Is It Cancer?: A Rite of Passage

I experienced a rite of passage, ushering in a even newer layer thinking about life.

I went to the dentist to inquire about something in my mouth that was not clearing up.  After Magic Mary's Mouthwash didn't touch it, he sent me to an oral surgeon.

After making an appointment and arriving on time, there I sat in the oral surgeon's waiting room.   By now, some depression had sunk in.  What would he say?   How would I react? 

To understand fully this situation, you must know that my Mother had died of oral cancer.   She never drank.   She never smoked.  So, everyone was really surprised when it showed up.   I spent many an hour wondering about how she contracted oral cancer.  Was it something she ate?   Was it the toothpaste?  Sodas?  What was it?

A couple of years ago, I finally found what I believe to be the answer.   Somewhere deep inside my gut I knew exactly what it was, but it took time for it to surface from my subconscious to my conscious.   By now, I am rather educated on oral cancer.   One of the biggest causes is smoking.  The carcinogens in cigarettes are one of the main causes.  But my Mother never smoked...  Smoke...  Smoke...  Smoke... Could it be?

Behold, I found my answer through a simple Google search.   Smoke from wood fires.  My Mother worked around a lot of wood fires.  Breathing in its smoke almost on a daily basis.  Smoke from wood fires contain the same amount, and even more, of carcinogens as cigarettes and, in some cases, a vast number of harmful chemicals.  At last, I had found some piece of mind. 

And now, here I sat in an oral surgeon's office for an initial exam of something in my mouth.   To say I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown is an understatement.   Not only was on the verge, but I was extremely on edge.  Ready to cry... and cry.... and cry...  Your body that you control, and yet have little control over, can be cruel not matter how you treat it.

Within a few moments of my arrival, the assistant came and got me, led me to a typical dentist work area, where I sat in a blue vinyl chair with a typical paper bib.  Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.   Finally, I closed my eyes and took myself to my happy place.  I had to.  I needed to.   Floated away from reality into my fantasy world.   I had an epiphany about why people use drugs, alcohol, and other abusive habits -- Escape.  Get away.   Run away.

Ten minutes passed when the oral surgeon arrived.  He was a tall middle-aged man.  Blue scrubs.  Salt and pepper hair.  Glasses.  We talked.  I told him about my Mother, smoking, drinking, and wood fires.   And then it was time to open wide.   I had already done some research and looked at hundreds of photos via Google images to see if I could find some peace of mind.   As you can imagine, I saw a lot, fretted a lot, and got scared a lot. 

It's natural.  It's part of what happens when you feel like you are losing control.

It's not oral cancer...  It's not oral cancer...  You don't smoke.   You rarely drink.  And more importantly, you don't work around smoky fires.   Over and over those words went through my head right up to the moment, he pulled out his wooden Popsicle stick and said...

"I'm pretty sure it's what they call oral lichen planus," he announced.  "It's benign.   We'll do a biopsy to confirm, just in case."  

I already knew all about OLP.   It's going to be more of an annoyance than anything else.

CSM

A rust proof casket? Really?

Going to the funeral home was really stressful. My Father had died and I had to prepare for his final departure.  After my Mother, this was easier.  But, I also found this trip to the funeral home different.

First, I just have to say, like with my Mother, this was not the last time I would see my Father.  I'm not a church-going or Bible/Quran-beating or hellfire and brimstone kind of guy.  In other words, I'm not religious, but I am highly spiritual.   Just because you die, doesn't mean that's it.  You're just off on some new adventure.

Second, the funeral director told me something I just couldn't help but laugh at...  Now really think about this after you read it...   The casket that my brother picked out for my Father is made of steel.  A robin-egg blue steel casket....  Guaranteed not to rust...  Yep.  That's part of the guarantee.  Not. To.  Rust.

Really!?   Really?!   And just how do they guarantee that it won't rust???  Will the company be coming by in a year, dig up my Father, and check it?  Do they add this onto the cost?  Just how do you guarantee that?   If it does rust, do I get money back?   Can I request a refund?

Funerals are for the living.   Most people wouldn't disagree.  It's time to say goodbye to a loved one, bury their remains, go home, and move with the new pattern of life.  My Father wanted a cheap funeral.

"I think I may be cremated.  It's such a waste to buy a casket," he would say. 

"Only if you put it in writing," I responded, thinking of how my sister and his girlfriend would respond.  I knew both would pitch a fit.  If that's what he wanted, and he put it in writing, that's what I would have done.  Personally, I didn't care.

I don't want to be cremated.  I can't stand the heat.   But then, I hear my Father's voice in my head.

"What do you care? You'll be dead."  In which case, maybe I will with instructions to scatter me on the Seven Seas Lagoon at Walt Disney World.

With that, I return to the guarantee of a casket being rust-proof.  If it rusts, so what.   Nobody's going to know.  And besides, you're dead and you'll never know.

Silly casket company!

CSM

Angry, He Wrote!

I've been on this "Murder, She Wrote" kick. (Aka M.S.W.) Currently, I'm half way through season nine.  I can't resist watching Angela Lansbury/Jessica Fletcher running around solving mysteries like it was nothing.  She has a constantly-running video-recorder for a mind. I can't imagine being that mental and remember things like someone taking off an earring to talk on the phone.  Oh please, I can't even remember where I put my phone.

My Mother loved this show.   She watched it from the day it first aired, then hit the re-runs whenever possible.  I watched the earlier seasons, but missed most when I went to college. Now, I am catching up.

But the other day, I began to question why am I currently obsessed with this show.   What is the real reason?   Surely, I don't like Angela that much that I would stick with her for the past four months starting with her initial thrilling adventure.

So, the other day, I was in a "play all episodes" mood.  One right after another.   During a break, I thought to myself how my Mother loved this show and how much my Father...

A light bulb came on.

...Oh how my Father hated that show.   He used to complain about my Mother watching it all the time.  "I never want to be wherever that woman is.  Somebody always gets murdered," he would complain.   Of course, he was right.   Somebody always got stabbed, strangled, or shot wherever she went.

More importantly, a light bulb came on in my head...   Not only had I been catching up on past seasons of M.S.W., but I was getting even with my Father for dying.   And I had chosen to taunt him with something he hated and something my Mother and I loved. 

I was angry.  I am angry.  So damn mad I could spit nails.

Angry because I had to take care of his final departure.  Angry because I have to deal with his estate.   I know that it's only fair.  He took care of me through the early years and then I had to take care of his affairs at the end.  

Angry because he left me alone.

You went off and left me alone! You left me with an emptiness that I'm having a hard time filling.   I've starting thinking about Christmas morning.  It was your time.  You were the master of ceremonies that morning.   You left me afraid of the future.  And now I'm not your little boy anymore...

I'm really mad at you.

And, by the way, I've got three more seasons to watch...  Then there's the M.S.W. movie box set....   Then I might just start reading the books based on the series...  And there's the audio-books...
So there!

CSM

Oren Mccallister

Oren Mccallister.   I've heard this name a thousand times in my life.  My parents, my aunts and uncles, my sister, my grandparents, cousins all talked about Oren Mccallister.   Despite the fact I never knew him, he had an unusual influence on my life.

Oren Mccallister was Aunt Betty's son.  She was Grandpa Marshall's sister. A short red head who, from what I can gather, had a wild and rough life.  I didn't know her that well mainly because she had moved to Florida when I was a baby.  One early memory I have of her and Uncle Ben was seeing them in hospital beds in their one-story blue cinder block house.  They had been in a horrific train wreck near their home in Lutz, Florida.

Anyway, Oren Mccallister was living in Florida.  It seems to me that it was the mid-1960s.  After exiting a bar, he was jumped and stabbed by some fellow he had words with inside.   The knife pierced his heart.  He recovered, but what the doctors didn't know was the blade had gone all the way through a punctured the back side of his heart.  An oversight that would kill him.

Aunt Betty and her other son moved to Florida to seek out the man that killed him.   I hope I have this correct.  If not, I know I will hear about it.  Won't I, JD?

This incident changed my Father's side of the family more than I will ever know since I wasn't around when it happened.  I only know how it influenced my life.  

From then on, I would have to travel to Florida to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Marshall and Aunt Betty.   They had visited her one time and really like it there.   They bought a trailer, called it their winter home, and eventually moved there year-round.   They were followed by Aunt Carolyn, Uncle Ron, and their families.   On one hand, my circle of family here heavily decreased.

However, on the other hand, we traveled to Florida.  It became an annual ritual.   Leaving early one October morning (the best time of year to go), heading south.  Watching for the important markers along the way -- state lines, Rock City, Lookout Mountain, Jasper in Tennessee, Macon in Georgia, and then finally the Welcome Center in Florida.   Ahhh...  That red dirt and salty-sea smell.  The hanging moss.   The highway billboards.  Gulls flying overhead.

After a welcoming of a small paper cup of Florida orange juice, you knew you had another three hours to go until Highway 56/54.    When we exited, our next guidepost would be a radio tower with a flashing red-light on top, then onto Carson Drive.

Grandma and Grandpa Marshall were there to greet us.  A few years later, we would also be greeted by Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Dick, Uncle Ron and Aunt Pam, and the cousins.   I can still hear Jeff say "There's my cousin."   Always glad to see you.

Oren Mccallister and I never meet, but he paved a road for me.  One that led to a love of travel, my appreciation for family in far off places, Florida and its sites and sounds.

I'm amazed at how one incident can pave the road of one person's life.  Thank you, Oren Mccallister.  Wished we'd have meet, but the fates/God/Allah/Buddha/whatever had different ideas.   Hopefully, I'll get to meet you some day and I can thank you in person.

CSM

 

The Street Goes Both Ways: Thoughts on Friends

Friends, Acquaintances, and Facebook... Lend Me Your Ears!

As I sit here writing about friendships, I keep coming back to these three questions: What defines a friend?  What defines an acquaintance?   And, more importantly, how do I tell the difference?

I asked people to define their meaning of a friend and an acquaintance.  They all basically said the same thing.  An acquaintance is someone who you greet, have a brief conversation with, and know some of their facts (where they are from, how old they are, where they live, etc.).

A friend is someone you hang out with, go to dinner, go to the movies, invite over to your home, go to the theatre, and most importantly, it's effortless, meaningful, and the street goes both ways.   In other words, you've got to give and take a little.

I have had many friends in my life.   I think of the ones that have died and it hurts deeply, almost scarring.   The ones that have moved away and I rarely see them.  For those, online social media has become a great way to keep in touch.  The friends I have experienced life with.   Those who stood next to me by both my Mother's and my Father's caskets.  Those who were there when I came out, afraid of what people might say or think.   Those who were there when I needed a helping hand.  I think of the friends with whom I laughed and cried.  And I have done the same -- I've been there when they needed me, because the street goes both ways.

Some have been there since day one.   My Sister, for example.   We've supported each other through some really rough times.   I don't recall ever being mad at her where I actually meant it.   Sometimes I get irritated, but never mad.  

Others have come and gone, but we still shared close friendships in deep meaningful ways.  And I have lots of memories to remind me.  I don't think I'll ever forget marrying Julie Powers... Or the look on Monica Upton's face in middle school when I told her I had a crush on a kid in our class named Robert...  And then there was the time seventy-year old Helen Hunt told me "If you can't remember my name, you can go to Helen Hunt for it."

I hate drawing lines.   I hate telling someone that I consider them "acquaintances."  It hurts on both sides.   But the street goes both ways.  

On the other hand, I also hate making one-sided efforts.  Carving out or offering to carve out time in my schedule, even when I have a lot on my plate.  I've known people with whom I've had to do all the work. I made the time. I made the effort. I created invitations, but nothing ever came of it.

The street goes both ways.    

After while, I learned a hard lesson -- these people weren't really friends.  

And I'm sorry, but in my life, Facebook doesn't replace a great conversation over a tasty dinner and a glass of wine...

CSM

The Come-to-Jesus Meeting -- Part 2

In a previous blog entry called "Staying in Place," I wrote about a "Come-to-Jesus" meeting that went something like this...

"You will stay in place," she said, pointing at me before slapping my face.   Without warning, she turned into the exorcist.  Her voice raised and terrifying  "The Power of Christ compels you to stay here where you belong..."

Rubbing my aching cheek, I struggled to get away, but she pushed me back in my chair.   "OK, I will... I will..."  

She remained stoic in her stares.   Her eyelids unblinking.   Her eyes glaring like she was trying to bore holes in me.  "I CAN'T HEAR YOU..."

"I will...  I promise..."  I started crying.  "I promise...  I swear I will stay..."

Despite my cries of desperation, she pulled me out of the chair and pushed me onto to the floor.   "SAY IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT..."   She hovered over me, howling.  

I pulled myself into the fetal position. "OK...  I WILL..."  I shouted those words over several times, before she backed off in the victory pose.

"Damn straight you will..."

OK, I have to admit I have an overactive imagination.  It wasn't quit like that, but it felt like it.   And wasn't it more exciting to read.

My meeting was necessary.  I needed it.   We covered a lot of ground.   In my previous blog post, I wrote about our conversation about staying here in the Midwest and building a life based on what I already have, but we also talked about other topics.    With possible home ownership in the near future, I feel like I've finally weighed anchor.  Of course, age played a part, too.

One topic we discussed was friends.   Personally, I think I have a diverse group of friends who like me just the way I am.  We talked about each one and what they mean to me in my life, but it also became clear that some people that I mentioned really aren't friends.  They are acquaintances.  It was a poignant conversation about the difference between the two.  Some people that I called friends weren't really friends.

Creating meaningful friendships is important to me.   I like the ones that come naturally, when you've got common interests and the conversation rolls along without the seven-minute pauses, but yet enough diversity to learn and grow from each other.  Currently, I've made some new friends, whom I've got to know one on one, and they seem to be interested in me.

I remember when my Mother died.   The funeral home was packed for the viewing and the services.  The funeral home workers were scrambling to get more chairs in the back.  From the front row, I recall turning to look out at the crowd of sad faces and thinking "My Mother's friends."   She was truly lucky to have had so many of them.   My Father's funeral didn't bring as many, but it was a one-day service and some couldn't come.  But regardless, I realized how important friends are.

I just hope someday, when I laid out, that I have as many friends as my parents did.  And hopefully, that won't be for another forty or fifty years!

CSM

Off to the Museum

There's something fun, yet scary, to know that a museum will take your toys from when you were a kid.

My parent's attic was a treasure trove of someone's ancient history... Mine!   When the time finally came, I began to drag down dusty dirty relics of my youth.  

First, the circa 1972 toy box, made by my Father, painted red, white, and blue for the Bicentennial.  The inside of the lid still had chalk marks from me using it as a chalk board.  The box had disappeared into the darkness at the top of the pull-down ladder many years ago, once again to see light forty years later.  I had stored some of my toys inside it.  A treasure chest to open later.  A red fire engine with a working ladder.   A stuffed blue bear lovingly made by my Grandmother.  A four-foot orange furry snake won as a carnival prize by my cousin.  Lincoln logs scattered in the bottom.  Metal toy John Deere tractors purchased as souvenirs of Indiana State Fairs.

Then came the Star Wars toys, many still in their original boxes, battered and ravaged by a imaginative boy. Early on, I learned to appreciate the outer package, so they remained intact.  All given as Christmas or birthday presents. 

Personally, I like to tell the story about how my Star Wars action figures moved to their new home... 

I had a plain unpainted wood Conestoga wagon with red cloth canopy.   My cousin had given me a 1969 Sears metal doll house complete with plastic furniture, each piece a different color.  I had a case full of action figures.   In our living room stood three bookcases stuffed with books with about two inches on each shelf in front.   Now imagine, a nine-year-old removing books to create rooms, furnishing each with plastic beds, tables, and chairs, then load the Conestoga wagon with action figures and drive them across the living room to their deluxe apartment in the sky...   They were elated.   I could tell by their firm molded faces.   Who wouldn't want a fourth-floor apartment with a panoramic view of our living room?

Relics of my past.  Now onto a museum.   Aren't museums supposed to be for ancient history like mummies and old vases?

CSM