Frank Gallagher Is Dead

Carol and I watched the final episode of Shameless last Sunday night. We were bumming.

11 seasons. The show was spectacular.

This was definitely a show that could be described as gritty. If you are sensitive, if you want everything to be pretty, if you want happy endings at every turn - go to Me TV and watch The Andy Griffith Show.

Shameless was about a poor family living on the south side of Chicago just trying to survive. Doing anything at all, whatever it takes - to survive. Running scams, lying, cheating, stealing, fighting, working shitty jobs - living down and dirty. Everyone in this family had balls.

Frank Gallagher was the patriarch of the family and was an absolute scumbag. An alcoholic and drug afficionado who never had a job and who put all of his effort every day into creative ways to conjure up some money. Legal or illegal. A guy who would even screw his own family if it would find him a buck.

And you loved him. He was a philosopher drunk. A smarter guy than you would think.

The real pull of this show is the love the family members had for each other. They all lived under the same roof but had separate lives. They fought a lot and disagreed a lot, but ultimately they all had each others' backs. They had a fierce family loyalty.

This show made you laugh, it made you cry, it made you cringe, it made you think, it offended you, it entertained you.

My favorite scenes by far were the family party scenes. 

This family was struggling, always on the verge of financial ruin - but they would always find a cause to celebrate. Could be a birthday, could be something even simpler and less significant. Whatever it was, they would buy some beer, push the furniture aside, play the music loud and dance and laugh in exquisite relief.

They didn't go out to a bar, rent a hall or doing anything formal - just party in their own home and have an absolute blast doing it.

Complete and total abandon.

The stories were very often over the top insane, the shit that happened sometimes blew your mind - but it all felt grounded in reality.

The reality of poverty and the struggle for survival and dignity. The connection, to me, was the struggle for dignity. You may not be poor, but I am betting you have either redefined your definition of dignity or are still fighting for it.

Frank Gallagher dies in the final episode. I am not giving anything away. If you watch the show you know it is inevitable. He drank oceans of alcohol, did every drug imaginable, abused himself with dedicated ferocity. And frankly, he deserved to die.

But he died alone. His family does not even know he has died. They are all together partying together, celebrating a wedding anniversary when it happens.

A deeply sad and depressing end to a life no matter how it was lived.

Sunday nights will be empty until Carol and I find a replacement. I am lobbying for serial killer documentaries, she wants to binge on HGTV. We'll see how that goes.

If you are curious, take a look at Shameless. On Showtime. It will tweak your perception of life and open up your heart with empathy.

You need that right now, don't you?

One Man's Opinion

The only knives that should be manufactured are butter knives, steak knives, and knives with serrated edges.

Plain old kinves add nothing to society and should be discontinued.

Walk On (and more)

I have adopted Walk On by U2 as my personal cancer anthem. 

The lyrics resonate with me. They give me strength and inspiration.

"and if your glass heart should crack and for a second you turn back, oh no be strong"

"and I know it aches and your heart it breaks and you can only take so much.......walk on"

It is obvious why those lyrics connect with me right now so I won't belabor the point. Let me just say they tap deeply into what I am feeling and bring my emotions up to the surface and into my eyes.

But...........

"what you got they can't steal it, no, they can't even feel it" and.......

"what you've got they can't deny it, can't sell it or buy it.........walk on"

These lyrics bring out the confidence I've been feeling and feeding lately and encourage me to use that confidence as a weapon against what cancer wants to do to my mind. They encourage me to tap into what is uniquely me to help me face this shit boldly. I am up for that.

I have had 4 radiation sessions. I heard Walk On all 4 days. That is a lucky streak that can't continue but I know the song will rear it's beautiful head whenever I need it the most. 

I heard it on my way into the very first session - how fucking amazing is that? And on my way home Friday night. We have a magical relationship, me and that song - it is holy to me.

I am considering making Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own by U2 the companion cancer piece. 

Because that is what I am doing. Trying to make it on my own. It is my nature to approach things that way.

I am not talking to anyone about this who hasn't been hipped to it. I am choosing to deal with this emotionally in the most bare bones way that I can.

Sometimes that leaves me feeling empty. And alone.

A little more talk might be beneficial but I really don't know what I would say. This is a deeply personal and deeply emotional thing - anybody I talk to would have to have a fucking Phd in empathy. 

Superficiality would fuel my Italian temper to nuclear levels.

I feel a little shaky today. I think I know why.

My closest friend Phil is up from Florida temporarily and we are going to dinner tonight. It will be spectacular.

But first......................................I gotta get zapped.

That dichotomy disturbs me.

But what I have can't be stolen, felt or understood by anybody else. It can't be denied, bought or sold.

I will power my way through the radiation experience, then fly on the wings of an eagle towards an evening of honest, heartfelt conversation spiced with genuine laughter.

Strange Humanity

 "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."

Oscar Wilde

Zap Clarification

Previously, I said the "zapping has become routine."

To clarify - I meant mechanically. Psychologically is a whole different thing.

I walk through the process like the trained robot that I am. I guess the hospital needs it that way. I imagine consistency reduces patient anxiety.

Same thing every single time. Same time slot every day.

I believe my appointment is the last one of the day. 4:15. 

At first I thought I had made a mistake - scheduling was a joint decision between me and the hospital. I could have set up an earlier appointment and screwed work out of more of my time.

But, every time I show up I am the only person in the waiting room. I like that. No human interaction.

When I leave, even the receptionist is gone.

This past Friday, as I visited the men's room on the way out (always the first stop after the zapping), the people who had tended to me were laughing and talking in the hallway. Friday night, baby.

Although my first thought was "Yeah, go ahead and laugh - you are not the one with prostate cancer."

A selfish, unnecessary thought - I quickly re-routed my thought process to appreciating their perspective.

The thing is, with this schedule, I have quiet time to think, as well as the drive to and fro. There is usually a 10 or 15 minute wait (I get there 10 minutes early) or so between the time I check in and the time they come to fetch me.

Time to ponder the weirdness of the situation.

A short time ago I was a humble human making my way through life. Now I have an intimate relationship with an Image Guided Radiation machine that delivers external beam radiation to my evil prostate.

Pretty cool, huh?

Google the machine. Have a look. Nice clean lines.

Encouraging stats to ponder: "Men with localised prostate cancer who are treated with external beam radiation therapy have a cure rate of 95.5% for intermediate-risk prostate cancer and 91.3% for high-risk prostate cancer (me). The five year survival rate using this treatment is 98.8% overall."

So I have nothing to worry about. Right?

I am being sarcastic, but truth be told I am getting somewhat more comfortable with this situation. The odds are very much in my favor. And I am doing everything I can to help myself.

The side effects could be the scariest part. I "wait and see" after every session. Discomforting.

Had a weird reaction last Thursday morning that left me unsettled. After only two radiation sessions. 5:45 am - a specific body function took control of me - I had to deal with it immediately. I did so. It commandeered me again 10 minutes later with the same urgency.

Only this time I broke out in a serious sweat - sweat was literally dripping off my forehead and my shirt was soaked in about 2 minutes.

I got the weird sensation that I am no longer in control of my body. That my body is reacting to what is being done to it, and it will react in whatever way it wants to whenever it wants to.

It happened again last night - at 3:30 am. Minus the sweat, but still........................

For Christ sake, if my body is going to rebel it would be nice if it kept reasonable hours.

I am dealing with this. I am adapting to a new reality. My thought process is evolving and anxiety is lessening.

The weight loss thing is pissing me off, though. I lost 10 pounds. I have been at that weight now for 4 weeks. Nothing has changed - still dieting, still exercising - even exercising a little more. But I am stuck.

I weigh myself every Tuesday. If my weight remains the same on this coming Tuesday I am going to jump out the fucking window.

There is a message here. This is a tough deal. No easy answers.

Fortunately I am in a fighting mood.

I refuse to give up on myself.

Ponder This

 "When you consider something like death, after which (there being no news flash to the contrary) we may well go out like a candle flame, then it probably doesn't matter if we try too hard, are awkward sometimes, care for one another too deeply, are excessively curious about nature, are too open to experience, enjoy a nonstop expense of the senses in an effort to know life intimately and lovingly."

Diane Ackerman

Curse of Creativity

 "If he drank too much from the thermos of cold vodka by his elbow, his sin was a forgiveable one, the alcoholic flush on his face a mask for the pain that only a poet felt."

From Bitterroot, by James Lee Burke