Author: Bob

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.

The email arrived and required immediate attention. Sent by Doctor William Pilone, it got my heart racing.

Dr. Pilone, known to his fans as Dr. Willy, held a position of great esteem in the paranormal investigation realm. His books, podcasts, and other media activities made him a star. If he was interested in something I was doing, it had to be important.

The text of the email explained that Dr. Willy saw my online question about the coral amulet. His researchers found information and he wanted to discuss it with me over the phone.

I responded immediately, giving my phone number and explaining that my schedule was open. There was no reason to expect my phone to ring just minutes later.

“Am I speaking with Timmy Hunt?” the voice asked. The voice sounded older and aristocratic, from what I knew of those things. It was the kind of baritone you expect from an old-fashioned professor or wizard.

“Yes, sir, I’m Timmy Hunt. You can just call me Timmy.”

“Nice to meet you, Timmy. This is Dr. Willy. I found your post about your amulet and thought it was very interesting. Do you still have the amulet?”

I thought it was an odd question; why would I have gotten rid of it? “Sure, I’ve been keeping it in my pocket to keep it safe. We’ve had break-ins in my area.” Actually, I wasn’t sure why I kept it in my pocket. There was absolutely no good reason to keep it in my pocket, but it just seemed like the thing to do. My mind was about to head down that path of exploration when the other voice snapped me back.

“That’s good, Timmy. You don’t want an amulet of unknown powers floating around.” He said it sagely, like a preacher or teacher giving advice. I guess that’s what he does for a living. “You had questions about the lettering. You are correct that it looks somewhat Greek but definitely not Greek. We think it is Minoan, probably Linear A just as it transitioned to Linear B.”

Minoan, from what I could remember, developed on the island of Crete thousands of years ago, even before Greece started its journey to being a thing. A volcano or something wiped them out.

“If it is Minoan,” he continued, “that is very important. They were a truly advanced people for their time. They built amazing palaces, had plumbing, and traveled throughout the Mediterranean. Some have even speculated that they were the fabled Atlantis until struck down by disaster.”

Okay, I thought, at most it would mean that the amulet was old, but it didn’t explain anything else. Why did it drive dogs crazy? I rolled the amulet between my fingers, feeling its surface. “Do you know anyone who can translate the writing?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Sadly, no one can translate Linear A, and they have only made a little progress translating Linear B. The boundary point between the two is a mystery.” He cleared his throat a little, causing a pause. “Would you mind me asking, how did you happen to acquire the amulet?”

He was in for a disappointing story. “Back when I was in college,” I didn’t feel the need to mention that I didn’t finish, “a guy gave it to me. He said his girlfriend gave it to him to keep him safe, but after the breakup he wanted to get rid of it. He gave it to me because he thought I was weird and would know what to do with it.” Why was I rolling it in my fingers? I didn’t even remember taking it out of my pocket.

“Hm,” was the only reply, and then another pause. “How long after you got it, did you notice anything unusual about the amulet?”

Another boring answer headed his direction. “It’s been hanging in a frame on my wall for years now; I just thought it was interesting looking. Recently, I had to dog sit for a friend, and the dog started barking at it and wouldn’t stop until the amulet was hidden in a desk drawer.” I also related the incident at the sheriff’s office.

There was another pause as Dr. Willy took in the information.

“Did you ever expose the amulet to dogs before the recent incidents?” he asked.

This time I paused. Thinking back, there was no occasion where a dog came into a place when I had the amulet on display. The stone sat in a box for a couple of years when I left college. Then I hung it up when I moved in here. During that time, no dog ever entered my house. Come to think of it, no animal ever visited. Neither did any people. I moved the amulet from my fingers to my palm and closed my hand around it.

“I don’t remember any dogs seeing the amulet before,” I answered.

“Perhaps there is something about the natural frequency of the amulet. Maybe its frequency is one that interferes with the dogs psychically.”

My physics classes gave me a basic understanding of natural frequency. Simply put, each object has a size and shape that would allow a wave of a particular wavelength to bounce back and forth and cause the item to vibrate at that wave’s frequency. It’s why bridges collapse if the wind makes them sway too much with the wrong timing.

As for psychic frequencies, I wasn’t so sure. I knew there were brainwave frequencies. I suppose stimulating too much of the wrong brainwaves could make a dog irritable, but I didn’t know enough to buy it or dismiss it outright.

“If the natural frequency harmonized with the dog brains,” I asked, “why would the dogs stop barking when the amulet was hidden from view? Shouldn’t those kinds of frequencies pass through a coat pocket?”

“I see what you mean. Maybe there’s something else. Have you had it tested? You know, for sounds or chemicals that may come from it? Maybe there is something visual in a wavelength of light that humans can’t see but dogs can.”

“Nope. Until Sammy, that’s the name of the old dog I watched, until Sammy reacted, I never gave the amulet any thought.”

“It may be something to consider. I will send you the contact information for some reputable agencies that can perform such tests. Can you think of anything else unusual associated with your trinket?”

There was nothing else odd, other than the fact that it had stayed in my pocket for so long with absolutely no reason to be there. Then there was the way I subconsciously handled the amulet while talking about it on the phone. Why was I holding on to the amulet that way? I should have put it back into its frame and hung it back on the wall. Also, for no real reason, I didn’t feel like telling Dr. Willy about that.

“No, just the barking. It’s the strangest thing.”

“Well, you have my contact information now. I would appreciate it if you let me know if anything else happens. It has my curiosity up. It’s been a pleasure to talk with you, Mr. Hunt.”

“It was good to talk to you too. Thanks for all the information.”

The phone call ended.

I looked over the pendant again. No one could interpret the writing, so that was a dead end. Maybe it was something about the physical characteristics of the coral itself. If it was Minoan, it was thousands of years old and priceless. Of course, it could be a knock-off; a coral lump where someone added the Minoan letters more recently. If they believed they made a protective amulet, it was possible. People often believe the magic of ancient things without understanding the actual ancient things.

Dr. Willy sent a follow-up email with the contact information for labs he knew. Most were in New England or California, but one was in Minneapolis, a lot closer to home. I sent a message to the Minneapolis one to get some information.

With that in place, and no new cases of suspected zombie infestation, I made a list of things to keep me busy. I intentionally avoided listing a visit to the convenience store to see Hannah; no need causing her any trouble at work.

Instead, I went online and started looking for anything that could tell me the brainwave frequencies of dogs. That kept me busy until the knock on my front door.

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.

The caller ID told me it was Deputy Hargrave. “Excuse me a second,” I said to Hannah, “I have to take this.”

The deputy started with, “Mr. Hunt, I wonder if I could ask you a favor.”

Going with my policy of staying on the good side of law enforcement, I said, “Sure thing. What can I do for you?”

There was a pause as though the deputy wasn’t sure about what to say. “I was wondering if you could casually drop by Stan Loffland’s apartment in a little bit. I have to give him some bad news and he could probably use a friend.”

Oh no, not more bad news. The poor old farmer just lost his family home and all his stuff. What more could happen to him? “I’ll head right there; it’ll take me about fifteen minutes or so.”

“That should be about right,” said the deputy. “I’ll see you when you get there.”

We hung up and then I remembered Hannah.

She looked at me with a concerned expression. “What’s wrong?”

“You know that farmer I told you about? Well, Deputy Hargrave needs to give him some bad news and he asked me to drop in on Stan to make sure he’s ok afterwards. I’m sorry. We can reschedule the drive.”

“No,” she said, “it’s ok. This is important. Do you mind if I come along?”

That hadn’t occurred to me. Honestly, a lot of things had not occurred to me because I was used to being alone all the time. I agreed to do what Hargrave asked without even considering that there was a person seated next to me in the van. To be frank, I liked the idea of Hannah coming along. “That would be great. It may be kind of sad, though.”

“That’s ok,” she said. “Life isn’t always happy, but it’s better to do things together.” She reached over to squeeze my hand.

It took a moment before I could start the van and go.

Stan’s Place

I parked the van behind one of the sheriff’s vehicles, probably Hargrave’s. That meant he was still with Stan. Hannah and I went to the apartment.

When we got upstairs, Stan’s door was open. We could see Stan sitting in a chair with Deputy Hargrave standing near. Stan held his head in his hands and was obviously upset. Sammy sat on his hind legs, with his forepaws on Stan’s lap, the dog just as sad as his master.

I knocked on the door lightly.

Hargrave turned and motioned us in. His eyes moved past me and studied Hannah. It was obvious he didn’t expect me to bring a plus-one. The investigative part of his brain cycled through all the possibilities and decided that she wasn’t a problem. I assumed that he had probably seen her at the convenience store; there weren’t that many places in town to get coffee at odd hours.

Stan didn’t look up at all. I wasn’t sure he was even aware of us. Whatever Hargrave told him, it must have been a bombshell.

I looked to Hargrave for an answer.

He motioned the two of us to the side for a huddle.

“This is Hannah,” I introduced, “we were out for a drive when you called.” I left out the part where we hadn’t quite gotten started. “How bad is it?”

Hargrave pursed his lips and frowned. It was definitely bad. He spoke softly, barely loud enough for Hannah and I to hear. “We found his kids. They died in a car accident a few years ago and nobody ever contacted him. His son, daughter, son-in-law, and one grandson, all at once. They were on vacation together and their rental car went off the road. Somehow, in all the connections, nobody followed up on next of kin.”

Now Stan really had lost everything. I remembered how bad it hit him that all of the mementos of his life burned and were gone. He looked forward to reconnecting to his kids, to have family again. Now that was not an option. His whole life was gone.

I had to do something. Walking to where he sat, I knelt down and put my hands on Stan’s knees. “Stan, I am so sorry.”

He raised his head a little and pulled his hands away. The red of his eyes and puffiness of eyelids said everything about the depth of his despair. He was lost, with no anchor to life and no hope of finding one.

“You’re not alone,” I said. I don’t know where the words came from, but it was somewhere in the back of my head. “It’s not the same, and I can never understand your loss, but I’m here for you. You’ve got friends and we’ll do what we can to help you through.”

Hannah came up and knelt beside me. She put one hand on my shoulder and another on Stan’s lap next to mine.

Stan looked over at her and then back at me.

“Sorry,” I said, “This is Hannah. She and I were out for a drive earlier.”

He looked more closely at her. “You’re the Thompson girl. Don’t you work at the convenience store?”

She smiled and nodded. “I hope I’m not intruding. Like Timmy said, we were out when he decided to come over. I don’t really know you, but if Timmy says you’re a good guy, then you’re a good guy. So, I’ll help too, if I can.”

His head dropped for a moment. Before I could react, he lifted it again. His face showed a sad smile like the two emotions were fighting for control. He looked at Hannah, took a deep breath, and started. “This Timmy is quite a fellow. I only met him a short time ago. In that time, he’s found the criminals hanging out at my farm, watched Sammy here when I was in the hospital, and found me a place to live. If I would have let him, he would have furnished this whole place. He did that for an old farmer that nobody else remembers or cares about.”

“That ain’t the whole of it,” he continued. “When he found me a place to live, he did it in a way that helped somebody else he barely knew. I don’t know how his zombie thing works, but he does a lot of good for living people.”

I guess he was technically right, but the way he said it made me really uncomfortable. I wanted to run away, but I needed to stay with him.

Then I made the mistake; I turned to look at Hannah.

She was smiling at me and blushing.

The part of my brain that dealt with emotion and embarrassment overloaded and shut down. It seemed to take out all but the most basic thinking ability. The good part was that I was no longer overthinking everything and there weren’t a bunch of emotions running around my head screaming in panic. The bad part was that I just sat there like an idiot.

Hannah and Stan held a brief conversation, possibly about me. I was out of it, so I couldn’t really tell.

Hannah moved her hand to my other shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

That brought me back around a little.

Hargrave stepped closer to us. “Mr. Loffland, I’m afraid I have to go now. It looks like you are in good hands. If you need anything, you have my number. I’ll let you know if we find out anything else, you know, about your farm.”

With that, the deputy headed for the door, almost running into Mrs. Sweigart as she came in.

“Hello? I hope I’m not intruding,” she said.

Hargrave looked over at Stan and then back to her. “No, I think you are right on time. If you will excuse me.” Then he left.

Mary Sweigart noticed that Stan did not look happy. She rushed over to him. “Are you alright?”

He looked up at her. “Yep, I’ll be alright. I just got some bad news, is all.”

Hannah stood up and offered her hand for shaking. “Hi, I’m Hannah Thompson, Timmy’s friend.”

Mary shook Hannah’s hand but her gaze didn’t deviate from Stan very much.

Hannah tugged on my shoulder, indicating that I should stand up as well. I did, with Stan standing as well. Sammy moved to lay at Stan’s feet.

Hannah looked at me as though trying to convey some message. I’ve never been good at getting messages.

She nodded slightly in the direction of Stan and Mary.

They were looking at each other. Mary had taken hold of Stan’s hands. That seemed like it was a very comforting thing.

Hannah’s expression to me took on a greater sense of urgency. I tried to use facial expressions to communicate that I didn’t understand. I wasn’t sure how well that worked, but I think she was figuring it out anyway.

“Stan,” I said, ‘you’ve got my phone number if you need anything.”

Stan didn’t seem to hear me. He and Mary just stood there.

Hannah finally leaned close enough to whisper to me, “I think they want to be alone.”

I’m not sure why it took a moment for my brain to process the message. Once again, my lack of social skills stood in the way. Actually, I’ve never been sure I had social skills. I thought you needed a social life to build those.

Anyway, I looked again at Stan and Mary. With the new perspective, supplied by Hannah, it was very likely that they wanted to be alone. If my understanding was correct, it was possible that they were already alone in their own little world.

Hannah tugged on my sleeve and we made our way to the door. Once in the hallway, we turned and waved as Hannah pulled the door shut.

Mary and Stan didn’t seem to notice.

Driving Conversation

We drove for about ten minutes, which put us well into the country, when Hannah spoke. For some reason, I hadn’t noticed that we weren’t talking.

“It’s interesting that you and Stan only just met and you’re somehow that close,” she said.

I nodded. “I only just met Mary about the same time.”

“Who is Mary?”

Apparently we forgot introductions. “Mary Sweigart is the woman at Stan’s apartment. She owns the apartment building.”

“The woman love-locked with Stan back there was someone else you just met? Didn’t Stan say you introduced them?”

“Well, yea. Stan needed a place to stay after the meth heads burned his house down and Mary needed renters and someone who could do minor maintenance. It seemed like a good match.”

She rolled her eyes and giggled. “That was a good match, alright. The electricity between them could light up a whole town.”

“Do you think so?” I still wasn’t really sure about what was going on there.

She looked at me as though trying to analyze my brain from the outside. At least, I think that was what the look was. For all I know, she was leaning over to pass gas.

“For a long time, I wondered why you didn’t flirt back with me at work. I thought maybe you weren’t interested or something, like maybe the spy thing. Back at the apartment, you didn’t seem to pick up on all the emotional queues. Really strong emotions, like Stan being sad, that got through to you. But the Mary-Stan vibe missed you altogether. Are you always like that?”

I thought about it a bit. She was obviously right, but I was afraid of what that meant in terms of the two of us. I liked having her around, though it wasn’t even twenty-four hours yet. It would be nice if she kept hanging around.

“Yep, I’m pretty sure I’m like that, but it’s hard for me to tell, you know, looking at it from the inside.” I glanced over at her, not wanting to take my eyes off the road for long. “Is that ok?”

“I think it’s ok; I just need to keep it in mind.” She settled in her seat a little. “It will be something to think about before reacting. I will just have to ask myself, is he really being rude or is he just unaware? I guess it’s like that for everybody to some level or other.”

We drove quietly for another mile or so.

“If I’m ever being rude,” I said, “it’s perfectly ok to tell me. I won’t get offended or anything. I’ll actually appreciate it. If I learn from it, maybe I won’t be rude next time.”

“You got it,” she said, then laughed a little.

Eventually we reached a small county park where we stopped for lunch. It was too cold to use the picnic tables, so we sat in the van to eat our sandwiches. From where we were parked, we could see the creek as it carried fallen leaves downstream.

After a while, she covered us with the picnic blanket, asked me to slide my seat back, and sat on my lap.

For just sitting in a cold van on a dreary, desolate day, it was very pleasant.

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.

Before I get too far, I should mention that this is based on my memory of something that happened a long time ago. As such, it is only as good as my memory, which is often questionable, and can only be based on things I could know at the time. One assumes that other people remember the events differently, and that’s okay.

Our small school in our small Iowa town chose to send us to a John Deere factory for educational purposes. As students, we looked forward to a time without classes and it was an adventure. We had our permission slips signed and were ready to go.

The class size was large enough for two school buses. The teachers herded us on. This is where things started to go wrong, mostly by trying to be clever.

My buddies and I (I’ll leave their names off of this for their benefit) noticed that the girls were getting on one bus and the boys were getting on another. This wasn’t a requirement; nobody shouted out some rule about it. It was just the way everyone naturally separated themselves.

As a boy in my young teens, I was much more interested in teen girls than teen boys. This was where the clever part comes in. If there was no rule preventing it, I would rather be on the bus with the girls. I was young enough that I had no idea what to do with a girl, but they still seemed much more appealing. Even today, there are still some gaps in my understanding.

My buddies and I got on the bus with the girls.

So far, so good.

As I recollect, there were also three boomboxes onboard. For those not in the know, a boombox was a device that converted battery power into noise, typically with AM/FM radio and one or two cassette recorder-players. They also had at least two large speakers, one at each end, capable of producing ear-destroying levels of sound all driven by D-cells.

A common practice at the time involved recording one’s favorite songs from the radio onto a cassette. The person doing this had to know the exact start and stop positions on the tape or risk missing part of the song or overwriting a previously recorded song. Some people developed that skill into a ninja-like art form, which comes into play in this tale.

You see, there weren’t just the three boomboxes, there were also at least three cassettes all containing the same three songs. Present were We Got the Beat by the Go-Gos, I Love Rock and Roll by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, and the novelty song Pac-Man Fever by Buckner & Garcia. All very popular songs at the time.

Anyone who knows me these days knows that I enjoy quiet. Sometimes I will sit still in the woods and listen to the wind in the trees and, occasionally, I will hear an insect crawling on a fallen leaf. Yep, nothing like the quiet.

All three boomboxes played the same song at the exact same time. Somehow, through teenage girl magic, they lined up all three tapes in different machines and then hit the play buttons in a synchronized manner. Three versions of catchy tunes blared into a cacophony.

This continued through the entire bus ride, each direction. By the time I got back, I was curled up a bit, humming Rhapsody in Blue to myself.

Back at school, excited chatter discussed the trip. The thing that sticks in my mind most, though, is the boys saying that they saw the other bus rocking back and forth in some sort of rhythm as it went down the road. There may have been some exaggeration in the telling, but it seemed very plausible.

Being a novelty song, Pac-Man Fever eventually lost air time over the years. Weird Al Yankovic’s I Love Rocky Road helped recover from Joan Jett. Eventually, I could even listen to The Go-Gos without cringing. Just another example of time healing wounds.

Now, the radio occasionally plays one of those songs, and it just brings up an old memory. The trauma is gone. Today, it is just music.

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.

Cycle Four

The fourth week of chemo presented no challenges: the usual mouth sores, exhaustion, and rectal bleeding. What? You didn’t know there could be rectal bleeding? Well, you are in for a treat. I’ll keep the disgusting details to a minimum.

Finding blood in one’s stool is disturbing. When it happens, the correct response is to seek medical help. I called the oncologist. Chemotherapy attacks fast growing cells and that includes the cells lining your entire digestive tract from one end to the other. Bleeding requires further inspection; they referred me to a proctologist.

The proctologist asked a few questions and then decided to inspect the area. That particular area was already in pain from all the other side effects of chemo. Large fingers (plural) and a camera increased the pain appreciably. He ordered a sigmoidoscopy for the following day.

Sigmoidoscopy is like a colonoscopy, but only up to the elbow. It also does not require drinking a cleansing fluid, so that is a plus. It is still unpleasant.

A nurse prepared me for the procedure. That included an enema. She said to hold things in for five minutes, then use the toilet in the room but not flush. I made it about four and a half minutes (close enough) and then finished. The toilet looked like a blender full of small animal. Using the call button, I let the nurse know things were done.

The original nurse came in with a second nurse. The second nurse looked into the toilet bowl and went into a panic, prepared to call everybody in to tend to my issue. The original nurse applied a lot of effort to convince the second nurse that we already knew about the issue and a plan was already in place. At least her reaction told me I was right to panic.

I pretty much slept through the procedure, as is my practice. After a short recovery, I got dressed. Eventually, the proctologist came in to tell me the results. His conclusion: “Just keep an eye on it.” Gee, thanks.

Cycle Five

The fifth cycle was not as pleasant. This is the one that really got me.

Each cycle took three weeks. The first week saw me connected to pumps, receiving the medicine the whole time. Side effects filled the second week, and the third week was for recovery before starting another cycle.

During the second week, an infection attacked my mouth and throat. This made it difficult to eat or drink. I tried to get food down, but my throat shut in protest. Milk and protein drinks helped, but not enough.

The infection also exhausted me more. I slept all the time and barely noticed anything.

On Wednesday of that week, chills and fever showed up. I called the oncologist, as I’ve been trained to do. They got me in and went into a panic of their own. I lost eleven pounds since the previous week. They immediately hooked me to an IV and worked to admit me to the hospital.

Due to overcrowding (Covid-19 related) all hospital admissions had to go through the Emergency Room. The oncology nurses put me in a wheelchair, wrapped me in blankets, and wheeled me down to the ER with the IV still attached.

The ER nurse saw me after about ten minutes and then wheeled me into the hall where the admit-able people waited. I’m not sure how long that wait lasted due to the exhaustion. The woman to one side was quite upset and seemed to be waiting for someone from the psych ward. The folks to the other side had probably never heard the word ‘hygiene’ and probably had gastrointestinal health issues (based on the odors).

In a short while, they moved me to a treatment room where I received my first blood transfusion. That improved my overall feeling of health more than expected. I was careful not to joke about getting other people’s blood more often; medical people don’t always appreciate my sense of humor.

In all, my stay lasted about four days and included another unit of blood and a lot of antibiotics. They released me Christmas afternoon. I took a very long walk back to my car in the parking lot of the oncology center.

Cycle Six

The last cycle went more easily than the others. My doctor reduced the dosage a little, to be on the safe side. No infections popped up. Food and beverages went down. It was surprisingly smooth.

On the last day on the pumps, the nurses “required” a special ceremony. First, they sang a song about being done with chemo and how it was time to go out and enjoy life. Then, they took me to a bell in the reception area. I rang the bell and everyone applauded.

Normally, I’m not one for ceremonies. This one was different for several reasons. Most importantly, it made the nurses feel better. Most nurses I’ve met are very caring people who really do want to heal everyone. The successful completion of chemotherapy, after five months, is a big deal for them and it brings out a lot of emotion. It helps balance the cases where chemotherapy is not so successful.

It is also important for all the cancer patients sitting in the reception area. They get to see that someone made it through, that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Cancer and its treatment really beats some people and it can be difficult to hang on to hope. Having the completers ring that bell where others can see and hear is an important step.

The final reason really surprised me. My own emotions rose up during the ceremony. The song and the bell brought out some unspecified emotion that pushed tears to my eyes. I didn’t really cry, but I got close. Even thinking back on it gets me a bit mushy. Obviously, the whole thing was a bigger deal than I realized it would be.

Since Then

Two months have passed since my last treatment. I feel much better. I started a new job. Things are gradually starting an upward climb again as I build toward the future.

The odd thing was missing the cancer treatments. For five months, my entire life centered on the treatments and the medical people involved. Suddenly, that all went away. The routine changed and I didn’t have an immediate replacement. I actually missed the whole thing. It was tough.

Still, it is good to have that part behind me. Eventually, the bills will be paid and the whole thing will just be one of those stories I tell over and over again.

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.

A Slow Start

The second week started out fine. As warned, I experienced a dry mouth and there were a few small sores. I used the recommended, non-alcohol mouthwash and chewed plenty of gum. No problems so far.

By Thursday, things became a little more noticeable. Late that night, pain developed in my hips, feeling like I bumped something really hard. Friday morning, the pain had spread through my thighs.

Figuring that most things are helped by movement, I went for a walk. By the time I got home, the pain had spread to the lower back as well. Walking devolved into a waddling and it hurt the whole time.

Looking up my medicines, I discovered that the pain was a side effect of one of them. The drug that is supposed to increase my white blood cell production does so by stimulating the bone marrow. It’s actually that bone marrow that hurts; the rest is just the brain sharing the love.

By midnight Friday, the pain nearly had me in tears.

A Fortunate Other Problem

Fortunately, about a quarter till ten on Friday night, I measured a fever of 101.8 degrees. Since the chemo weakens my immune system, I’m supposed to seek medical attention for any fever. I found myself in the Emergency Room for the second weekend in a row.

The fever subsided by early Saturday morning. In the meantime, the medical people decided that my leg pain should be treated as well; they filled me with morphine. In general, I hate taking pain medications, but this was an exception. Not only did the leg pain go away, but I was able to sleep very, very well.

The rounds of antibiotic IVs lasted through Sunday. They’ve also put me on an antifungal just to be on the safe side. I picked up the oral antibiotics on the way home.

Week Three

After the hospital, the leg pain slowly minimized. According to the drug’s website, the pain shouldn’t last very long. It’s just the short time when it feels like your thigh bones are trying to splinter themselves from internal pressure.

In fact, most of the discomforts were gone the third week. That doesn’t mean the side effects had ended.

By the middle of the week, I noticed a bit of hair on my bathroom sink. Not too unusual in itself, but the quantity seemed higher.

Then, while making up my bed, I noticed more hair on my pillow. Again, the quantity was the odd part.

Obviously, hair loss is a well known side effect of chemotherapy. My hair was thin to begin with, so it was no big deal, just something to note.

On the drive to work, though, the unexpected happened. There was a sensation in my mustache that suggested that something was in it that shouldn’t be. I reached up with my thumb and forefinger to remove the offending thing. What came back was a large quantity of whiskers.

Curious, I tugged on another part of the mustache. More whiskers came loose. Repeating the process removed quite a bit. I started to worry that I would be left with nothing but stray little clumps of mustache left.

Fortunately, the whiskers remaining area distributed evenly, for now. However, it seems that the hairs that fell out were the thicker, darker ones, leaving behind only the white and blond whiskers. Combined with the thinning, it makes for a very weak, barely noticeable mustache.

For reference, I grew my mustache in my late teens. They made me shave it for Basic Training at Fort Bliss. Due to my bad heart, I was kicked out of the Army during boot camp. I regrew my mustache immediately upon leaving El Paso and have had it ever since. That is a long time.

The next morning, the shower filled with water while I was getting ready for work. Cleaning the drain removed enough hair to build an army of woodland creatures. As of now, my head sports the traditional chemotherapy hair style.

No Further Emergencies

The weekend required no trips to the Emergency Room. An overall tiredness filled me for most of the time, but I like naps. With no problems, I’ve been able to start with my second round of therapy.

Each round will follow the previous pattern: one week on the pumps, and two weeks of recovering from side effects of the pumps. There are only six of these cycles, so I am one-sixth done and starting on the second. It’s a bit of a bother, but fully manageable, probably.