It Might Get Messy

In the absence of any actual news originating in the activities of either major political party (or any of the minor ones, for that matter), the Washington Post has turned to lighthearted (if weary) satire. The entire 20+ field of potential Republican candidates are in New Hampshire this week eating pancakes and hash at diners and meeting what they characterize as “average Americans”. I’m a little unclear on what “average” means in this case. Given some of the whack jobs scuttling around New England with Republican Party credentials, I have to assume that “average American” is sort of an intellectual and intelligence challenge for the “average Republican” to meet. Because it doesn’t take long listening to Ben Carson, Lindsey Graham, Rand Paul, Carly Fiorina, or Bobby Jindal to realize these folks have a long climb to reach the peak of the bell curve. And reporters for the Post are clearly having difficulty turning the non-activities of this dysfunctional gaggle into worthy news copy. So they got down into the weeds, turning up such interesting tidbits as Donald Trump’s people spending their day handing out Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to any takers—most of whom seemed to be reporters. 

It’s obvious at this point, a year-and-a-half away from the actual election, that the candidates fielded by both major national parties are substantially less than inspiring. Which, given the status of the world at large, is not a good thing. It’s a complicated, delicate, and dangerous time in the social development of the human species. We could use some smart, fast, honest leadership to deal with it.

Instead, we get Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. The one thing that might’ve bailed this election out, in its time, would be coverage by Hunter Thompson. Thompson could turn the nightmarishly dull and repetitive electioneering process into apocalyptic threats to the very foundations of civilization. And make you laugh so hard while doing it that you wet your pants. Instead, we get Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

Which is our cue to turn our attention to my physiological contretemps. From a cancer perspective, I’ve had another healthy, strong week. Meaning, as we know from prior entries, that I’ve stolen another 7 days from death, and given myself one more week to photograph flowers and search for the elusive remnants of Piedmont copperhead populations. 

But it doesn’t mean everything in my world is hunky dory. Remember I keep myself alive by pouring nutritive liquids into a polymer tube sticking out of my gut. Well, it turns out that age, frequency of use, and contents affect the effective life span of said tubing. Of the original external tubing from the feeding apparatus, I’m down to just a couple centimeters. The rest, after constant use and application of acidic liquids, has weakened to the point of falling apart in leaky shreds. The remaining two centimeters of viable tubing is sufficient to connect to plumbing hardware from Lowe’s, allowing me to keep this particular feeding hardware going for a little more time. 

The problem is that when it finally does fail for good, the alternatives are fussy, delicate, and not as sturdy. It is not possible to install another copy of the present apparatus (we tried once and it wouldn't fit down my throat, due to a “growth” of unknown origin and composition blocking things up, and now my mouth is starting to seal shut from lack of use). So the Doc and I put together a duct tape-and-gorilla glue "McGuyver" improvisation in an attempt to keep this feeding apparatus alive for at least a little more time. At some point it is going to simply fail (drastically), probably on a Saturday afternoon or Sunday night (as Dr. H points out, the hardware invariably picks the most inopportune moments to give up its little polyethylene ghost). I do actually have the kit he gave me to take to the beach (back when we hoped I could make the Bubba Beach Fest) for the fussy alternate method we're going to have to install as a substitute for the more robust and functional plumbing I'm presently sporting.  However, home use of the tube kit would require me to stab myself in the stomach with a sharpened screwdriver or pointy stick harvested from the yard. Said stabbing needs to go through the muscles of my body wall and into, but not through, my stomach itself. Having read a number of accounts of Hari Kiri as practiced by Japanese military officers in World War Two, I'm not sure I'll be up to the task... . So we're just gonna have to ride this horse as far as it will take us, and Dr. H will apply the shiv to my belly when the time comes. 

Oh well. As my Mom told me, “getting old isn’t pretty.” And later, when the COPD caught up with her, “getting old sucks.” When I tally up the score sheet for my old age at the moment, I have yet to reach the “sucks” standard. With springtime here, the flowers blooming, just waiting to have their portraits taken via refracted (vs. reflected) light (my favorite photographic trick) and the snakes and salamanders shaking off the winter cramps and stretching their muscles, things aren’t too bad. My breathing remains surprisingly clear and deep for someone with terminal lung cancer. I can shuffle around (not too fast and not too far, mind you) with my camera and entertain myself with guitar, cut paper art, books, and movies. All in all, it could be worse (and in fact will be, but no sense worrying about that yet). Remember to  use ‘em while you got ‘em, because the bright, warm greens of spring will be peaking soon. Here in the piedmont, we’ll be up to our asses in migrating warblers in a few weeks—the juncos (except for one cranky individual) have already left and headed north to nest. Chimney swifts usually arrive here around the third week of April, followed by the flocks of those gorgeous warblers. I’ll see what I can do to get some good early spring photos up here next week for your delectation. I love you all, and thank you deeply for being here for me. Rock and roll, everybody. Getting old may not be pretty, but with a little luck we can all push off the “sucks” stage into the far future!