Tag: cancer

Sunday Music

My neighbour in the wheelchair asked whether I’d help him with his computer. He had bought a new printer and it needs to be installed.
Why not ?
Of course it was a fiasco. Some people call me paranoid because I developed the habit to delete cookies etc. regularly “per hand”, what means simply not automatically, and that I run two maintenance-programs every two weeks or so. Looking at my neighbour’s computer I learned to appreciate a cleaned and maintained hard-drive again.
He admits that he has only superficial knowledge of the computer, mostly his brother takes care of the machine. Brother told him tons of horror-stories about the dangers of the interwebs. In the end, while trying to install that printer, besides the anti-virus-software at least two other programs interrupted the action asking silly questions & uttering apocryphal warnings like “if you continue to do this Armageddon will come earlier & you’ll be held responsible by your local GOd”.
My neighbour tried to bribe me with Rumtopf (again), but after some hours of this nonsense I had enough and told him that it would be much easier to format C:\ and start from scratch. He did not like the idea, but promised to get rid of the most annoying “helpers”, use the service-programs that come with the operating system, and if things are working again, we’d give saied printer another try.

But this is all trallala. One week ago a friend told us about being ill. She detected a lump in her body that should not be there. Seemingly early enough, no metastases ; chemo is on the way, half-time now I think ; first week is cry&vomit time, second is better, third “all right”, just to start again. The timetable for further treatment is already printed, there will be an operation and there will be radiation – yes, full treatment. She’s in her mid-forties, strong, optimistic, I am (stupid, I admit) very sure that she will overcome this damn illness.
For Sabine, and all women who have to face cancer all of a sudden, a nice little nothing of a song : Trio LESCANO with Tu Piccina, originally You Are a Sweetheart, from 1937.
The Trio LESCANO (Ger., Eng., article) has a very interesting history, marketed as the Italian answer to the Andrews-Sisters the three Dutch-born sisters LESCHAN were very successful in the Italy of the late thirties and early forties, until someone became upset about her Jewish mother. I’d like to see the documentary about them.
I hope the next week will bring only good news, for diversion, it’s about time.

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Snaps

The never ending journey we call live – of course I know that it ends, at least this stage, but I am not too sure about what follows, or what was before (Eng.) – this small edition of said journey lead me into a doctor’s office today. A huge facility, not your average family doctor’s one-two-three-room affaire, but a multi-room space with an endless stream of people moving in and out.
I stood at the reception and there were many young women, all tanned and in white trousers, with nicely done make-up and portables. One of the young goddesses finally took care of me and told me to sit down a little in the lounge. Yo. After some minutes a little older goddess (22 ?) called me into another room and asked me questions, some miles away. Then I sat waiting again and people were called in by young goddesses or older goddesses all in white, or were given their images on cds – a bit like on the African Market.
I heard my name called by an elderly man in blue. I stood up and saw that he was a bit smaller than me. When I walked behind him I noticed the squeak of our rubber-soles on the floor, and realised that he looked almost square from behind, as high as wide. He led me through some corridors to “number 2”.  It was remarkably silent there and further down I saw a man lying on a stretcher, nicely tucked up in a rug. He opened the door, told me to step in, lock it behind me and “Undress to the belt”. “I’ll come in from the other side.”
I took off my blue military style jumper, the black t-shirt and stood there holding my jeans up by my braces, when he opened the other door and took me in. First of all he snapped something around my hip, “Just for protection. Hm, its lead.” He navigated me to a plate at the wall and told me to stand there (“Turn around”), put my chin into that notch. He said that we’d take two snaps, and he’d tell me what to do : Inhale deeply, keep my breath, breath again.
Then he mumbled “so we have to look for a pneumonia here …” I turned around a bit over my shoulder and said “I was not told about pneumonia. We have to look whether the bad cancer bites me or not.” Firmly he responded “Don’t move. Breath deeply. Keep your breath. Breath again.”
“So the first one we have.” I turned around and for the first time looked into the room, and realised how high the ceilings are. “Spacious. The whole thing.” Turns out that the entire office is inside a former cinema, and before that it was a kind of dancing hall. He put in some metal bars beside the plate I was standing against and told me to grab one of the bars with both hands, and pulled it a bit further up.
“Don’t move. Breath deeply. Keep your breath. Breath again.”
“Dress, take a chair ; you will get your photographs soon.” I shook his hand. The body was still on the stretcher.

It’s not nice to have to sit in a waiting lounge (“Yo.”) while someone processes the pictures of your thorax. I watched an elderly couple, very thin, very caring ; a younger man on crutches ; a man older than me, who was very nervous ; two women seemingly my age or a bit more, who gave the impression that they could kill the next bystander with a single look. The young man on crutches was the first to leave with a healthy “Good bye” ; the thin pair was given a cd with images and went out very fast ; one of the women was called to further paperwork, the other one went into the ct-area ; the small man in blue called my name, handed me a large envelope and said “Looks good, no worries”, before he called the old man’s name “Your photographs. All you need for the operation.” Until I reached the garderobe he had vanished. The reception was empty, all the young goddesses had went into lunch break, what is sad, because I would have liked to know the name of the artist whose works were on the walls, very soothing. Guess I should have asked the square man in blue anyway.
When I came out of the building the thin pair was sitting on the stairs smoking.*
I caught his eye and nodded.

* ends at 04:02

Second Hand Smoke

No good. When you visit yer Ma in the ICU and she awakes screamin’ from payne. People rush and do and whatnot ; and after an hour when you have to leave because she’s too weak and she says its better and payne-free, and too weak to speak more or to interact, just sleep and forget and cheat death for another twelve hours. Something went wrong there.
And when you recollect what has happened before ; and when you remember your own experiences with pretty large and payneful operations and see what has happened here – you come to the conclusion things need to be changed. Especially when we talk about an op that deals with cancer, and – most important – when only some miles away there is a clinic specialised in the cancer that kills women.
So you find yerself in the middle of the night standing on a children’s playground with yer portable clinched to your ear searching for the cigarette machine. It must be somewhere around here. Peeing in the hedge is alright ( I say so and I know what I’m talking about ; of course way away from where the kiddies roam, but next to where the dogs shit ) ; it’s nearly full moon. The world depends on a Chesterfield, and after all, with my on and off relation to smoke, alc and whatnot, this cigarette will save the world, the creation, the cosmos.
Things need to be talked through, decisions need to be made – or, at least, some way, some direction, some kind of orientation needs to be found and given – NOW ! — no matter what time, what state of fear, or panic ; alcohol, for those of us, who know how to use the drug, may come in handy, as cigarettes may do – does this qualify as second-hand-smoke ?
The artificial paradises do not work, never ; payne wounds and hurt is real, death is lingering at the door. Some folks get going when the situation gets tense, others just can’t cope ; it’s all right, experience helps – I could not work as a nurse in an op theatre, but I can do the hospice thing. It’s all about emotion, and man that’s a force, you can stand it or not ; no shame, it’s like war : You have only one go.

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Chesterfield

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What stays.
Feeling. Images. Something we take with us into our own eternity. Possibly music or other art that expresses what we meant ; the chance for the descendants to see, to realise, and of course to frighten – “Huch ! It’s something already felt ! I am not original, but I am me,  HEY !”
What always stays, is Fear. We all go into the unknown land, sooner or later. Who goes first, waits for the others. No escape.
So. There.

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Nothing Special … bah …

Sorry. Sometimes one wants to run away. Just so. For no “special” reason, just “so”.
Like, things became a bit heavier than usual, or something else popped up, opening another front line.  The causes may vary as the appraisals do, the impulse stays.
Ideas … throw anything (what ?) in a car and drive off. Walk out – simply as that: Turn around, walk away. Very Americaine – in German it’s the picture of the man who “just goes for cigarettes” (“Ich geh’ mal Zigaretten holen!”). He never comes back.
Others may fake their death, orchestrate their demise – vanishing is (not that) easy. People who deal with this professionally, mostly detectives, say that things are not that easy: The important thing is not what you do before you “die”, but afterwards. It needs and means a total rupture – few are ready to make that.
And of course there are things you can not run away from.
Your own body. Or relations you can not cut off, that run to deep in your personality, your own being; they will not change or end when you just go to another place, change your name – change something else of this outer persona. I very much like the word and idea of “per-sona~”, the “sounding through” – the thing one holds before the real face and sounds through, the mask if you will, that what is shown, and sound.
Exactly what we do here on the interwebs, as Donnn once called it.
My ideas of running away are totally conform and traditional. It’s less about going to another place, travelling away and in such hiding – it’s more about throwing all in the faces of those who want something; more a kind of stuffing things down the throats of people or personified circumstances; to finally get rid of  obligations, to finally reach  a feeling, a state of being un-bonded, un-obligated, un-obliged [ all words contain the Latin ligare, what means nothing else but verbinden, to connect: So I finally want to be un-connected ]. And of course the usual images come up, like cars, horses, running … I hate to run. I like horses, in as much as I like other large animals like cows or Hirsche, but I feel not connected to them in a special way. Wolves are different.
What’s it all about – running away ? Getting rid of ?
And I can’t.
My father took care for his dying wife, my beloved mother, for years, and we did not run away. Maybe it’s “protestant”; or simply “grown up”; you do not back out, run away, ignore – especially when death is in your living room.
So, where does this blab lead to ? Nowhere of course, it’s just Gelapper. I am tired. I feel fear. And from a certain age onwards you realize that wine does not “solve problems” – don’t be silly, gettin’ hammered solves nothing and never did – but from one point in time onward it even does not “make things light”, lighter, simpler, more bearable; simply because death, cancer and slipping into the big nothing are not tolerable, acceptable or “light” – at least from my actual point of view.
It comes nearer. Is life from a certain point onward only an exercise in dying ? Learning to embrace the bone man ?
I hate to see people die from cancer, suffer from cancer, I hate cancer. I have to look at it, and I do. And Silvaner does not help anymore. The more you see, the more it hurts, the more you die with them.

There IS no place to run to, nowhere to hide …

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