its origin in Florida, God's waiting room. Or the devil's. Depending on whether you plan on taking the stairway or the highway. Not sure if this is a clue, but it is already hot here.
If there is anyone out there, I would love to hear from you. Thank you.
Comments are most welcome at https://www.jrobinmullen@gmail.com
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