I paced randomly around my house. Nerves, I guess, and I certainly had stuff to be nervous about. The criminals who burned down Stan's house and probably broke into mine now thought I was the one giving them up to the police. I was, sort of, and should have thought about that at the time. I had my reasons.
I couldn't help Sergeant Hargrave at the cemetery. Someone stole bodies from two graves and had started digging another. The deputy didn't know why the bad guys stopped digging in the third grave, but assumed they may have run out of time, been bored, or may have been startled by a passing car. Since these graves were less than a century old, the two robbed ones being from the seventies, there was no need to call the state archeologist. Instead, Hargrave planned to contact the Department of Criminal Investigations in Des Moines. Apparently, the DCI, as he called it, helps local police with weird stuff.
He asked a few questions about why people rob graves.
The knock at the door really shook me out of my research. My mind first went to the bad guys who broke in not long ago, but they probably wouldn't knock. The best bet was to see who was at the door.
Hannah was going to be working all day, so we didn't make any plans. I really wanted to spend more time with her, but I knew that grownup relationships didn't work like that. I also wanted to ask more about her interpretation of my behavior. The world had other plans for my day, starting with an email.
Even as Hannah and I got into my van, it still seemed a bit surreal. We had supper last night. I didn't even know her name until a little before then. Now we were on a second date of driving around the countryside in the late morning with plans to picnic somewhere for lunch. An Iowa picnic in late November normally seemed like a bad idea, but I didn't care. I was up and nothing could bring me down, not even the incessant ringing of my cell phone.
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A song on the radio brought back memories of a junior high school field trip. Sounds pleasant enough, but there's also a bit of trauma. Imagine, three songs, three boomboxes, and enough D-cell batteries to pollute a small lake. Nope, it wasn't just a casual memory, this one carried weight.
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Noticing that the last posting to this site was five months ago, you may have guessed that chemotherapy kicked my backside. In fairness, it was mostly infections that attacked while my defenses languished rather than the chemo itself. Either way, full functioning returned slowly. Quite the experience, though I wouldn't recommend it.
The first week of chemotherapy involved lots of infusion pumps. It was inconvenient, but not much else. I thought, "If that's all the worse it is, this will be easy." That week was followed by two weeks without pumps, a probable cake walk. Maybe not so much.
The first week of chemotherapy has ended, and it wasn't as dramatic as I expected. I can tell that there are likely challenges ahead, but the full impact remains to be seen. Still, it didn't end as smoothly as I hoped. I really hate beeping.
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As mentioned in a previous writing, my medical team found and removed a lymphoma tumor from my chest. As far as they can tell, they got the whole thing, despite me imagining the process as using an ice cream scoop. The scans showed that tumor to be the only one noticeable, and there were no other signs of trouble. Cancer, however, can hide as a single cell waiting to do its thing. That calls for get back to the ship and nuke it from orbit chemotherapy, just to be sure.
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