So. It’s an overcast and drizzly day here to Santa Fe, Land of Enchantments, and the weather is quite a tight match for my dietary system. As I sit here to my computer in the small bedroom that I made my office, I can see the light rain gather on the corner of the adobe casa, where it grabs and pools into fat, rubbery blobs, hanging on for dear life, before it gathers enough surface tension resistance to run—lazily—down the walls’ length to the ground.
Again, today’s moist weather enjoys a perfect harmony with Nature, the weather a perfect antonym—the mirror image, if you will—to a personal health dealio that might drive me totally bonkers.
Background. As of today, I am precisely one-half way through my treatments for prostate cancer. While The Great Radiator hasn’t yet killed me, it has brought me to the edge of wondering if conversion to a radical Islamic sect, and Fatwaing my way to a boatload of virgins, might be in my future.
OK, let’s stop once more and background the background. Until I learned of these silly globules of cancer packing the walnut-sized bladder that is my prostate, I have been the model of good health. While I do have a slight spare tire, my blood pressure, cholesterol and organ meats all generate quite near perfect testing results for an old geezer of my maturities. Great oxygenation, and all of that. As the nurse over to the Cancer center told me when they did the physical to screen me before zapping the shit out of me, she told me, she said, “Why look at you, Mr. Johnson, you’re the picture of perfect health,” two, three, and four, “uh…well…er…of course, except for the cancer, and all.”
After pronouncing me fit-as-a-fiddle, except for that pesky little army of killer cells hiding inside my semen sack, Nurse Sandra handed me a thick folder titled “Preventive Program for Patients Receiving Radiation Therapy to the Pelvis and Abdominal Area”. Inside this forty-page tome are held interesting facts about radiation therapy, potential side effects, and methods to ease the burden of said side effects.
And whyinthefuck are they called “side effects”? For starters, it should be side “affects”, as the distresses, upsets and disturbances are way more emotionally bothersome than are they belongings, or possessions. “Yes, doctor, I’ll have the radiation treatment with five sides, please. Oh, and might you hold the rectal bleeding and nausea? Last time I had rectal bleeding I ended up in jail.”
Actually, I had picked a fat ingrown hair from my scrotum—and we all know that scrotums bleed way more than even faces—and the resultant bleed-out landed me behind bars. And why is it that, as I older grow, I seem to constantly be holding my balls? I’m sitting over to The Great Radiator’s waiting room yesterday—wearing nothing but a blue cotton hospital gown and socks—reading a Womens’ Day magazine held in my left hand, and I’m hanging on to my balls with my right. Room full of other patients and I’m jamming my hand under my gown to play with myself.
One important side effect is diarrhea. As defined by Google, diarrhea is, “More than five bowel movements per day of liquid stools.” While my now personal experience shows this to be a weak descriptor, it is an accurate depicter of the changes in bathroom habits one endures when encountering The Great Radiator. Between visits for number oneies and twoies, I’ve considered attaching one of those portable latrine jobbies straight onto my ass.
A second, important side effect is changes in urinary habits, including, “…more frequency, extra urgency, difficulty starting and stopping…,” and something the brochure calls “leakage”, and, “…the tendency for BPH symptoms to exacerbate significantly over the course of treatments…”
To narrow for you the calamities engendered under this side effect to better more elucidate, you pee more often, more (and less) volume, you dribble after you think you stopped, and it fucking hurts sometimes.
Take a moment to read all the synonyms for exacerbate, signify them, and call me in the morning. You want proof that the right-wing Christian God is a myth? Be a mature man with mild BPH and have those symptoms “exacerbate significantly”. No loving God would willingly put a man through this.
Which reminds me. Last year, when Seattle won the Stupid Bowl, many of the team’s players went above the call to thank their God for the win. “God did it for us, it was His will” was one quote. Why didn’t they blame God for making the stupid most play call in the entire history of the NFL to end this year’s game? If God is responsible for all good, then He’s likewise responsible for the bad.
Which, of course, means that the Christian God has willed and created all the Islamists Satans. Which, in the half-closed eyes of blind-following Christians, also means that their God created my God. For which please allow me to say, “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Abundance of whiches aside, it is my God that has spurred me to write today rather than to clean this filthy house. My duties as a homemaker have slipped as my visits to The Great Radiator have mounted. Fatigue is another side effect and I’m thinking it has set in. That, or I’m using it as an excuse, the reason my God gave for paying me a visit last night.
Rather than clean yesterday afternoon, I chose instead to sit out to the back yard with the dogs. We grilled some ribbies, drank some Carta Blanca beer, and smoked a fat dube while enjoying a Spring-like day. After dining, we snoozed for maybe fifteen minutes before I awoke to take a painful leak. The three of us stood over to the northeast corner of the wall to mark our territory, a second trip around our perimeter wall, this time with the Squirt joining us.
I was leaning against the wall—head nestled against left elbow resting on the rough stucco—with my eyes shut, listening to the sounds of one man, one male dog and a female dog peeing on bare soil. You know the sound a woman sometimes makes when she really has to pee? That semi-squealing sound? Maybe it sounds more like forcing the water out of a douche bag. That sound.
That sound entered the other pee sounds, so I opened my eyes. And there, squatting with undies at Her ankles and white cotton smock gathered under Her breasts, was my God. She reminded me of Ursula whatshername, and my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon. Anna has always reminded me of that Nordic goddess who was in that James Bond movie—the one wherein Bond had to suck poison from her adorable foot.
“Why are you peeing with us, God?” I asked Her. “Seems to me you’d be above such sillinesses.”
With a grimaced face, God finished with a sexy grunt, magically had tissues appear in her hand, wiped and then made the tissues disappear. She pulled Her panties—semi-bikini and modeled after my favorite swimsuit style—to Her lush, round hips, and stood to settle the cotton dress that was cut to end at that soft indention at the back of a woman’s knee. I fucking love that spot on a woman’s body, and maybe I should have capitalized “woman” in deference to the simple fact that I was addressing God.
“I normally don’t waste my time with waste disposal, Mooner. But I’ve wanted to experience what you are going through with your treatments. That shit’s painful, boy. Tell your doctor to prescribe you some Tamsulosin- .4MG Caps. Tell him you need them twice daily.”
“Thanks, God,” I told her, “but what about the drizzly squirts? Imodium makes me shit bricks and that’s worse than diarrhea.”
“Take the Imodium one tab at night after dinner and one after breakfast, silly rabbit. You really should read directions.”
She said, “Silly rabbit,” with pouty lips and a Swedish accent while embracing me, reminding me that the one, maybe most significant, side effect has yet to hit my loins and grind my sex life to a halt. I guess my woodie made some Godly contact as She pushed me back with a laugh. “Don’t you even think about it, buster. That can be made to disappear as well.” Harsh, but still said with a laugh.
“Hold it right there, Your Worshipness. You told me you never interfere with us in that way. OK, those ways.”
She laughed again, and disappeared. The dogs and I walked back over to our chairs and sat. Squirt said to me, she said, “Well that was interesting. You looked like you were getting geared up to dry hump God. You can be such a dumbass sometimes.”
“Most interesting thing about it was Her disappearing that used tissue. How great a waste disposal idea is that?”
Maybe I should save the dirt where God peed for marketing purposes. Anyway, my ADHD has driven us to 1,500 words saying nothing, so let me finish with a Fuck Walmart!