OK, flash forward a year or so. I sold my farmhouse and apple orchard; which I was able to accomplish without a realtor, advertising and showing the house on my own. Another long story, there - but the short version is that I closed on the week before the 9-11 attack, and moved into my current small house in Scranton. That fall and winter I stayed very involved in Civil Air Patrol; it was a rough time for the aviation community anyway, and our squadron saw a big increase in volunteerism after the terrorist attacks. It was not until the following summer that I began shopping for planes again, as it seemed that private aviation would recover - but airplane prices were still quite low due to the uncertainty of new, more restrictive Federal regulations.
I started again with the Trade-A-Plane magazines, and browsing the bulletin boards at the local airports. But this time, it was a little red-and-white plane that caught my eye as I was driving by the Wyoming Valley airport - a Piper Tri-Pacer. I knew a little about these planes; the AOPA had restored one a few years earlier for their sweepstakes airplane, and I remembered being intrigued by the details. A four-seat plane, the most popular model made between 1951 and 1961, over nine thousand were built and nearly three thousand are still flying. Made of steel tubing and covered with fabric, it belonged to the generation before the riveted-aluminum Cessnas I was familiar with. But it was powered by the same reliable Lycoming engine, and offered similar performance, with a somewhat cramped cabin.
I contacted the seller, and arranged to go for a flight in the plane. He showed me around the Tri-Pacer and pointed out some of the quirks - the overhead crank for the trim, and the hand-operated brakes - and spoke with pride of the plane's performance. We taxied out and took off, and as soon as I took the controls, I was smiling. The little Piper leaped off the grass runway, and responded instantly to the controls. After hundreds of hours flying the stable, predictable Cessnas, I was taken by the way that this stubby plane handled in the air - like getting into a sportscar after driving a truck. And the performance was just as the seller described, matching the Cessna for cruise speed but able to take off and land in far less space.
That first flight had definitely set the hook, and sent me off to look for other Tri-Pacers. There are still quite a few on the market at any given time, and I wasn't convinced of the mechanical condition of the one I had flown (it had been parked outdoors for many years.) There was actually another one for sale at the same airport, a later model with some different options, including an auxilary fuel tank. But when I contacted this seller, it turned out that neither he nor the plane had flown in nine months - and he asked me if I wanted to go for a flight! NO, thank you; not until the pilot gets current, and the plane is thoroughly checked over by a mechanic! (You can get nightmares, imagining what can go wrong with a plane that sits idle for that long.)
I decided to cast my net wider, and spent some time looking at Tri-Pacers at greater distances. And I started reading the newsletter of the "Short-Wing Piper Club", the type club for these airplanes. The old fabric-covered Piper airplanes can be divided into two major families - the "Long-Wings" being the famous Cub and its derivatives, and the "Short-Wing" models, of which the Tri-Pacer was the last. Old Bill Piper was a clever manufacturer: each successive model of his airplanes (all built in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania) used as much as possible of the one before. So when an increase in engine power made it desirable to have a smaller wing, for higher cruise speed - rather than design a whole new wing, he just chopped six feet off of the classic Cub wing, and shortened the plane lengthwise as well. The final touch was the addition of a tall, sturdy tricycle landing gear - the first to be offered on any light plane - and the Tri-Pacer was born.
I watched the trade ads and the internet for the next few months, in no particular hurry, waiting for the right plane to catch my eye. And finally, one did; an eye-catching blue and yellow "Tripe" listed on Aircraft Shopper Online (a great site to window-shop, by the way!). I looked over the details, and the few small photos. It was a 1954 model, which meant a slightly less powerful engine, but the engine had been recently overhauled; the plane was recovered in modern fabrics and kept indoors; and the instrument panel was up-to-date with good modern gauges and radios. Importantly, the logbooks were complete back to 1954 and the title search was clean. The seller was very friendly and sent along more photos, copies of the logbook, and even some video clips of the plane in operation. Satisfied that I was close to a sale, I bought a one-way ticket to Nashville, leaving aside the problem of getting back if I DIDN'T buy the plane...
To be further continued...
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
The Saga of 02P, Part I
I'm back in chemotherapy, with a fresh dose in me this Tuesday; and tomorrow I will start a new set of radiation treatments, too. I can already feel the side effects setting in, so I won't likely be getting out much for the next few days. My fingers have healed, though, and Gail has suggested that I do some writing - so I thought I might start recapping some old flying stories, from my pre-blog days. What follows is the first installment in the saga of how I came to own a little 50-year-old airplane.
'Way back in the year 2000, freshly divorced, I began getting a serious itch to have a plane of my own. I had been flying since 1995, and for those who are truly addicted, renting planes eventually loses its lustre. Renting is far more practical, to be sure, for the occasional flyer - there is a lot of overhead in owning and maintaining any airplane, and if you don't fly much, the hourly costs add up fast. But I was flying a lot, and besides... try finding a plane for rent on short notice, on a sunny Saturday morning! It's a great luxury to have your own plane, flown only by you, whenever you like; to be able to travel, without worrying about having to return if the weather turns sour; and heck, just pride of ownership, and a love of old airplanes.
Having composed this careful set of rationalizations, I began the happy pastime of looking at airplanes for sale. In the pages of Trade-A-Plane, at local airports, and on the internet, I began looking for my first airplane.
The first plane I investigated was a 1940 Aeronca Chief, a tiny orange 2-seater. It had 85 horsepower, and like many planes of that vintage, no electrical system; so it had to be started by hand, pulling on the the handsome (but dangerous!) varnished wooden propeller. The seller accomplished this and took me for a test flight, and I enjoyed flying the little Chief for a while. But I noted that the cruise speed was only around 75 m.p.h. - fine for short hops near home, but very limiting if you actually want to GO somewhere. That, along with a desire for a radio (and a fear of hand-propping!) sent me back to look for something slightly more modern.
The next candidate was a Cessna 172, the most common 4-seat airplane in the world; like many pilots, I had logged the majority of my flight time in this model. Out of the hundreds available, I settled on one for sale out in Kankakee, Illinois - a 1958 model, one of the oldest, but seemingly in fine condition. After a few discussions with the seller, I got my financing paperwork in order and booked a flight out to Chicago. This plane was truly beautiful; it had been impeccably maintained, and still sported the 1950s finish of green and white stripes over polished aluminum. It was late in the day, but the seller and I took the plane out for a test flight to a nearby airport, where there was a little restaurant with live music and great barbecue.
Afterwards, the sun was setting, and the weather was lowering; light rain was already falling, and the temperatures were not much above freezing. But the seller seemed unconcerned; he seemed to know his local weather, and the flight would only take about 30 minutes. Against my better judgement, we took off. We barely had the legal 1,000 feet between the ground and the clouds; fortunately, the terrain around Kankakee is predominantly flat. As we made our way along, I kept shining my little flashlight on the leading edge of the wing - we were definitely picking up ice from the freezing rain, and I counted the minutes to our destination. Luckily, the air just below us was slightly warmer, and the ice began to melt off as soon as we descended.
I agonized over the purchase; the plane was in great shape, and the price was fair. But in the end, I looked at the costs and at the mortgage on the farmhouse, and grudgingly decided to let this one go. I went back home, resolved to sell my house first - something I should have done much sooner.
To be continued...
'Way back in the year 2000, freshly divorced, I began getting a serious itch to have a plane of my own. I had been flying since 1995, and for those who are truly addicted, renting planes eventually loses its lustre. Renting is far more practical, to be sure, for the occasional flyer - there is a lot of overhead in owning and maintaining any airplane, and if you don't fly much, the hourly costs add up fast. But I was flying a lot, and besides... try finding a plane for rent on short notice, on a sunny Saturday morning! It's a great luxury to have your own plane, flown only by you, whenever you like; to be able to travel, without worrying about having to return if the weather turns sour; and heck, just pride of ownership, and a love of old airplanes.
Having composed this careful set of rationalizations, I began the happy pastime of looking at airplanes for sale. In the pages of Trade-A-Plane, at local airports, and on the internet, I began looking for my first airplane.
The first plane I investigated was a 1940 Aeronca Chief, a tiny orange 2-seater. It had 85 horsepower, and like many planes of that vintage, no electrical system; so it had to be started by hand, pulling on the the handsome (but dangerous!) varnished wooden propeller. The seller accomplished this and took me for a test flight, and I enjoyed flying the little Chief for a while. But I noted that the cruise speed was only around 75 m.p.h. - fine for short hops near home, but very limiting if you actually want to GO somewhere. That, along with a desire for a radio (and a fear of hand-propping!) sent me back to look for something slightly more modern.
The next candidate was a Cessna 172, the most common 4-seat airplane in the world; like many pilots, I had logged the majority of my flight time in this model. Out of the hundreds available, I settled on one for sale out in Kankakee, Illinois - a 1958 model, one of the oldest, but seemingly in fine condition. After a few discussions with the seller, I got my financing paperwork in order and booked a flight out to Chicago. This plane was truly beautiful; it had been impeccably maintained, and still sported the 1950s finish of green and white stripes over polished aluminum. It was late in the day, but the seller and I took the plane out for a test flight to a nearby airport, where there was a little restaurant with live music and great barbecue.
Afterwards, the sun was setting, and the weather was lowering; light rain was already falling, and the temperatures were not much above freezing. But the seller seemed unconcerned; he seemed to know his local weather, and the flight would only take about 30 minutes. Against my better judgement, we took off. We barely had the legal 1,000 feet between the ground and the clouds; fortunately, the terrain around Kankakee is predominantly flat. As we made our way along, I kept shining my little flashlight on the leading edge of the wing - we were definitely picking up ice from the freezing rain, and I counted the minutes to our destination. Luckily, the air just below us was slightly warmer, and the ice began to melt off as soon as we descended.
I agonized over the purchase; the plane was in great shape, and the price was fair. But in the end, I looked at the costs and at the mortgage on the farmhouse, and grudgingly decided to let this one go. I went back home, resolved to sell my house first - something I should have done much sooner.
To be continued...
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Another Outing
Still feeling fairly well today, during my respite from chemotherapy. I drove myself out to pick up a prescription, and then Gail took me over to Nay Aug park for a photo walk. Nay Aug is the "Central Park" of Scranton, and has been undergoing a slow rebirth over the last few years. When I was a lad it held a small amusement park and a modest zoo; surviving still are the Everhart Museum and the large public pool.
Of course, we are still playing with our new toys, the matching cameraphones we bought yesterday. Gail is 'way ahead of me on figuring out how to use hers; we have a lot of new features. The cameras actually work very well, and we can send images to each other, or to our Flickr albums and/or 'blogs. (Gail, the ultimate Flickrite, can browse Flickr on her phone now!) When we sat down for a while in the comfy Adirondack chairs, we clicked each other. Note that our phones are the same, but I have a protective cover on mine; I have a bad record of mobile phone abuse.
Later, as the sun went down, we dropped off Gail's film and went for a drive around town to see if there were any remarkable Halloween houses. There is one family down the hill from us who convert their whole house into a "haunted mansion", complete with animated monsters and a lightshow; the police have taken to putting up cones so that people can slow down and turn up the alley to appreciate the scene. We saw a few well-turned-out porches, some with giant inflatable ghouls, but nothing too spectacular. Maybe people aren't done yet, or we haven't found a properly tacky neighbourhood.
We did find a house that was pretty scary, without any intention on the part of the owner - a crumbling, massive house down in Scranton's "plot" section, hard by the abandoned railroad tracks. A single light shone in one back room, revealing a room strewn with junk and skewed pictures on the wall. The lot next to the house was surrounded by rickety barbed-wire fence, and hung with "No Trespassing" signs; as Gail slowly circled, a frightened rabbit jumped out into the headlights. I opined that the house would be the appropriate residence for a chainsaw murderer, and we moved on...
Of course, we are still playing with our new toys, the matching cameraphones we bought yesterday. Gail is 'way ahead of me on figuring out how to use hers; we have a lot of new features. The cameras actually work very well, and we can send images to each other, or to our Flickr albums and/or 'blogs. (Gail, the ultimate Flickrite, can browse Flickr on her phone now!) When we sat down for a while in the comfy Adirondack chairs, we clicked each other. Note that our phones are the same, but I have a protective cover on mine; I have a bad record of mobile phone abuse.
Later, as the sun went down, we dropped off Gail's film and went for a drive around town to see if there were any remarkable Halloween houses. There is one family down the hill from us who convert their whole house into a "haunted mansion", complete with animated monsters and a lightshow; the police have taken to putting up cones so that people can slow down and turn up the alley to appreciate the scene. We saw a few well-turned-out porches, some with giant inflatable ghouls, but nothing too spectacular. Maybe people aren't done yet, or we haven't found a properly tacky neighbourhood.
We did find a house that was pretty scary, without any intention on the part of the owner - a crumbling, massive house down in Scranton's "plot" section, hard by the abandoned railroad tracks. A single light shone in one back room, revealing a room strewn with junk and skewed pictures on the wall. The lot next to the house was surrounded by rickety barbed-wire fence, and hung with "No Trespassing" signs; as Gail slowly circled, a frightened rabbit jumped out into the headlights. I opined that the house would be the appropriate residence for a chainsaw murderer, and we moved on...
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Thursday Outing
I got to spend most of today away from the house (hooray!) running a few errands with Gail. Nothing complicated, but I was pleased to be in good enough shape to walk around a bit, and my appetite continues to rally.
Our first stop was the doctor's office - for Gail, this time, for the purposes of her immigration exam. The nearest doctor approved by the USCIS is a 45 minute drive, but it was a nice day for a drive anyway. Now, this doctor's office - Gail was there earlier in the week, this was a follow-up - she had told me that it was peculiar, a tiny and disorganized office by medical standards*. Gosh, she wasn't kidding; this place was scary. Imagine that you wanted to set up a professional office for the practice of medicine, but only had... oh, say two hundred dollars to spend. This is about the result - a tiny waiting room on a strip-mall storefront, sitting alongside a nail and tanning parlor. The next tiny room holds two receptionists (with barely room for a desk between them) and wall shelves, literally overflowing with uncontained patient files. Yes, of course we'll take good care of your confidential medical information!
If there was anything odder than the office, it was the melange of strange shapes and sounds in the waiting room. My first thought was that we had stumbled across a casting call for the next "Addams Family" film; there were people of every disturbing shape, size and accent. I sat close to the receptionist's window (it being hard to be far from ANYTHING in this glorified broom closet) and so I got to hear the odd ramblings of each patient as they came and went.
Later, free of the clinic, we headed back towards home and stopped off at the cellphone store. We replaced both of our old phones and calling plans with a family plan and matching LG phones, which will give us a much better deal on wireless telecom, including unlimited calls between our phones. And the phones were a bargain, two-for-one priced and each with a built-in camera; we are having fun playing with the new toys. Gail had an LG phone before, and the new one is similar; I will rely on her to figure out all the menus and help me set mine up. (My number is the same, for those of you who have it.)
* Yes, "medical standards" may be an oxymoron.
Our first stop was the doctor's office - for Gail, this time, for the purposes of her immigration exam. The nearest doctor approved by the USCIS is a 45 minute drive, but it was a nice day for a drive anyway. Now, this doctor's office - Gail was there earlier in the week, this was a follow-up - she had told me that it was peculiar, a tiny and disorganized office by medical standards*. Gosh, she wasn't kidding; this place was scary. Imagine that you wanted to set up a professional office for the practice of medicine, but only had... oh, say two hundred dollars to spend. This is about the result - a tiny waiting room on a strip-mall storefront, sitting alongside a nail and tanning parlor. The next tiny room holds two receptionists (with barely room for a desk between them) and wall shelves, literally overflowing with uncontained patient files. Yes, of course we'll take good care of your confidential medical information!
If there was anything odder than the office, it was the melange of strange shapes and sounds in the waiting room. My first thought was that we had stumbled across a casting call for the next "Addams Family" film; there were people of every disturbing shape, size and accent. I sat close to the receptionist's window (it being hard to be far from ANYTHING in this glorified broom closet) and so I got to hear the odd ramblings of each patient as they came and went.
Later, free of the clinic, we headed back towards home and stopped off at the cellphone store. We replaced both of our old phones and calling plans with a family plan and matching LG phones, which will give us a much better deal on wireless telecom, including unlimited calls between our phones. And the phones were a bargain, two-for-one priced and each with a built-in camera; we are having fun playing with the new toys. Gail had an LG phone before, and the new one is similar; I will rely on her to figure out all the menus and help me set mine up. (My number is the same, for those of you who have it.)
* Yes, "medical standards" may be an oxymoron.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
At The Movies with Uncle Fester
I've been feeling rather well for the last few days; last night Gail and I went out to dinner, and tonight we managed to take in a movie. We both enjoyed it immensely, the most laughs we have had in a long time, so we're both going to review it:
The 40-Year-Old Virgin
It stars Steve Carell, from the American version of "The Office" on NBC, and second banana in several recent Will Ferrell movies. Carell plays a character that must be instantly recognizable to almost everyone, the geeky "late bloomer", with a lonely-guy apartment full of action figures and video games. The movie follows his life as his co-workers discover his terrible secret, and endeavor to "help" him, just as he meets a warm woman his own age.
The setup is simple, but the execution is side-splittingly hilarious. I can't even guess how long the movie was, because the pace was perfect - from slapstick comedy, to VERY authentic guys-and-buddies dialog, to Carell's believable moments of pathos. Some of the more subtle comedy is found in the cultural references surrounding the frozen-in-time Carell; I won't spoil by listing them, but this movie is undoubtedly fine-tuned to persons between 30 and 40. (I want to see it again, just for a closer look at his apartment!) Oh, and if you're near my age, you'll want the soundtrack, too.
Anyway - five stars, or whatever I use here, for "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" - I was literally in tears, laughing through the whole movie. It was the heat of the moment...
The 40-Year-Old Virgin
It stars Steve Carell, from the American version of "The Office" on NBC, and second banana in several recent Will Ferrell movies. Carell plays a character that must be instantly recognizable to almost everyone, the geeky "late bloomer", with a lonely-guy apartment full of action figures and video games. The movie follows his life as his co-workers discover his terrible secret, and endeavor to "help" him, just as he meets a warm woman his own age.
The setup is simple, but the execution is side-splittingly hilarious. I can't even guess how long the movie was, because the pace was perfect - from slapstick comedy, to VERY authentic guys-and-buddies dialog, to Carell's believable moments of pathos. Some of the more subtle comedy is found in the cultural references surrounding the frozen-in-time Carell; I won't spoil by listing them, but this movie is undoubtedly fine-tuned to persons between 30 and 40. (I want to see it again, just for a closer look at his apartment!) Oh, and if you're near my age, you'll want the soundtrack, too.
Anyway - five stars, or whatever I use here, for "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" - I was literally in tears, laughing through the whole movie. It was the heat of the moment...
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Airshow link
I was browsing around, indulging in my favorite interest (airplanes) and came across the website for one of my favorite airshow pilots, Sean D. Tucker:
Team Oracle
It's an impressive site, selected for a Webby award. (Not surprising, since Tucker is sponsored by software giant Oracle.) I was looking for infomation on his powerful little biplane, which the site has in abundance - including an interactive walkaround, with video interviews with his crew and detail photos for modellers.
It also has a slick viewer which lets you view Tucker's entire 13-minute airshow routine, using two simultaneous views, which you can customize from six choices of camera positions. You can even choose the music to accompany the routine. It requires broadband access, but it's a great way to experience one of the most dramatic stunt-flying routines in the world.
I've admired Tucker's wild flying for years; no one else in airshow flying can match him for the difficulty and danger of his maneuvers. I got to meet him at the 1994 Wilkes-Barre/Scranton airshow; seeing him fly that day, and being caught up with his enthusiasm for aviation, finally pushed me over the edge - a few weeks later, I took my first flying lesson.
Team Oracle
It's an impressive site, selected for a Webby award. (Not surprising, since Tucker is sponsored by software giant Oracle.) I was looking for infomation on his powerful little biplane, which the site has in abundance - including an interactive walkaround, with video interviews with his crew and detail photos for modellers.
It also has a slick viewer which lets you view Tucker's entire 13-minute airshow routine, using two simultaneous views, which you can customize from six choices of camera positions. You can even choose the music to accompany the routine. It requires broadband access, but it's a great way to experience one of the most dramatic stunt-flying routines in the world.
I've admired Tucker's wild flying for years; no one else in airshow flying can match him for the difficulty and danger of his maneuvers. I got to meet him at the 1994 Wilkes-Barre/Scranton airshow; seeing him fly that day, and being caught up with his enthusiasm for aviation, finally pushed me over the edge - a few weeks later, I took my first flying lesson.
Monday, October 10, 2005
I'm out!
Feeling much better, finally home from the hospital. Most of my blood counts are back to normal or nearly so. No other news today... but that's enough!
It's great to be in my old house, with my old cat and my new wife. Many thanks to everyone for their words, cards, visits and support.
It's great to be in my old house, with my old cat and my new wife. Many thanks to everyone for their words, cards, visits and support.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Another Weekend at Mercy Hospital
This is Gail writing on David's behalf, since he's still confined to a hospital bed.
Mercy Hospital, Day 8
We've not been discouraging visitors, it's been a matter of not knowing from day to day how much longer he'll be kept in hospital. Every day we're hopeful he'll be well enough to be released, but then it doesn't happen. After yesterday's prescribed blood transfusion, however, it's fairly certain he'll be at Mercy Hospital for the weekend, possibly longer.
If any readers are local and inclined to visit David, or if anyone would like to phone, here's the info:
Mercy Hospital Scranton
746 Jefferson Ave
Phone: 570-348-7100
Room: 927
(The hospital switchboard doesn't route calls after 10pm.)
Please bear in mind that David's immune system is dangerously low. He likes having visitors, but is very prone to infection, which can delay his chemotherapy treatment. If you're feeling under the weather, it's best to phone.
(Please don't send anything to the hospital! There's a whole saga related to the black hole that is the receiving department at Mercy Hospital! To be on the safe side, send stuff to the house...)
When David comes home, he's going to help me make thank you cards for our wedding presents. We're very grateful for all the cards and gifts, and we'd like to show our appreciation in the best way possible.
Mercy Hospital, Day 8
We've not been discouraging visitors, it's been a matter of not knowing from day to day how much longer he'll be kept in hospital. Every day we're hopeful he'll be well enough to be released, but then it doesn't happen. After yesterday's prescribed blood transfusion, however, it's fairly certain he'll be at Mercy Hospital for the weekend, possibly longer.
If any readers are local and inclined to visit David, or if anyone would like to phone, here's the info:
Mercy Hospital Scranton
746 Jefferson Ave
Phone: 570-348-7100
Room: 927
(The hospital switchboard doesn't route calls after 10pm.)
Please bear in mind that David's immune system is dangerously low. He likes having visitors, but is very prone to infection, which can delay his chemotherapy treatment. If you're feeling under the weather, it's best to phone.
(Please don't send anything to the hospital! There's a whole saga related to the black hole that is the receiving department at Mercy Hospital! To be on the safe side, send stuff to the house...)
When David comes home, he's going to help me make thank you cards for our wedding presents. We're very grateful for all the cards and gifts, and we'd like to show our appreciation in the best way possible.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Alive, kicking and off the market!
[This was written by David at the hospital and posted by Gail.]
(This is a long entry; I have been cooped up away-from-keyboard since the wedding. You may want to enjoy it in installments! -D.)
As of this morning, I am still in the hospital due to complications from my chemotherapy. Last week I was switched to a different set of drugs, and Thursday morning was the second 2-hour treatment. Past experience has been that the side-effects are delayed by a few days, and the first treatment was tolerable; so I felt that we should proceed with the second injection despite our wedding being only two days away - after all, the cancer hasn't taken any days off!
When I finished the second chemo, I was given a shot that worked well at suppressing the nausea. That afternoon I went to the Steamtown Mall with my future father-in-law, and I was able to enjoy some food-court Chinese. But Friday I slid downhill, with waves of nausea and mild cramps that made it impossible to eat anything solid. I woke before dawn, and sat in my easy chair with a book and my old cat. The first to join me was Gail's niece Melissa, who came quietly shining down the stairs, and began roaming around the first floor. Hugh must have felt safe on my lap; he didn't hiss at her on this occasion.
For the rest of Friday, my condition got worse. My cramps were becoming so severe and sharp that I couldn't stand upright, or even lie down. Gail was busy preparing for the wedding, but Mr. Edwin and Melissa's grandmother Jean both took good care of my needs - many thanks, Gumpa and GMP! I'm glad that they still managed to take Melissa to the train museum in the afternoon. I rested, and hoped that Saturday would be a better one.
Unfortunately, I continued to deteriorate. The first chemo treatment had not been anything like this; I was unable to eat anything solid, and even a half-glass of water would come straight back up. Sleep was impossible, and I was running to the toilet with bloody diarrhea so often that it was hardly worth it to leave. The nadir was just before daybreak on Saturday, when I apparently curled up on the bathroom floor and passed out. Melissa's knock woke me, and Jean helped me to sip a little electrolyte drink and crawl into bed.
I was determined to see the day through, though. This day and date were very important to me - one year exactly from the day that we had met, a day and weekend that has been so pivotal for me, and so perfect. And I wanted to have our moment, despite the turmoil of the past few months - to be hopeful and happy, and enjoy the day with our families and close friends, and most of all to really be married - to hold my wife's hand, at last, and formally take the vows that we have felt in our hearts for so long.
So with Jean and Mr. Edwin's help, I managed to shave and shower, and they packed my overnight case and laid out my dress blue uniform, which Gail's friend Lucy had steamed and pressed for me. I rested as long as I could, then got dressed and wobbled out to the car; by this time I was getting dizzy if I stood up for more than a minute or two. I was obviously badly dehydrated and anemic, and hoped that I wouldn't pass out. At the historic Lackawanna Station hotel, the doormen helped me into a wheelchair, and I made my way inside to where our little party was gathering.
Our ceremony was set up in a conference room downstairs, and as I was wheeled in we took the necessary precautions; a bucket in the corner in case of nausea, and a route to the nearest bathroom in case of... well, not very wedding-like, but we must be prepared, right? Our pastor, my good friend and Civil Air Patrol chaplain Bob, went over the ceremony with me and my best man (and friend) Chris, and we all got into position; I decided at the last moment that I would stay in the wheelchair, rather than risk toppling over. There was a long delay, during which the heat in the room was raised; it was freezing, or felt that way to me, with my thin blood!
But at last Gail and her companions were at the door, and the harp music began to play. She will say that she looked a mess from crying and makeup, but I couldn't see anything but her, and she was simply beautiful. She sat next to me and took my hand, and Bob began the ceremony. He did a beautiful job, warm and eloquent. (I believe we were his first wedding!) Chris read a poem, Autumn, by Garrison Keillor; a favorite of mine, one that evokes the magic of our perfect October weekend. And then Pastor Bob read us our vows, which we exchanged line-by-line with one another, a nice idea of Gail's. We wrote our own, of course, and Gail posted them in her first brief journal entry here:
Wedding Weekend
The not-so-good news, as she detailed, was that my condition was now too serious to be ignored. I had to go straight to the room to use the restroom and pick up my case; I had hoped to at least go into the reception and greet and thank everyone, but I had to relent. Chris wheeled me out to his car and took me to the hospital, and I staggered into the emergency room - in full dress uniform, boutonniere and all - so obviously anemic and weak that they immediately put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the ER. For the next few hours, they poured I.V. fluids into me and tried to relieve my pain with morphine; the cramps were now like a knife in my gut. Chris showed the depth of our friendship, refusing to leave my side until I seemed to be stable; I chased him out to get some dinner, since it would be hours before I had a proper hospital bed.
And it was, of course; the sun was coming up on Sunday when I was finally installed in a private room in the cancer ward. During that night, my fever had risen to almost 104, and the nurses were packing ice around my neck and back; the fever soon broke, though, and I have had a lot of I.V. antibiotics, scans and tests since then. In brief, it appears that I have a badly irritated intestine and colon, from a combination of the chemo and the radiation; and that due to that irritation, I may have come down with a bacterial infection like colitis.
As of this moment, they want to keep me another day before sending me home and letting me try solid food; I haven't had anything but gelatin and flavored ice since Thursday. At least Gail and I got to spend the night together last night, finally; she was so tired that the hospital staff let her nap in bed with me, and then in the chair in my room, all night. Maybe not the ideal first night for a married couple, but a very happy one nonetheless, for me.
(This is a long entry; I have been cooped up away-from-keyboard since the wedding. You may want to enjoy it in installments! -D.)
As of this morning, I am still in the hospital due to complications from my chemotherapy. Last week I was switched to a different set of drugs, and Thursday morning was the second 2-hour treatment. Past experience has been that the side-effects are delayed by a few days, and the first treatment was tolerable; so I felt that we should proceed with the second injection despite our wedding being only two days away - after all, the cancer hasn't taken any days off!
When I finished the second chemo, I was given a shot that worked well at suppressing the nausea. That afternoon I went to the Steamtown Mall with my future father-in-law, and I was able to enjoy some food-court Chinese. But Friday I slid downhill, with waves of nausea and mild cramps that made it impossible to eat anything solid. I woke before dawn, and sat in my easy chair with a book and my old cat. The first to join me was Gail's niece Melissa, who came quietly shining down the stairs, and began roaming around the first floor. Hugh must have felt safe on my lap; he didn't hiss at her on this occasion.
For the rest of Friday, my condition got worse. My cramps were becoming so severe and sharp that I couldn't stand upright, or even lie down. Gail was busy preparing for the wedding, but Mr. Edwin and Melissa's grandmother Jean both took good care of my needs - many thanks, Gumpa and GMP! I'm glad that they still managed to take Melissa to the train museum in the afternoon. I rested, and hoped that Saturday would be a better one.
Unfortunately, I continued to deteriorate. The first chemo treatment had not been anything like this; I was unable to eat anything solid, and even a half-glass of water would come straight back up. Sleep was impossible, and I was running to the toilet with bloody diarrhea so often that it was hardly worth it to leave. The nadir was just before daybreak on Saturday, when I apparently curled up on the bathroom floor and passed out. Melissa's knock woke me, and Jean helped me to sip a little electrolyte drink and crawl into bed.
I was determined to see the day through, though. This day and date were very important to me - one year exactly from the day that we had met, a day and weekend that has been so pivotal for me, and so perfect. And I wanted to have our moment, despite the turmoil of the past few months - to be hopeful and happy, and enjoy the day with our families and close friends, and most of all to really be married - to hold my wife's hand, at last, and formally take the vows that we have felt in our hearts for so long.
So with Jean and Mr. Edwin's help, I managed to shave and shower, and they packed my overnight case and laid out my dress blue uniform, which Gail's friend Lucy had steamed and pressed for me. I rested as long as I could, then got dressed and wobbled out to the car; by this time I was getting dizzy if I stood up for more than a minute or two. I was obviously badly dehydrated and anemic, and hoped that I wouldn't pass out. At the historic Lackawanna Station hotel, the doormen helped me into a wheelchair, and I made my way inside to where our little party was gathering.
Our ceremony was set up in a conference room downstairs, and as I was wheeled in we took the necessary precautions; a bucket in the corner in case of nausea, and a route to the nearest bathroom in case of... well, not very wedding-like, but we must be prepared, right? Our pastor, my good friend and Civil Air Patrol chaplain Bob, went over the ceremony with me and my best man (and friend) Chris, and we all got into position; I decided at the last moment that I would stay in the wheelchair, rather than risk toppling over. There was a long delay, during which the heat in the room was raised; it was freezing, or felt that way to me, with my thin blood!
But at last Gail and her companions were at the door, and the harp music began to play. She will say that she looked a mess from crying and makeup, but I couldn't see anything but her, and she was simply beautiful. She sat next to me and took my hand, and Bob began the ceremony. He did a beautiful job, warm and eloquent. (I believe we were his first wedding!) Chris read a poem, Autumn, by Garrison Keillor; a favorite of mine, one that evokes the magic of our perfect October weekend. And then Pastor Bob read us our vows, which we exchanged line-by-line with one another, a nice idea of Gail's. We wrote our own, of course, and Gail posted them in her first brief journal entry here:
Wedding Weekend
The not-so-good news, as she detailed, was that my condition was now too serious to be ignored. I had to go straight to the room to use the restroom and pick up my case; I had hoped to at least go into the reception and greet and thank everyone, but I had to relent. Chris wheeled me out to his car and took me to the hospital, and I staggered into the emergency room - in full dress uniform, boutonniere and all - so obviously anemic and weak that they immediately put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the ER. For the next few hours, they poured I.V. fluids into me and tried to relieve my pain with morphine; the cramps were now like a knife in my gut. Chris showed the depth of our friendship, refusing to leave my side until I seemed to be stable; I chased him out to get some dinner, since it would be hours before I had a proper hospital bed.
And it was, of course; the sun was coming up on Sunday when I was finally installed in a private room in the cancer ward. During that night, my fever had risen to almost 104, and the nurses were packing ice around my neck and back; the fever soon broke, though, and I have had a lot of I.V. antibiotics, scans and tests since then. In brief, it appears that I have a badly irritated intestine and colon, from a combination of the chemo and the radiation; and that due to that irritation, I may have come down with a bacterial infection like colitis.
As of this moment, they want to keep me another day before sending me home and letting me try solid food; I haven't had anything but gelatin and flavored ice since Thursday. At least Gail and I got to spend the night together last night, finally; she was so tired that the hospital staff let her nap in bed with me, and then in the chair in my room, all night. Maybe not the ideal first night for a married couple, but a very happy one nonetheless, for me.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Like riding a bike, unless you fall off
Gail and I slept in this morning, enjoying the weekend break from my radiation treatments. When we finally roused ourselves, Gail took me up to the Cherry Ridge airport to enjoy the beautiful weather, and in hopes of catching a plane ride with one of my pilot friends.
Things worked out just that way, in very short order; in fact, I had just stepped out of our car when my friend Mr. Tibor pulled up behind us, and asked if I would like to go up with him. He owns a very clean little 2-seat Cessna 150, and likes to fly in the evenings - we often see each other at the fuel pump, but have never flown together. Gail shooed me off to go and have fun, and went off to take pictures around the airport grounds.
I watched as Mr. Tibor carefully preflighted his plane. It's a beauty, an all-metal 1975 Cessna that looks like brand-new, and which he keeps well-maintained and neat as a pin. It's a bit smaller than the Tri-Pacer (not many planes are!) but has some nice equipment; one item of interest is a traffic alert, which his daughter bought for him. It detects the transponder signal of any aircraft within a few miles, and gives a spoken alert over the intercom when another plane is nearby.
We ran through our cockpit checks and took off, and then did one practice landing and took off again. Over Lake Wallenpaupack, I snapped some pictures and then took the controls for a while; I haven't flown a 150 in years, but it's a very easy plane to handle. Back at the airport, I even managed to grease on a smooth landing from the right seat; I guess I still remember how it's done, even though it's been - gasp - over two months since I've logged any stick time.
With my confidence restored, I offered to reciprocate, and take Mr. Tibor up in my Tri-Pacer. We walked from his hangar over to mine, and I preflighted 02P in the long evening shadows. As we taxied out, we chatted about the differences in our planes - mine is older, noisier and carries a bit more weight, his burns less fuel - but the performance of each is very similar. The air was getting late-evening smooth as we took off to the south, and turned east towards Lake Ariel to fly over Mr. Tibor's house. He took his turn flying, and noted how the Tri-Pacer is as light on the controls as his Cessna, but with a quicker roll rate due to the short wings. Back at the airport, I did one touch-and-go for practice; my approach was a little low, the first time. The next time around I did a bit better, and squeaked down right on the numbers.
It felt absolutely great, to get back into the air again. I really needed a day like this, after weeks of treatments and illness, to lift my spirits. So many thanks to Gail, for coaxing me out to the airport, and to Mr. Tibor for spending some time in the air with me!
Things worked out just that way, in very short order; in fact, I had just stepped out of our car when my friend Mr. Tibor pulled up behind us, and asked if I would like to go up with him. He owns a very clean little 2-seat Cessna 150, and likes to fly in the evenings - we often see each other at the fuel pump, but have never flown together. Gail shooed me off to go and have fun, and went off to take pictures around the airport grounds.
I watched as Mr. Tibor carefully preflighted his plane. It's a beauty, an all-metal 1975 Cessna that looks like brand-new, and which he keeps well-maintained and neat as a pin. It's a bit smaller than the Tri-Pacer (not many planes are!) but has some nice equipment; one item of interest is a traffic alert, which his daughter bought for him. It detects the transponder signal of any aircraft within a few miles, and gives a spoken alert over the intercom when another plane is nearby.
We ran through our cockpit checks and took off, and then did one practice landing and took off again. Over Lake Wallenpaupack, I snapped some pictures and then took the controls for a while; I haven't flown a 150 in years, but it's a very easy plane to handle. Back at the airport, I even managed to grease on a smooth landing from the right seat; I guess I still remember how it's done, even though it's been - gasp - over two months since I've logged any stick time.
With my confidence restored, I offered to reciprocate, and take Mr. Tibor up in my Tri-Pacer. We walked from his hangar over to mine, and I preflighted 02P in the long evening shadows. As we taxied out, we chatted about the differences in our planes - mine is older, noisier and carries a bit more weight, his burns less fuel - but the performance of each is very similar. The air was getting late-evening smooth as we took off to the south, and turned east towards Lake Ariel to fly over Mr. Tibor's house. He took his turn flying, and noted how the Tri-Pacer is as light on the controls as his Cessna, but with a quicker roll rate due to the short wings. Back at the airport, I did one touch-and-go for practice; my approach was a little low, the first time. The next time around I did a bit better, and squeaked down right on the numbers.
It felt absolutely great, to get back into the air again. I really needed a day like this, after weeks of treatments and illness, to lift my spirits. So many thanks to Gail, for coaxing me out to the airport, and to Mr. Tibor for spending some time in the air with me!
Friday, September 23, 2005
Critiquing the critics
Last night, while idly browsing the internet, I found a rich vein of humor: amateur movie reviews on Amazon.com. Now, I indulge in commenting on movies myself, here in the Logbook; I assume that most readers are friends of mine, and understand my perspective. But on mega-etailer Amazon, in the listing for each movie or DVD, is a place where anyone can post their personal review of the film in question - and by gosh, anyone does. The most well-known movies get the most reviews, of course; so it's easy to find a critique of The Exorcist, for example (726 customer reviews) from the perspective of, say, an 11-year-old whose favorite movie of all time is Fantastic Four. Or, from the point of view of a devout Christian, one with an extraordinary knowledge of the real mechanics of demonic possession:
See? These are the kind of cinematic insights you just can't get from the mainstream press. Too, you typically can't get the range of horrible grammar and spelling that offer such grisly delights, even in USA Today. File this one under "Engrish":
There again - if "death count" is something you value in a film, then here is information you can use. This next one I have to classify as "sharing too much":
(By the way, in case you missed it, he was talking about the film.) Alas, sometimes we get to share in even sadder stories from the unsolicited movie reviewer:
Of course, there are other joys of browsing through these reviews: the Spoiler, who will recap the entire movie in detail, including the climactic end; the Nitpicker, who points out that some scrap of scenery dates from 1948, whereas the movie is set in 1945; and the Endless Babbler, who uses up the entire quota of space - usually with an intensely personal monologue, usually without paragraphs or punctuation. Thanks, Amazon, for providing this valuable service! I give it five stars.
"The problem is in the so-called "transference" of the evil entity into the supposedly consecrated body of the priest. Any student of theology should know that this is an impossibility: a priest (even one who has just regained his faith) invoking the power of Christ, blessed by Holy Water, and empowered by the Holy Spirit would never be able to entice a demon to "come into him" or "take him on instead'. Such a proposition (even if it were so) could not be taken up by a demon simply because the priest's consecrated body would burn like electricity to the touch if a demon were to try and gain access."
See? These are the kind of cinematic insights you just can't get from the mainstream press. Too, you typically can't get the range of horrible grammar and spelling that offer such grisly delights, even in USA Today. File this one under "Engrish":
This movie scared the crap out of me. When I go to are bech house I only go in water about half a foot deep. A shark is chompy the people. This movie was the second series of man eater. Better than the classic 1960 horror movie that inspires this genre of monstres.
Quint is herilious he made me laugh. This movie has some comedy as well. When quite said what you got her portable monkey cage. Anti shark. It very good movie. It had three sequels of which two I own. I did not buy the last one because it was alwfull bad plot and low death count.
My advice If you like this sea 2 and 3 but don't waste your time with the fourth on. Yes there is a movie call Jaws 5 Cruel Jaws but its not avilable her. It was sent over sea because it was made illegally.
There again - if "death count" is something you value in a film, then here is information you can use. This next one I have to classify as "sharing too much":
I just recently viewed the film, JAWS, in it's entirety. My brother Michael, who is now deceased, loved this film, so I figured why not get the film?
(By the way, in case you missed it, he was talking about the film.) Alas, sometimes we get to share in even sadder stories from the unsolicited movie reviewer:
I never recieved the product. I will never purchase anything from them again!!
Of course, there are other joys of browsing through these reviews: the Spoiler, who will recap the entire movie in detail, including the climactic end; the Nitpicker, who points out that some scrap of scenery dates from 1948, whereas the movie is set in 1945; and the Endless Babbler, who uses up the entire quota of space - usually with an intensely personal monologue, usually without paragraphs or punctuation. Thanks, Amazon, for providing this valuable service! I give it five stars.
Checking in
I haven't posted all week; it's been a rough one, in terms of my energy level. The good news is that the radiation seems to be really reducing my back pain - I haven't had to pop so many pills, and I can get up and around without the cane. But it also causes severe fatigue and nausea, so it's been tough to be active, or eat. Today I spent the whole day in sack-of-potatoes mode, I'm just getting up now to have a meal and get cleaned up. I really noticed, as I showered, how much weight I have lost; around 35 pounds. (And I still have a little bit of spare-tire!) I've been carrying an extra 20 pounds for years anyway, but it feels strange to be bony, something I've never been.
In other good news, my mother is home from the hospital, and enjoying her favorite pastimes: Scrabble, and worrying about me. Thanks for all the words of support.
Gail has spent the last few days in a flurry of activity, getting ready for the wedding next weekend. Besides the flowers and hotel and the other arrangements, she found some beautiful gifts for the wedding guests, and some nice touches for the house too. I'm looking forward to seeing our family and a few friends get together, it will be a real lift.
In other good news, my mother is home from the hospital, and enjoying her favorite pastimes: Scrabble, and worrying about me. Thanks for all the words of support.
Gail has spent the last few days in a flurry of activity, getting ready for the wedding next weekend. Besides the flowers and hotel and the other arrangements, she found some beautiful gifts for the wedding guests, and some nice touches for the house too. I'm looking forward to seeing our family and a few friends get together, it will be a real lift.
Monday, September 19, 2005
When it rains...
In the midst of my own health problems, my mother had to check into the hospital today. She was feeling dizzy and weak last night, and her friend took her to the emergency room this morning. Mom suffers from COPD - Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disorder, basically a deterioration of the lungs from a lifetime of smoking, and it limits her oxygen intake.
I spoke to her this afternoon - I had to track her down at the hospital, since the little dickens didn't call me. She is being monitored and tested, but sounds in good spirits, considering. For those of you who have been so supportive of me, please keep my mother in your thoughts as well. The picture here is from sometime around my first birthday in 1968 - and nothing has changed, really. She's a great mom, and I'm her one and only.
And hey, if I may make a suggestion: If you smoke, quit. If you don't smoke, don't start. I quit in 1993 with the help of a local wellness center, and my mother did when she was diagnosed, and we both may have been too late.
Smokefree.gov
I spoke to her this afternoon - I had to track her down at the hospital, since the little dickens didn't call me. She is being monitored and tested, but sounds in good spirits, considering. For those of you who have been so supportive of me, please keep my mother in your thoughts as well. The picture here is from sometime around my first birthday in 1968 - and nothing has changed, really. She's a great mom, and I'm her one and only.
And hey, if I may make a suggestion: If you smoke, quit. If you don't smoke, don't start. I quit in 1993 with the help of a local wellness center, and my mother did when she was diagnosed, and we both may have been too late.
Smokefree.gov
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Movie Review: Winged Migration
The film has won acclaim for its beauty, and we were captivated too. On reaching the end, we went right into the DVD extras, looking for some insight into how the remarkable aerial footage was captured. The filmmakers developed a lot of innovative techniques, including the use of ultralight aircraft, balloons, helicopters and even remote-controlled model aircraft. But most striking was the fact that many of the birds in the film were actually raised and trained to be photographed in this manner, by a technique known to zoologists as "imprinting". Over the four years of production, the birds - many from shelters and zoos - were raised from chicks by the filmmakers and crew, and trained to tolerate (even pursue!) the noisy aircraft and camera vehicles. While the scenes in the film show the correct species of bird, flying over the correct terrain - in truth, the birds returned to their crates at the end of each day's filming, and travelled with the crew by airliner. Bird actors!
Does that change the impact of the film? I think it does, in a small way; it was disappointing to learn that what I had thought was the pure beauty of nature was in fact achieved with some artifice. Still, as mentioned, the film does show the correct species in the correct situations; with unforgettable images that could not have been achieved any other way. I still definitely recommend Winged Migration; the images are stunning, however they were captured, and the truths about the lives of these amazing birds are astounding.
The Machine
This is the machine that is used to treat me every day; as Gail wrote, on Friday I remembered to ask if she could come in and have a look. The staff of the radiation center, all women, have always been friendly and warm, and they allowed us a minute before the next patient stepped in. (The machine is in heavy use, apparently as many as 65 - 75 patients per day.)
The Machine - all the name it needs, at the clinic - emits precise bursts of radiation for the treatment of cancer. My initial treatment, for the tumor on my lung, involved two short treatments per day; each treatment consisted of three radiation exposures or "frames" from three different directions. The new treatment for the nest of tumors in my lower back involves 18 frames from nine positions, once a day.
The radiation treatments are designed precisely for each patient. The machine can rotate to focus on the patient from any direction, and the emitting mechanism has movable lead shutters to allow the radiation beam to be shaped specifically for each dose and angle. The patient lies still on a platform, after being raised up to the center of the machine; positioning is crucial, so custom-molded cushions are used. Small permanent tattoos on the patient are lined up with lasers along 3 axes to establish the initial position, and a computer program takes the machine through the gyrations and exposures as programmed by the directing physician.
That's the mechanics of it, anyway. I am always aware that we are hoping this machine will help save my life. I am becoming accustomed to the experiences - the technicians help me into position, and the lights flip on and off in the room as they use the lasers to line me up. Then the table elevates, and the techs leave, and I hear the 8-inch thick (!) lead door close. The machine rotates into the first of its positions, usually from below, and the lead shutters click and there is a whir of something focusing. Then a warning buzz sounds and the machine hums, for several seconds, as the radiation is released. There is no physical sensation; I sometimes think "Die, cancer, die!" as each burst sounds. I count off the exposures and watch the machine rotate around me, and look at my own reflection in the grey plastic casing.
Eventually the treatment is over, and I pull on my shirt and sandals and shuffle out. The physical effects of the radiation don't hit me until about an hour later; I think my new single dose is heavier than my old ones, as the effects are more pronounced. Fatigue hits hard; not mere tiredness, but a feeling that my arms and legs are weighed down with lead. I come home and lie down, not sleeping, but unable to get up; I read a lot. And I've been having a lot of nausea - this morning, I had to be let up from the MRI table while I was sick. Hopefully the 2-day respite over the weekend will let me enjoy a little normal activity, and keep down a few meals.
The Machine - all the name it needs, at the clinic - emits precise bursts of radiation for the treatment of cancer. My initial treatment, for the tumor on my lung, involved two short treatments per day; each treatment consisted of three radiation exposures or "frames" from three different directions. The new treatment for the nest of tumors in my lower back involves 18 frames from nine positions, once a day.
The radiation treatments are designed precisely for each patient. The machine can rotate to focus on the patient from any direction, and the emitting mechanism has movable lead shutters to allow the radiation beam to be shaped specifically for each dose and angle. The patient lies still on a platform, after being raised up to the center of the machine; positioning is crucial, so custom-molded cushions are used. Small permanent tattoos on the patient are lined up with lasers along 3 axes to establish the initial position, and a computer program takes the machine through the gyrations and exposures as programmed by the directing physician.
That's the mechanics of it, anyway. I am always aware that we are hoping this machine will help save my life. I am becoming accustomed to the experiences - the technicians help me into position, and the lights flip on and off in the room as they use the lasers to line me up. Then the table elevates, and the techs leave, and I hear the 8-inch thick (!) lead door close. The machine rotates into the first of its positions, usually from below, and the lead shutters click and there is a whir of something focusing. Then a warning buzz sounds and the machine hums, for several seconds, as the radiation is released. There is no physical sensation; I sometimes think "Die, cancer, die!" as each burst sounds. I count off the exposures and watch the machine rotate around me, and look at my own reflection in the grey plastic casing.
Eventually the treatment is over, and I pull on my shirt and sandals and shuffle out. The physical effects of the radiation don't hit me until about an hour later; I think my new single dose is heavier than my old ones, as the effects are more pronounced. Fatigue hits hard; not mere tiredness, but a feeling that my arms and legs are weighed down with lead. I come home and lie down, not sleeping, but unable to get up; I read a lot. And I've been having a lot of nausea - this morning, I had to be let up from the MRI table while I was sick. Hopefully the 2-day respite over the weekend will let me enjoy a little normal activity, and keep down a few meals.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
A Setback
Yesterday was a bad one. After my morning radiation treatment, I had a bad reaction to the injection, which saw me arrive home with severe nausea; I threw up before I could make it into the house. After suffering through this for over an hour, I finally passed out and got some rest before my MRI.
The MRI was ordered by one of the doctors in the radiation center, after hearing that my back pain had been getting more severe and more specific. I had to lie on the flat, hard platform of the MRI machine for almost an hour, which was excruciating. When we were finished, we went back to the radiation center for my afternoon treatment, with the new films from the scan. The doctor was able to see immediately that there are lesions on my tailbone, hip and two lower vertebra; the cancer has spread, and the new growths are causing the pain in my back.
This morning we spoke to Dr. B, who was very frank with us; it's bad news, and it makes my prognosis for recovery worse. They are changing my treatment immediately to irradiate the new areas for two weeks, which he thinks will quickly eliminate much of the pain; the treatment of my lung can stop for the time being, as the last scan showed a lot of progress on the original tumor. He also ordered another MRI for the rest of my spine, to see whether there is any more spread going on.
It's hard to say how or why this has happened; we knew from the start that this type of cancer is hard to contain, that it spreads very quickly. I've had arthritis-like symptoms since the outset, more than a month ago, and I've been on painkillers the whole time. So when the back pain began to get more severe last week, I just began taking more pills; I never thought that the cancer might spread while I was in chemotherapy. And short of getting an MRI every day, there's just no way of knowing - by the time anything shows up on a scan, it's really too late.
But I'm resolved to keep fighting, and hoping that the cancer can be fought into remission. Since I am no longer "limited stage", it's not realistic to think of being "cured", but there are always a few people who manage long remissions and survive for years. In the meantime, I am trying to live the best quality of life that I can, and make things easier for Gail. We're going forward with the wedding, and making plans for a train trip as a mini-honeymoon. And I'm working on drawing up some paper plans, blueprints, for a new model airplane - an old U.S. Air Mail biplane from the 1920s. There's always hope in making plans.
The MRI was ordered by one of the doctors in the radiation center, after hearing that my back pain had been getting more severe and more specific. I had to lie on the flat, hard platform of the MRI machine for almost an hour, which was excruciating. When we were finished, we went back to the radiation center for my afternoon treatment, with the new films from the scan. The doctor was able to see immediately that there are lesions on my tailbone, hip and two lower vertebra; the cancer has spread, and the new growths are causing the pain in my back.
This morning we spoke to Dr. B, who was very frank with us; it's bad news, and it makes my prognosis for recovery worse. They are changing my treatment immediately to irradiate the new areas for two weeks, which he thinks will quickly eliminate much of the pain; the treatment of my lung can stop for the time being, as the last scan showed a lot of progress on the original tumor. He also ordered another MRI for the rest of my spine, to see whether there is any more spread going on.
It's hard to say how or why this has happened; we knew from the start that this type of cancer is hard to contain, that it spreads very quickly. I've had arthritis-like symptoms since the outset, more than a month ago, and I've been on painkillers the whole time. So when the back pain began to get more severe last week, I just began taking more pills; I never thought that the cancer might spread while I was in chemotherapy. And short of getting an MRI every day, there's just no way of knowing - by the time anything shows up on a scan, it's really too late.
But I'm resolved to keep fighting, and hoping that the cancer can be fought into remission. Since I am no longer "limited stage", it's not realistic to think of being "cured", but there are always a few people who manage long remissions and survive for years. In the meantime, I am trying to live the best quality of life that I can, and make things easier for Gail. We're going forward with the wedding, and making plans for a train trip as a mini-honeymoon. And I'm working on drawing up some paper plans, blueprints, for a new model airplane - an old U.S. Air Mail biplane from the 1920s. There's always hope in making plans.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
OK, back to the fun!
Well, having been rudely interrupted by a bacterial infection, I felt much better today. Gail and I had hoped to return to Rhinebeck for the model airplane Jamboree, but I decided I was still too weak to travel that far. But then last night my neighbor Bill reminded me that our local model airplane club, the Waymart Wings, was having its annual airshow and model fly-in. Great! That's only a 20-minute ride, and I missed the event last year - because I was at Rhinebeck, actually.
It was perfect weather, and we drove out to the club's field on Kellachow's farm - actually a full-scale private grass runway for his own family. The club was out in full force, the flightline crowded with neat model airplanes, and a few full-sized ones too. As we arrived, a local pilot was performing stunts in his Decathlon monoplane, finishing with the "Delsey Dive" - just like Rhinebeck! He did great, too; he whirled around in descending turns, managing to cut the falling streamer of toilet paper at least six times before it fell dead-center onto the airfield. Gail and I took out our chairs and parked my model Jenny biplane on pit row, and walked around photographing the planes and the farm. We sat and chatted with Bill and my other model-flying friends, who I haven't seen much since I've been so involved in full-sized flying. We enjoyed the day, and the models buzzing overhead, and a few honest grilled hamburgers. (Gosh, it's good to have my appetite back!)
On the way back, we stopped at a nearby monastery; St. Tikhon's, a Russian Orthodox monastery and theological seminary. The onion-shaped domes and beautiful setting lured us in for photography, but as we were there, the brothers and sisters were congregating for a service. Gail was quietly composing a photo of one of the icons, when the air was split by the loud, clear pealing of the bells! We both jumped, and then wandered over in time to watch the spectacle of the bell-ringers; two cassock-wearing monks (I presume) were ringing the bells by hand, playing a fairly complex tune by pulling the heavy ropes on the freestanding bell tower. It was fascinating, and when they were finished we were left alone outside the chapel to photograph the monastery grounds. The bells themselves were among the most beautiful items; the largest, according to its inscription, was newly founded this year.
Were were just finishing our tour when I got a call from my CAP comrade Frank, who was in the area with his family and asked us to dinner. So we met a short while later at Kundla's Open Pit Barbecue, about which I have raved in the past, and had a barbecue dinner that couldn't be beat - and lively conversation with he and Marianne and Frank Jr., one of my cadets. An altogether satisfying day to be out of the hospital!
It was perfect weather, and we drove out to the club's field on Kellachow's farm - actually a full-scale private grass runway for his own family. The club was out in full force, the flightline crowded with neat model airplanes, and a few full-sized ones too. As we arrived, a local pilot was performing stunts in his Decathlon monoplane, finishing with the "Delsey Dive" - just like Rhinebeck! He did great, too; he whirled around in descending turns, managing to cut the falling streamer of toilet paper at least six times before it fell dead-center onto the airfield. Gail and I took out our chairs and parked my model Jenny biplane on pit row, and walked around photographing the planes and the farm. We sat and chatted with Bill and my other model-flying friends, who I haven't seen much since I've been so involved in full-sized flying. We enjoyed the day, and the models buzzing overhead, and a few honest grilled hamburgers. (Gosh, it's good to have my appetite back!)
On the way back, we stopped at a nearby monastery; St. Tikhon's, a Russian Orthodox monastery and theological seminary. The onion-shaped domes and beautiful setting lured us in for photography, but as we were there, the brothers and sisters were congregating for a service. Gail was quietly composing a photo of one of the icons, when the air was split by the loud, clear pealing of the bells! We both jumped, and then wandered over in time to watch the spectacle of the bell-ringers; two cassock-wearing monks (I presume) were ringing the bells by hand, playing a fairly complex tune by pulling the heavy ropes on the freestanding bell tower. It was fascinating, and when they were finished we were left alone outside the chapel to photograph the monastery grounds. The bells themselves were among the most beautiful items; the largest, according to its inscription, was newly founded this year.
Were were just finishing our tour when I got a call from my CAP comrade Frank, who was in the area with his family and asked us to dinner. So we met a short while later at Kundla's Open Pit Barbecue, about which I have raved in the past, and had a barbecue dinner that couldn't be beat - and lively conversation with he and Marianne and Frank Jr., one of my cadets. An altogether satisfying day to be out of the hospital!
Friday, September 09, 2005
Free once again...
Whew. As Gail reported, I had to go back into the hospital Tuesday afternoon due to a high fever and nausea; I just got home. Apparently a bacterial infection of some kind - Dr. A, my oncologist, said that this sort of thing can happen due to my depressed immune system. He didn't think that it had anything to do with my going out this past weekend, it could have been bacteria from my own body run amok.
Whatever it was, it wiped me out. My fever spiked at 103 on Tuesday night, but broke early Wednesday morning. All along, I was wracked with such nausea that I couldn't look at - or even smell - food. So I didn't eat a morsel for almost two days, and between that and the many bags of I.V. antibiotics they dripped into me, I just felt weak and overmedicated. (The only bright spots were the extremely powerful pain injections, which were downright euphoric. But eventually I was shying away from them for fear of addiction.)
Early this morning I began to manage to keep a few bites down, and feel a little better. My last blood test showed my various counts back to acceptable levels, so I have been released in time to enjoy the weekend. I'll still be relying on Gail a lot around the house, but I'm glad to be out of the hospital. They do a fine job of treating the sick, but the food was awful - and you can't get more than an hour's sleep before someone comes in, at any hour, to check whether your feet are swollen or whether you've peed or some such matter of import.
Whatever it was, it wiped me out. My fever spiked at 103 on Tuesday night, but broke early Wednesday morning. All along, I was wracked with such nausea that I couldn't look at - or even smell - food. So I didn't eat a morsel for almost two days, and between that and the many bags of I.V. antibiotics they dripped into me, I just felt weak and overmedicated. (The only bright spots were the extremely powerful pain injections, which were downright euphoric. But eventually I was shying away from them for fear of addiction.)
Early this morning I began to manage to keep a few bites down, and feel a little better. My last blood test showed my various counts back to acceptable levels, so I have been released in time to enjoy the weekend. I'll still be relying on Gail a lot around the house, but I'm glad to be out of the hospital. They do a fine job of treating the sick, but the food was awful - and you can't get more than an hour's sleep before someone comes in, at any hour, to check whether your feet are swollen or whether you've peed or some such matter of import.
Monday, September 05, 2005
The Best Medicine
Aviation, laughter, antique cars and a beautiful late-summer day in upstate New York. Gail took me for a day trip yesterday, a two-hour drive up the scenic Hudson River valley to my favorite place in the world - The Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome, a working museum of antique airplanes.
The Aerodrome is a unique place; there's nowhere else in the country with a similar collection of ancient airplanes, that actually fly. It was founded by a pilot, Cole Palen, back in 1961 when he acquired a French "Spad" fighter from the first World War. Looking for a safe place to teach himself to fly the old biplane, he bought a spread of farmland near the Hudson River north of Poughkeepsie, and carved a short grass strip into the uneven land. From this unlikely beginning, Cole's collection grew over the years into dozens of rare machines from the early era of aviation, the years before World War II.
In order to fund his hobby - and just for fun - Palen began to give weekend airshows, demonstrating his old birds for the public. He maintained them the way he thought they should be seen, in working condition, not polished and behind glass in a museum. And to make the show accessible to children - and for fun - he added a campy, comic theme; a set of stock WWI characters, heros and villains, and livened up the airshow with fizzing TNT bombs, aerial dogfights and slapstick comedy.
Having spent a lifetime doing just what he loved, Cole passed away of natural causes in 1993. But the Aerodrome lives on, carefully preserved by a nonprofit foundation and the weekend airshows go on every summer. I haven't missed going at least once every season for the last ten years; one weekend is given to a huge model aviation meet. I have also made it a point to take my cadets there every summer to enjoy the show and learn about aviation history.
Gail and I packed up our many cameras and left early yesterday, hoping to get there in time to sign up for a barnstorming ride in the museum's 1929 New Standard biplane. When we arrived, I trotted right over to the ride booth, but the young girl there said that the rides were sold out; and the morning rides were cancelled due to gusty wind conditions, as well. Well, that was too bad, but we were enjoying the day anyway; I led Gail around the old tin hangars and rattled off chapter and verse on each old plane and bit of machinery. She found an endless variety of things to photograph, from the old planes to the many cars and motorbikes, old engines, and the beautiful countryside around the museum. A friendly old gentleman in a flightsuit invited us to come into one hangar to examine the partially-completed "Spirit of St. Louis" replica; I noticed his nametag, Stanley Segalla - one of the airshow pilots, famous as the "Flying Farmer"!
At 2:00 we sat down on the rustic "bleachers" - planks of wood on cinder blocks - to watch the airshow. The wind kept the very oldest planes grounded, but the rest of the vintage biplanes did their barnstorming acts, as did Mr. Segalla in his Piper Cub. The evil "Black Baron of Rhinebeck" menaced "Sir Percy Goodfellow" and his lovely bride-to-be, "Trudy Truelove" - who shrieked at the top of her charming lungs when the Baron kidnapped her, and Sir Percy and his squadron mates set off in pursuit.
After the show, we waited for the crowd to clear out, and walked over to the flightline. I stopped at the fence to talk to a hero of mine, Bill King, another veteran old pilot and one of the lead performers at the Aerodrome. Gail snapped our photo, and Mr. King advised us to stick around, as he thought that the air was calming and the biplane rides would resume. So we did, and as the shadows got longer the air did cool and the wind subsided. We had to wait our turn until the very last ride of the day, but we finally climbed aboard - we had the plane to ourselves (it seats four), and the air was perfectly still. The setting sun over the Hudson valley was perfect for photography, and Gail and I enjoyed the ride immensely, tucked in the open cockpit with the wind and engine roaring. We snapped a few pictures and marvelled at the sensations. The pilot even threw in a little fun, what we call a chandelle; he dove for a little speed and pulled up into a steep turn, rolling the broad orange wings almost vertical, as we watched the glittering Hudson River below us.
After a silky-smooth landing on the grass strip, we drove into the historic village of Rhinebeck, and had an immense dinner at the Coach House Tavern. When we got home, we were exhausted, but fell asleep with the day's images still in our heads. I finally got my pictures posted today; Gail will be hours going through hers, and we have film to develop too. As always, watch her site for the results.
Thanks Gail, and Mr. Segalla and Mr. King... and thanks Cole, wherever you are. It was far and away the best day I've had in a long time.
The Aerodrome is a unique place; there's nowhere else in the country with a similar collection of ancient airplanes, that actually fly. It was founded by a pilot, Cole Palen, back in 1961 when he acquired a French "Spad" fighter from the first World War. Looking for a safe place to teach himself to fly the old biplane, he bought a spread of farmland near the Hudson River north of Poughkeepsie, and carved a short grass strip into the uneven land. From this unlikely beginning, Cole's collection grew over the years into dozens of rare machines from the early era of aviation, the years before World War II.
In order to fund his hobby - and just for fun - Palen began to give weekend airshows, demonstrating his old birds for the public. He maintained them the way he thought they should be seen, in working condition, not polished and behind glass in a museum. And to make the show accessible to children - and for fun - he added a campy, comic theme; a set of stock WWI characters, heros and villains, and livened up the airshow with fizzing TNT bombs, aerial dogfights and slapstick comedy.
Having spent a lifetime doing just what he loved, Cole passed away of natural causes in 1993. But the Aerodrome lives on, carefully preserved by a nonprofit foundation and the weekend airshows go on every summer. I haven't missed going at least once every season for the last ten years; one weekend is given to a huge model aviation meet. I have also made it a point to take my cadets there every summer to enjoy the show and learn about aviation history.
Gail and I packed up our many cameras and left early yesterday, hoping to get there in time to sign up for a barnstorming ride in the museum's 1929 New Standard biplane. When we arrived, I trotted right over to the ride booth, but the young girl there said that the rides were sold out; and the morning rides were cancelled due to gusty wind conditions, as well. Well, that was too bad, but we were enjoying the day anyway; I led Gail around the old tin hangars and rattled off chapter and verse on each old plane and bit of machinery. She found an endless variety of things to photograph, from the old planes to the many cars and motorbikes, old engines, and the beautiful countryside around the museum. A friendly old gentleman in a flightsuit invited us to come into one hangar to examine the partially-completed "Spirit of St. Louis" replica; I noticed his nametag, Stanley Segalla - one of the airshow pilots, famous as the "Flying Farmer"!
At 2:00 we sat down on the rustic "bleachers" - planks of wood on cinder blocks - to watch the airshow. The wind kept the very oldest planes grounded, but the rest of the vintage biplanes did their barnstorming acts, as did Mr. Segalla in his Piper Cub. The evil "Black Baron of Rhinebeck" menaced "Sir Percy Goodfellow" and his lovely bride-to-be, "Trudy Truelove" - who shrieked at the top of her charming lungs when the Baron kidnapped her, and Sir Percy and his squadron mates set off in pursuit.
After the show, we waited for the crowd to clear out, and walked over to the flightline. I stopped at the fence to talk to a hero of mine, Bill King, another veteran old pilot and one of the lead performers at the Aerodrome. Gail snapped our photo, and Mr. King advised us to stick around, as he thought that the air was calming and the biplane rides would resume. So we did, and as the shadows got longer the air did cool and the wind subsided. We had to wait our turn until the very last ride of the day, but we finally climbed aboard - we had the plane to ourselves (it seats four), and the air was perfectly still. The setting sun over the Hudson valley was perfect for photography, and Gail and I enjoyed the ride immensely, tucked in the open cockpit with the wind and engine roaring. We snapped a few pictures and marvelled at the sensations. The pilot even threw in a little fun, what we call a chandelle; he dove for a little speed and pulled up into a steep turn, rolling the broad orange wings almost vertical, as we watched the glittering Hudson River below us.
After a silky-smooth landing on the grass strip, we drove into the historic village of Rhinebeck, and had an immense dinner at the Coach House Tavern. When we got home, we were exhausted, but fell asleep with the day's images still in our heads. I finally got my pictures posted today; Gail will be hours going through hers, and we have film to develop too. As always, watch her site for the results.
Thanks Gail, and Mr. Segalla and Mr. King... and thanks Cole, wherever you are. It was far and away the best day I've had in a long time.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Back In The Saddle
If not in the air, anyway. After a restful day free from the alarm clock, Gail and I went out to Cherry Ridge for an early supper, and to walk around and plane-watch. We missed the midday crowd, but had a nice chat with the Airport Cafe owners, Sue and Rick. They are working very hard, seven days a week at the little diner overlooking the runway; the reviews prove that they are doing a great job. The Cafe is a big draw for the airport, with pilots flying in from hundreds of miles away for a meal. The dining area is all glass, looking out over the parking apron and the peaceful woodlands that surround the airport.
Afterwards we wandered around, me looking over the parked airplanes, and Gail taking pictures of whatever caught her eye. She found a long-retired steam roller that was just a bounty of wonderful textures, rust and peeling paint. We pulled 02P out of the hangar and checked her over, since it's been over a month since my last flight. I made some minor repairs to an oil-line grommet, and we actually hopped in and started the engine, just to see that the battery was charged.
I let it run for a few minutes and taxiied to the ramp, and discovered that the brakes were very weak; so I switched off and added some hydraulic fluid. The Tri-Pacer has a tiny, rudimentary brake system - one small piston on the firewall, operated by a hand lever from the cockpit, with a pair of hydraulic lines to the small drum brakes. Most heavy motorcycles have more stopping power, but this plane lands very slowly, and the system is simple and adequate. Since the volume of fluid is so small, even a slight leak will let the brakes go soft - and they all leak.
So we put the plane away, just as the sun went down. Later in the weekend, if I'm still feeling well, I'll shanghai one of my pilot friends and take her out for a flight. It felt good anyway, to be tinkering under the cowl, and to hear the engine rumbling away again.
Afterwards we wandered around, me looking over the parked airplanes, and Gail taking pictures of whatever caught her eye. She found a long-retired steam roller that was just a bounty of wonderful textures, rust and peeling paint. We pulled 02P out of the hangar and checked her over, since it's been over a month since my last flight. I made some minor repairs to an oil-line grommet, and we actually hopped in and started the engine, just to see that the battery was charged.
I let it run for a few minutes and taxiied to the ramp, and discovered that the brakes were very weak; so I switched off and added some hydraulic fluid. The Tri-Pacer has a tiny, rudimentary brake system - one small piston on the firewall, operated by a hand lever from the cockpit, with a pair of hydraulic lines to the small drum brakes. Most heavy motorcycles have more stopping power, but this plane lands very slowly, and the system is simple and adequate. Since the volume of fluid is so small, even a slight leak will let the brakes go soft - and they all leak.
So we put the plane away, just as the sun went down. Later in the weekend, if I'm still feeling well, I'll shanghai one of my pilot friends and take her out for a flight. It felt good anyway, to be tinkering under the cowl, and to hear the engine rumbling away again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)