Friday, June 5, 2009

Lucky Man

ELP penned a song called "Lucky Man." And while the lyrics are not an exact fit, that's how I feel as Husband, to my Wife Teresa.

Yesterday was her birthday. I won't tell you how old she is, but she is younger than me––which she reminds me constantly after I have my birthday until she has hers. So, yeah, I'm married to a younger woman. Robbing the cradle. Running a day care. Living with a trophy wife. All of those cliche's.

Usually, I would write an ode or post on the day of my most loved ones B-Days. (And usually my posts have something to do with cancer––which this does, in a roundabout way). But I didn't want to take any time away from Teresa, any more than I have to because of work or getting to and from the job. I wanted to spend every moment I could with her on her special day. It was her birthday, but I was getting the present. I was getting a chance to spend one more day with Teresa, getting to see her, touch her, just BE with her. There was no other place I would rather be.

I am still amazed to this day with how much I love this woman. It may sound like a Hollywood movie script, but I remember the circumstances that lead up to me meeting Teresa. I just got a job in the mailroom of a really hot ad agency, Chiat/Day, in Los Angeles. I didn't know this agency was THE place to be, because I just needed a job and I didn't care what I was going to do. I was getting thrown out of my rented house––owner was selling the place––I was working as an inside sales assistant at a drapery manufacturer––"do you want those pin pressed and fan folded?"––and I had just broke the chains of a relationship with a psycho-bitch who put the "freak" in "freaky". (And I'm not talking about hip-hop freaky. The "boiling a rabbit on the stove, Fatal Attraction kind of freaky). Yeah, what a catch I was making $850/month, working in the mailroom and getting ready to sleep in Griffith Park for the next 5-6 months.

I was stopped at a traffic light at 5th & Grand Ave. in Downtown L.A., in  the Chiat/Day company pick-up truck on my way to drop off some film to get developed. I put my hands up in the air, looked up towards the headliner of the truck and screamed, "Dear God, please help me out here. Can't you send me a normal woman who I won't have to sleep with one eye open anymore?" (See, sounds waaaaay too Hollywood-esque). So after I came back from my messenger run, I took a walk around the office. As I got to the back of the place to check and see if the Coke machine needed re-stocking, I saw her. She turned around just as I turned the corner. Our eyes locked. I smiled. She said, "hi." Not hello. Not hey. Didn't turn away. Just a "hi" and a smile back. I knew right then and there––I had to get to know this woman. And I had to move fast. Was it by chance? Was it fate? Was I just at the right place at the right time? Was I lucky?

Yes, yes, yes, yes. Happy Birthday, Teresa. You give me presents every day, whether you know it or not.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Gettin' Poked

No, I haven't switched to writing porn.

I'm talking about a date with a needle, one of many in the last two years with more to come. For the record, I hate needles. Which is not a good thing when you're going through chemo and radiation because of cancer. But here I was again, on Thursday of last week, getting a needle shoved into my arm for some blood work.

This all started Mother's Day, as I got real sick real fast after grillin' for the family. I had body aches, a very high fever and my throat was dry––drier than normal––and sore as hell. And that scared the crap out of me. When my throat gets jacked up, that's when I worry. So I went to the doctor's office of my GP. He was unavailable, so I had another Doc. Never seen her before. And she had never heard of my wild story of cancer––in my tonsils, caused by HPV, tube in my stomach for 10 months, gall blabber, etc.––so it was very uncomfortable for the both of us. Why? Ever notice when you're telling someone something that you THINK they should know about––in this case, some knowledge about cancer––and they look at you with that "whoa, this is new stuff to me!" kind of look? Yeah, that our conversation. And it didn't make me feel better at all.

She couldn't find anything wrong with me, testing me for strep throat and H1N1 flu. Nothin'. They didn't know what was wrong with me. That's when she suggested I see my oncologist. What the hell does that mean? I tried to listen to what else she had to say, but I was semi-shocked to hear her say that. You DO NOT want to hear, "I think you should see the cancer Doctors again again." So I asked her again, why do I have to see my oncologist? She said, "just like I said, it would be a good idea to see him." OK, I think it's a good idea that someone make me rich so I don't ever have to work again––but that doesn't mean jack shit. Just tell me, alright!

So I go get blood drained a week-and-a-half later. Blood work looks OK, but they want to do a closer look since I'm fatigued so much lately. What does that mean?

I will have to get poked again.