CarlHoliday

Harlon Eldrick's mother is dying of recurrent breast cancer and wants him to go tell his father. Harlon lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and his father lives across the country in a small collection of buildings called Black Dog, Washington. Harlon wants to make this an adventure. He will take the train to Chicago and hitchhike from there to Black Dog. It's been over a week, since Harlon left Chicago on a trip that's been anything but an adventure. He is welcomed into a semi by Steve Lennard for what he hopes is his last ride.

Bad day at work? Everyone grumpy because their favorite team lost over the weekend? Nerves on edge? Well, there's a noun to the rescue. Go out amongst your coworkers and do your best to chipper up the grumps.

Cistern, Texas, is a small (pop. 75, 2000 census) unincorporated community in Fayette County. It is located between Flatonia and Smithville on Texas State Highway 95 at the junction of Farm to Market Road 2237 from Muldoon. The community got its name from the number of cisterns used for drinkable water due to the high mineral content of well water.

The word after Heifer in the Merriam-Webster dictionary is, wait for it, Heiferette. Heiferette is a large, heavy heifer nearly the size of a mature cow. Not to be outdone, the noun suffix -ette, means: little one, as in kitchenette, so in a sense, a heiferette could be a small (dwarf?) heifer; or, female, as in farmerette, except farmer, by definition, isn't necessarily masculine.

My niece and nephew enjoy telling people that they went to high school in Paris. Considering where they live and work most people wonder if they’re telling the truth. Paris, Arkansas, is noted for the Mt. Magazine Scenic Byway, which takes visitors to Mt. Magazine State Park (Been there, done that, but the gift shop was closed so couldn’t buy the t-shirt.) atop 2,753-foot Magazine Mountain. (Don’t ask why the difference, it’s probably semantics.) Magazine Mountain, besides being the highest point in Arkansas, is noted as the highest point between the Alleghenies and the Rocky Mountains. (There are mountains in the Trans-Pecos region that are taller, but those mountains are far to the south of the Rocky Mountains, and therefore not between the Alleghenies and Rockies. Magazine Mountain is actually south of the Alleghenies, but it’s farther north than the Trans-Pecos mountains. Geographers love to draw curvy lines.) Winters atop Magazine Mountain are noted for sleet, hail, snow, freezing rain and fog, frost flowers, ice crystals, rime ice, and hoarfrost.

The Watchman is a 8,025-foot peak on the west rim of the caldera at Crater Lake National Park, Oregon. The Watchman is a 6,545-foot sandstone mountain in Zion National Park, Utah. Watchman Peak (elevation not published), is located on the south side of Thompson Pass on the border of British Columbia and Alberta, Canada. Find a tall mountain anywhere on this planet of ours, and be assured it's watching you as you look up.

Twas the night before cancer surgery, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse We don’t have cats to catch the mouse, thank you very much. When you have dogs, who see cats as vermin to be kept out of the house, our yard, the neighbors’ yards, and everywhere else that is within their field of view, you learn to live without cats no matter how cute they naturally are. The dogs don’t like any kind of vermin, especially the squirrels who think being chased by a dog is a game that they’re especially good at. Dog on ground, squirrel in trees. First this one, then the next. Resting on a limb in full view of a dog will totally drive said dog nuts. This is especially true with Sara our five-year-old German Shepherd Dog. You have to say it’s a dog, so that no one will confuse the dog with a German shepherd with a flock of fleecy beasties. Okay, back to the cancer surgery on September 21. In my situation, the surgeons (Resident and Attending) performed a TURBT (transurethral resection of bladder tumor) looking for the medium size tumor sticking out toward the middle of my bladder. This was done under anesthesia because to get into the bladder with all their surgical tools, they have to dilate the urethra to very uncomfortable dimensions. Post surgery, the Resident informs me they removed the tumor, a bunch of smaller tumors that resembled sea anemones, and pebbly tissue that is similar to beach sand. That basically removes a bunch of material from the surface lining of the bladder down through connective tissue into the muscle layer to see how deep the cancer went. The Resident said they believed they removed all of the cancer, but they won’t know until the pathology report is issued. Then she said that they were going to let the bladder heal for four to six weeks, and then go back in to remove the tissue again to be certain they got all of the cancer the first time. An added benefit of the surgery was the placement of a Foley catheter. It has an inflated balloon that prevents it from sliding out on its own. On September 25, to have the catheter removed and have a pee test to determine if I could do that on my own. Unfortunately, the intake nurse checked my vitals and my blood pressure (which is controlled with a number of drugs intentionally or as a side effect) was 61 over 40. She sent me to Emergency to get that cleared up. Needless to say, I kept the catheter for another day or so. An outcome of the Emergency was the elimination of two of my BP meds. The pathology report came out on the 25th, but it was not available online until the 27th. The result was: invasive papillary urothelial carcinoma, high grade; and muscularis propria (muscle layer) present and not involved, which I think is a good thing. So, I have an invasive carcinoma that is bad. High grade in pathology terms is not good. A high grade in most situations is a good thing, but with carcinomas it’s a very bad thing. I had the catheter removed on the 29th and just passed the pee test, so I didn’t have to go home with another Foley catheter. I did have to monitor my urine output, or lack thereof, which would’ve meant going to the local ER to have another catheter. I made it through the night with continued urine output. Now, I’m back on a liter or two of fluid intake to flush the blood out of my bladder to prevent clots, which might block the channel and having to get a new catheter. The worst problem of having cancer is the lack of knowing what comes after the next step. VA doctors commonly don’t let you in on what comes next with your case. Worst case scenario: removal of the bladder (cystectomy) and having the ureters from the kidneys connected to an artificial bladder made from a piece of the small intestine and being fitted with catheters. Worse than that is routing the ureters into the bowel. With all the bacteria in the bowel that might get up into the kidneys, refusing to do that and just let the cancer do its worst, and become another statistic of not living to the magical 5-year survival goal is an option I’m not ready to consider. Even worse than not doing a removal is the real chance of the cancer coming back, which cancer of the bladder has a real reputation of occurring. I suppose being given a tentative end to this life is a real slap in the face. There were lots of things I had planned to do in the years to come. Now, I’m being forced to think about what I should be doing before being given the notice to vacate this body and go wherever it is my spirit desires. I’ve done all the required religiosity within the Protestant canon, but there’s not much comfort when only an actual miracle is the only answer. Unfortunately, miracles are for those who need a wake-up call, not for those who’ve been baptized twice, read the Book cover-to-cover five times in three different versions, and professed belief in the required Deity.

The Alternative, Garage, Blues, and Indie rock band, The Raconteurs (Aka, The Saboteurs, in Australia due to a Queensland band of the same name who wouldn’t give up their name for all the money in the world.), is among the very few modern rock bands I enjoy. They didn’t hit the big-time (only achieving number one on the obscure Alternative Market chart) with their one-hit-wonder “Steady, As She Goes,” they seem to be doing quite well in the banking market by performing at all the big music venues from Glastonbury to Coachella.

I love words that have multiple references on Wikipedia. There's the Irish Thoroughbred racehorse and broodmare named Termagant. The seven HMS Termagants in the Royal Navy from 1780 to 1943. All those occurrences in literature from the Middle Ages to today could be combined into a sizable textbook. Probably the most significant, personally, is realizing my deceased mother was a walking definition of a termagant.

When I heard my primary care physician say that bleeding bladders could be a sign of cancer, I really didn't know what I was going to do. More importantly, though, is my desire to chronicle my experience with bladder cancer. I'm definitely not looking for sympathy, although I do welcome one's kind thoughts on my approach to this disease. I've already decided that I'm not going to go thru a full removal of my bladder with either a reconstruction using a piece of the small intestine or being bagged similar to what is done for cancer of the colon. I'll fight the cancer up to that point. I'm 74 and have lived a somewhat remarkable life, so I don't want my exit to be a burden on family.

My grandfather, after whom partially named, died of lung cancer before three years before my birth. My grandmother, who I vaguely remember, died of ovarian cancer when I was six. My father died of metastasized prostate cancer unusually at 52. He hid it from my mother by calling it hip cancer. It didn’t help that he was a five o’clock alcoholic. My mother died of recurrent breast cancer that in the nearly fifteen years between the initial case and the last when it had metastasized to her abdominal wall, spinal cord, brain, and lymph system. It might have helped if she wasn’t such a boozer. Finally, cancer has made its appearance in my urinary bladder. I’m over 55, male, smoked cigarettes, and at the end of a chain of ancestors who died of bladder cancer. The fact that I drank alcohol for more than 50 years probably doesn’t help. Around the end of May, I began seeing blood in my urine. Since I had this previously on two occasions and no one seemed super concerned at the time, I tried ignoring it this time. I “knew” that an appointment with Urology at the Seattle VA Med Cent was in the offing. Then I would get a cystoscopic exam of my bladder. Like a colonoscopy, except the fiber-optic instrument is smaller, you’re awake, and you get to watch. You also get to take pictures home to show the family. Nothing would be found, and I’d be on my way. This time the urine went from orange to a deep red. Then it was almost normal, except being cloudy. Then it was back to deep red with no recognizable pattern. In early June, I had a video appointment with my primary care physician where discussed the blood in my urine. She ordered a urine test that came back positive for red and white blood cells. She ordered another one. That one also came back positive. The next one followed suit, but she didn’t order another. She had put in a referral to Urology at the VA Medical Center, probably figured they’d order more urine tests. This time around I was given a CT scan of my urinary tract from inlet to exit. My kidneys were clear, as were the ureters. The bladder was something else entirely. Seems CT scans with contrast aren’t the best for imaging for bladder cancer, hence the need for a cystoscopy. On August 9, I had an appointment with an ARNP in Urology to discuss what could be causing the blood. He gave me the traditional, “I’m scheduling you for a cystoscopy to look inside your bladder. Now, cystoscopies use a tool like this.” As he held up a show-and-tell copy of the instrument to be used on my lower urinary tract. I nodded by head at the appropriate moments and said “uh, huh, I see,” where required. I’d seen the presentation before, but did my part in the whole undertaking. A month later, I walked into the Cystoscopy Lab at the Medical Center. Since the Seattle VA Medical Center is a teaching hospital associated with the University of Washington School of Medicine (Strangely, not named the Punch & Judy Attaboy School of Medicine or after any of the billionaires who live in the Seattle metro area who seem to have other things to do with their money.), the young man (not cute, so no daydreaming there) who welcomed me had an ID badge hanging from his lanyard that said at the bottom: MEDICAL STUDENT. He gave me a repeat of what to expect and had me electronically sign consent for the procedure. I pulled my t-shirt up and pushed my pants, underwear, and compression stockings down. I sat down on the table, scooted into position, and laid down. I was as ready as could be. The Resident gave me another repeat of what was going to happen. The show began with the Resident telling the student to fill my urethra with anesthetic gel. The way she said that gave me the impression he hadn’t been paying attention during exams of earlier patients. Once that was finished, she told him to take the cystoscope from the nurse who was holding it out to him. Detailed instructions followed as he inserted the instrument into my penis. She gave him encouragement, which was repeated by two of the nurses. If this was to be a solo flight for him, I would’ve been more nervous. The scope entered my bladder, and the Resident requested irrigation. The picture cleared and there on one of the walls stood medium sized (doctor talk) tumor sticking out. The Resident said, “You better let me have the scope.” At least, now, I knew where all the blood was coming from. The Resident started taking pictures of that tumor, a plethora of little (doctor talk) tumors, and a pebbly surface on the bladder’s dome. Post procedure, the Resident tried to be upbeat, but she had to admit my bladder was in sorry shape. The key thing, though, is a repeat of this cystoscopy under anesthesia to remove all the suspected cancer. That will be sent down to Pathology where, hopefully, a definitive diagnosis can be made. There are a number of cancers that can affect the bladder. Where the cancer is located also matters. The lining is best. The connective tissue is second best. The muscles move the indicator toward negative the deeper you go. The outer fat layer is very bad.

Lithium salts are used in the treatment of bipolar and major depressive disorders. A side effect of lithium is shaky hands. A VA psychiatrist stopped treating me, and I was sent to a local provider (ARNP) who prescribed lithium in addition to my other psych meds I was taking, one of which (divalproex sodium) caused essential tremor in my forearms and hands. With the addition of the lithium, my tremors increased to where my hands basically became useless. I couldn’t sign my name, use utensils to eat, drink anything out of a cup or short glass, shave, brush my teeth, or, more importantly, use the computer. My fingers simply refused to go to the key I was thinking of. Dropped that provider. Incompetence only goes so far.

Interestingly, a synonym of the verb form of outlay is lay out, but the noun form of outlay doesn't have an equivalent synonym under the word layout.

Oriole: a man in an orange shirt that jumps for joy.

Finished, edited, and ready to go (except for little tweaks every time I look at it). Title: The Old Man Harlon Eldrick's mother is dying of cancer. She wants him to go visit his father to tell him the news. Harlon lives in Cambridge, MA. His father lives in Black Dog, WA. Rather than flying to Seattle and renting a car to drive over the Cascade Mountains to Black Dog, he decides to take the train to Chicago, and then hitchhike on I-90 to Black Dog.

Thank you for the comment. I wrote this story when I was 71. Half this story came from my mother who had metastasized recurrent breast cancer at 82. Her oncologist was very proud that he kept her alive for two years. She was totally out of her mind for her final 10 months. The other half came from my experience as a homeless vet in Dallas.

Funny thing about words you don't use very often, or ones that you rarely encounter in your readings. In Philip K. Dick's short story "Small Town," Verne Haskel is busy redoing the city of Woodland in his model railroad layout. Reimagining the city of his birth into an idealized version that satisfies his twisted ego. "His deft hands were assembling a lovely little Langendorf Bread Factory."

Let's not forget the 158th Infantry Regiment of the Arizona National Guard who picked up the nickname "Bushmasters" during their deployment to Panama for jungle warfare training where they encountered the deadly Bushmaster snake.

Thank you for giving a comment on my story.

My biggest challenge to submitting a short or long story to Gay Authors is that I'm working very hard at trying to once again get a novel published in the legitimate literary market. It's a takeoff on my story here titled "A Very Schticky Thing To Do." It occurs in the future from that story. It's about a Schtickist high school senior who is very unschticky, and is hired to be the Formal Companion to the local Viscount Bongos.

Hey, thanks @Cia for choosing Dreams Can Come True for this month's Signature Feature. I've certainly been ignoring Gay Authors for the past couple years, including not participating in the 20th Anniversary Story Festival. I'd like to allocate some time to write a short story, novella, or something longer, but I'm presently too busy with other projects.

Thank you for your comment. Yeah, I could go for an age diminishing change too. I'm not significantly into old age, but I am at a point where any negative information from the doctor could foreshadow an early curtain call.

Thank you for review. I'm glad you enjoyed my story.

Thank you for your comment. Sometimes I like to end a story without a definitive conclusion. It lets the reader decide how it should end. Also it gives me the opportunity to bring back a character for a future story.

Thank you for your comment. I'll if I can fit at least one short story into my busy schedule.