Six days and a little less hair remain...

I seem to be losing more hair everyday. Today my head started peeling, BUT I no longer have the rapid headaches when I lower my head down closer to my heart. I'm so glad that I won't be dealing with those anymore; I was starting to worry.

I do have a pretty killer mohawk right now. I guess it'll be a nice thing to have during the months of waiting for my hair to start growing back. I may have to shave it off though. I don't know if I can have it for three straight months. Let's see...I've got two nasty looking scars and a mohawk. That's fairly intimidating.

SO...

I'm starting to think thoughts of next steps. Any suggestions? I could move back up to Philly, get a house close by and start a little studio in an extra room and get back into teaching (I guess kind of try to pick up where I left off) 
or
I could stay down here in Atlanta for a little while and take an RT class at Chattahoochee Tech. I'd be living here for free at Ben's (my brother) house and working for my sister, but I don't know if I'd be happy with this...

I need help. Thoughts???    

A new haircut and Jasmine's birthday hat

It was tough, but today...I did it. I shaved it. My hair's almost gone for the first time since High School. It kind of feels good, but at the same time I feel like my head weighs next to nothing, and there're some hefty bald spots on it, but nonetheless, I don't have to wear a scarf (the birthday hat's not gonna cut it either), and for that, I'm more than pleased. Because as you see, I don't want to just be a cancer victim. This cancer's just a trial that's happening to me in my life right now. I'm dealing with it as anyone deals with anything difficult: one step at a time. The scarf would make me more of a victim, and I'm not a victim. I'm just a guy.

There are eight more radiation holes left in my proverbial radiation belt. It's come and gone rather quickly. The whole fourth surgery put a bit of a wrench in the works, but I got through it, and now here I am. Lately, I've noticed that I need to have more time to be able to get more done (I'm so glad that I actually feel this way rather than just being tired, throwing up, and having whole-body aches). Two to three hours midday really confounds the flow of time. In the next few weeks I'll be able to do much more.

Now I have to figure out how to take the next step...

Comb over of the century!

I'm close to 100% positive that I looked like a Hindu priest before re-doing my hair took precedence today. If you look closely enough, I'm pretty sure that you can see the little red dot on my forehead. With the beard and the Hinduish head dressing, how could I not be mistaken for a priest? (sans that shirt me thinks)


This is what I looked like right before I got down to business on my hair today. As you can see, there's a horrific dearth of hair on the front of my head. This is from the radiation that scandalously accosts me daily. It was fairly horrific at the hospital, my hair suddenly just all fell out. It was everywhere. All over my pillow, stuck to my shirt. The first shower I took after surgery must've looked like I was being shaven, but I wasn't. My whole head of hair was in the drain afterward and I didn't even cut it. It just fell out.


Due to these affronts, I've had to manage my way through haircut territory. Being that I have very little to work with, I've decided on a mohawk/comb-over-of-the-century. It's the first time I've ever had one, so we'll see how it looks when I spike it out. I mean, it will be fairly hardcore. With the scar stretching across the front of my skull and the other in the back of my head--mohawk flaring--I wouldn't want to mess with me.

This is how I look now. The sides and back are totally shaven, and all the hair you see is combed over from the middle of my head. This is why it is the comb over of the century. It doesn't look too bad from the front here, but from the back and sides...yeah, we'll have to see about that.

Honestly though, I feel like a different person compared to the way I felt a week ago. Let no man say that hydrocephalus is for the birds--It'll bring you down without you even knowing it. You simply just fall asleep and never get up--and when you do, you throw up...a whole lot.

Today was the halfway point of my radiation therapy. One-half done, one-half to go. It feels good (now that my hair's in the process of falling out) to know that I'm through (still in maybe?) the worst of it. It's weird (kind of like an adventure that I never ever would've undertaken in the past), but I feel somehow blessed with the knowledge that I can get through this. It may be scary and it may not be any fun (for a while) sometimes, but these times always pass. Such is life though, right?

A final comment and ten days of distress

So Shannon reminded me of a thought that I had regarding one of the last photos that I showed (If you go back to my last entry, it's the top image). The picture is of an all too usual looking man squatting (I think this is the best word for the picture, by the way.) It's of this all too usual looking man sitting down as St. Joe's welcomes all of their patients to take a seat...and a load off. While this gesture is all too considerate, the image that they're using is fairly hilarious, and I think everyone thought of this guy pooping on the chair (to put it nicely) when they saw it. I'm welcoming any other foul descriptions of this image too (be careful with your wording, though, my niece is on here occasionally).


SOOOO... I haven't written in 10 days because I was horribly ill with what I first thought was a hangover (off of two beers, ha!), then I thought was the flu as it persisted so long, and finally have come to find out is a fairly advanced case of Hydrocephalus--fluid accumulation in the brain. (This picture was from when I was trying out for the Perry Mason look-a-like role).

It started out rather poetically actually. I was flying down 75 South trying to get to Bob's Dirt Worshipper show on the Tech campus downtown--in time. When all of a sudden, there were flashing lights behind me. Yep. I got busted doing 79 in a 55. That hurts. I'm going to have to pay for the fee and then go downtown to see if they can reduce the mph overage on that one. One year=totaling my car + 24 mph over the speed limit. Not good.

Then I couldn't find the show, got lost, and found the place just as they were finishing. Not one note, my ears never heard. Everything being loaded up and in order, they gave me a ride back to my car and we went over to The Local for a couple of brews, then we headed home. No problem until about 10 AM Saturday morning. Then the puking began and it didn't end 6 hours later. Yuck.

I recovered from that little event...kind of...and then it began all over again five days later. Since then I've been sleeping almost constantly, eating very little, the welt on my head has been taking on vampiric proportions, AND duh duh da dahhhh...my hair's starting to come out now.

So as I feel incredibly attractive right now (and not at all like some kind of horrific looking mutated beast scouring the deep dark waters searching ever so cautiously each night for my prey obscured by its innate look of innocence) I think this is a fairly low note for me right now, so I'd appreciate any advice that you guys have for me right now or just tell me to keep my chin up. Either way, I know I'll make it through this. Maybe just not as quickly (or easily) as I was thinking before.


I'm flying up to Johns Hopkins again tomorrow to try and get this shunt in and back down here to Atlanta in as few days as possible. Missing a day of radiation is not in the radiation deck of cards so to speak. Although it happens to just about everyone, the major studies haven't been published with people that need to get a shunt put in amidst their radiation schedule. Here's to five more days sans radiation.

1/3 the way to the light at the end

Yep this is the mask that squishes my face (and head bumps) into place everyday. I don't think I can even open my eyes much sometimes. Monday was really tough. I guess my head was so swollen that the mask barely fit. It was ridiculously uncomfortable. I almost told them there was no way I could handle it, but I made it through...somehow. I talked with my doctor afterward (Mondays are see-the-doc days), and she said to try squishing it down with some gauze that I wrap around my head. That would actually keep some of the fluid from accumulating under my skin. Sounded like a good idea to me (albeit rather gross, if it was happening to someone else and I was reading about it). So now I'm a gauze-wearing freak of nature. It actually does feel kind of nice though...strangely. It was the same when I was in the hospital (I can't believe it's been over a month since the surgery now). It's like I don't quite have to worry about my brains falling out of my head (I think I just reminded myself of Peter Jackson's Bad Taste). It just kind of holds it all in place. I think it's kind of my secret security blanky. Twenty-nine and still holding on to a security blanky...nice.

This is the massive radiation machine that orbits my head (literally. it can turn itself totally upside down). I get six doses of radiation each day. The circle at the top rotates around my head. There are these long lead leaves that the machine uses to administer the radiation to a very specific area. The leaves block the beam from being out of place. (In case you're wondering, it's called IGRT/IMRT). I do it for 6 weeks/30 business days. Then I take a month off and start the "maintenance" dose of chemo. The name of which I find hilarious as no dose will ever get higher (due to toxicity limitations) than on the maintenance dose. I'm pretty sure it's actually high dose chemo (let's just call it what it is). That's it. That's my all to brief discussion of the St. Joseph Radiation Treatment Program for you. I hope you've enjoyed it. Thanks.

The sub-ingeneous cotton ball predicament

Dear Brains Behind Temodar,

Thank you for your ingenious new drug that can kill my brain tumor and make me all better inside. There's only one problem, though. In the wonderful little process that you guys have spent thinking this drug up, you've overlooked one...petty...but albeit entirely frustrating bit of nonsense. I'm calling it the sub-ingenious cotton ball predicament.

A la the picture above, there's simple physics to consider with these bottles. A hole slightly larger than the size of my pinky finger doesn't really allow for a massive wad of cotton to be pulled through it very easily. What would make this more sensible??? Hmmm. AHA...a bigger hole! You see if you made the hole a bit bigger, say the size of the rest of the bottle, this whole mess could be entirely avoided. I don't want to have to ask my niece to use her little fingers to get my cotton ball out of the small-dose-of-poison container for me. (Is that even legal?) You see, this is just a tiny bit of frustration on top of a mountain of inconvenience. First we get the doctor bursting through his/her office saying, "OH...yeah, you have a brain tumor...and it's rather large." Then we get the brain surgery, and on top of that we get the news that it's cancerous: chemo and radiation...forever! Then we have to get six weeks of high dose radiation (that will probably shorten and severely change the rest of my life) and the cherry on top is this damn sub-ingenious cotton ball predicament.

So please, with your next batch of Temodar pills, just make the mouth of the jar the same size as the jar itself. That's all I ask. Thank You.

Truly Yours,
David Sommer

Cutting out steroids may be worse than radiation

Today I felt SO much better than I did the last two days. Get this to, it was just because I was trying to get off this dexamethasone (a corticosteroid) to a) let me sleep longer than 4 hours a day b) see if it has anything to do with this massive bump sitting on my forehead since the beginning of time (is it ever going away?) c) get rid of the acne that's creeping up on my face and d) get off the damn drug! Unfortunately, my body literally started to crumble when i cut down from 4mg to 2mg (that's how potent this drug is). I literally lost every ounce of energy. I couldn't help but sit around and watch TV and had annoying headaches. Sounds great, huh? (at least I don't have to worry about the tumor returning right now...?)

Now I'm feeling good again. I don't think the Temodar (chemo) pills are creating much of a problem yet, and I haven't started losing any hair from the radiation. That will happen though. It'll kill everything in it's path by mid 4th week. So I guess I'm either going to have to get a very strange looking haircut or shave it all off. Hmmm which one should I choose? I could kind of go for the odd haircut. I mean there's no time like the present, right?

One session down, twenty-nine to go

It's been a rough day. I took those two little chemo beauts in my hand last night and decided that it was time to cut back on the steroids I've been taking. Hopefully, this will give me a reprieve from the incessant hunger I've been feeling (The chemo has to be taken on an empty stomach which I've found increasingly harder to do post surgery for whatever reason.) Anyway, the whole combo of drug reductions/additions and then throwing the whole radiotherapy thing on top hasn't made for the most smooth transition from healing-from-surgery to being-killed-in-small-intervals. I've had a headache and felt out of it from cutting back on the steroid, and I was feeling sick earlier which I can only guess was from the chemo having it's way with my stomach. Then I got radiated! Yay! (ummm...opposite of yay actually.)

Here I am ready to get my brain blasted by high beam radiation. Contrary to how it appears, the mask is really uncomfortable actually. I can't really see anything or move my head, but I can hear these arms moving around me sounding off an alarm when the radiation beams begin to penetrate my skull. It was really comfortable in there (that's a big joke). I couldn't wait to run at full speed out of that place. I think my heart was racing the whole time thinking about all the radiation my poor little brain had to bear.

I need to stay positive though. This is just another step in this whole damn battle that I'm waging with my brain right now. I've got the surgery bit down, but this...this is a different story. I'll have to stay strong to stay on top or I'll simply float away.

Twenty-nine more sessions to go...

Stitches removed, Philly friends, temodar dread

This is my daily dose of pills...it's quite a bit. Munching them down, I can ingest them rather quickly, so that's not really the problem. Actually it just takes a while to count them out each night. That's all, and it's just something else to have to break out at meals when I'm out on the town (which rarely ever happens by the way), and I wonder what every pair of eyes that glance at my pill stash (equivalent to that of an old man's) thinks when they see me pull the massive container out. Maybe I really am the equivalent of an old man now. I mean I like the way they dress, so...

This is how I got my sutures removed (the doc who did it was Portuguese and a bit on the hilarious side). It didn't hurt that much, but it did take a while. Josie was there to document the process through photography (somehow, someway it makes me feel like the whole thing is happening to someone else, and it's my job just to record every bit). He had some rather hilarious surgical tales, though (I don't feel right repeating them here. They were rather confidential). I know I'm sorry. Let's just say it involved older men having their foreskins removed and a doc passing out during the surgery. It kept me laughing the whole time to say the least.

That being said, it was a bit unusual. I feel like I've gotten so used to having these surgeries that it's happening to someone else. The fear and dread I felt before have vanished into this vague sense of comfort that I truly question during my hospital visits. I mean I'm almost friends with my neurosurgeon now (the picture of the interview below), and I don't really know how I feel about that. Life is so different now than it was before. I have a focus. I have something that must be done in order for me to continue my existence. It's almost comforting...in a really bizarre sort of way. I really don't know how to make sense of it all. I feel like I was kind of searching for some bizarre sort of tether to the ground, and this has fixated me to it. I'm no longer vaguely meandering through life. I have a new list of things that need to be done, that I need to accomplish before the end. I didn't feel like that before. It was all just...meaningless?
This is my interview with Dr. Quinones. It went so well (and I had coffee made from this futuristic coffee machine that made a perfect cup one cup at a time. I'll probably never taste that again, but then again, who knows???) I felt great afterwards. Goliath and I is up and running now, and I'm feeling good about it. Rachel's excited about it (she's a writer that's helping to guide me through the writing process), and I am too. My next interviewee is Sarah, but first I have to transcribe my interview. That'll take a while, a long while. Hopefully, it'll go as smoothly as possible.

After my interview, Josie drove me up to Philly where I saw some friends (many of which I haven't seen in a ridiculously long time), and Cloud Minder finally got our album entirely planned out. Now we're in the final phases of editing and mastering. We're expecting the release sometime this summer. Almost 2 years without a show...I feel like I need to add some kind of explanation to the album. Needless to say, its has taken on a much more meaningful feel throughout the last 2 years. It's almost like a story of the whole experience now. I don't know if it'll ever actually be complete.

Now I just have to get through the next 6 weeks of radiation which starts tomorrow. Tonight is the first time I have to take chemo (Temodar) which I'm rather uncomfortable with, but if I can do 3 surgeries in a year and walk out of the NCCU, I guess I can do anything???

Back to Philly pre-brain blast next week!

So I'm flying back up to Baltimore on Mon. and Tues. morning next week, then I'll catch a bus or drive up to Philly through early on Friday morning. The Baltimore fiasco will take place for two days as I'm having my sutures removed, getting the docs notes from the surgery....and getting the pathology report (let's just hope this thing hasn't turned itself into a snarling beast of a GBM yet). So I'm rather nervous about getting the path report. I may not open it until I get back home to be in the caring environment of my family. If Josie can make it down though, I may just suck it up and open it up with her around. I just don't want to open it alone.

Then I'll be heading up to Philly on Tuesday morning after I interview my surgeon. It's for a book I'm writing tentatively titled...Goliath and I (shocking, I know). It'll outline all the wonderful people I've met and a kind of parallel telling of their stories with my own throughout this terrible adventure. That's as far as I've gotten with it so far, but I'll keep you posted, and if you have any super ideas for it, I'm open to any and all of them.

I'm looking forward to getting back up to Philly for a bit. I haven't been up there in months it feels. Well I guess it has been months now that I think about it. Life's crazy...

Well that just about rounds out my 3rd brain surgery

Well I've finally gotten done with my 3rd brain surgery (Hopefully my last, though somehow, I don't really want to have to hold my breath on that one. I may not make it). It actually didn't even feel like a surgery at all. Besides the fact that I was ready to go in to get it done 2 weeks prior, it just felt as basic as breathing this time. I've been through it all before: the pre-surgery tension, the stresses, the what-fors and why-nots and finally the acceptance, but this time it was just less. So much less that I almost forgot that I had a major operation. I just wanted to escape the hospital under the cover of night and get back to...something else. I don't know what that else that would be right now, though. This has been all I've been dealing with for the last year. Therefore, I didn't escape the hospital.

I just stayed, but I did walk out. Out of the Johns-Hopkins Neuro Critical Care Unit, the step up from ICU, I walked. Three surgeries down, 1 year, bring it. I don't mean to sound self-absorbed here, but I was very proud to be slowly shuffling my dizzy feet down the hall out of the hospital that day. I felt like I wasn't back at the beginning where all of my fears lie as I've been worried. I was here, now with my whole future in front of me. It felt good.

So here's a picture of me when I finally got back to my room at the best of westerns. It ain't pretty but dammit, it's me.

Take that tumor!

I've been pontificating on the most effective way to cause the tumor to question the necessity of it's own existence (the theory behind this is that it would get sad and lonely and simply off itself), and I've decided that the most effective means would be to denigrate its most highly rated personality attributes. These features are (not appearing in any proper order):

1) Its ability to multiply at a blinding pace
2) Its tendency to manifest such crappily built venous structures
3) Merely its own existence (this one shares my personal favoritism)

The theory here is that by making it feel flawed for even existing, we may be able to coax it into not existing.

For example, treatments such as, "Look at yourself...," or vomiting profusely upon one's first attempt to make obviously superficial conversation with it. These treatments should cause the tumor to question its ability to coexist with beings of such superior intellect and possibly rescind the establishment of its own existence. The trick here is to take off-putting references to the tumor's own attributes and wholly blow them out of proportion. Crying to itself, the tumor will hopefully jump off the closest unsuitably tall object in my head.

Thank you.

A temporary stay of incision in the OR

Ok so my surgery's been rescheduled for March 12th. The reason: garlic. Apparently, it behaves much as aspirin does in the blood; it thins it out. I was using a (high quality) garlic supplement that actually does thin out the blood. (It's called Garlinase Fresh and it doesn't cause odors to emanate from your breath. You never would've known that I was taking a massive garlic supplement. Oops) Anyway, for those of you facing cardiac problems blood-thinners are right up your alley. Give it a shot; It helped (or hurt) me (Depending on the perspective you take on this).

Anyway, so keep those prayers and well-wishes up for another...oh..two weeks? Well I'm half kidding here, but I'd like it if you just kept me in your thoughts and prayers to get me over this little hurdle. ok take care now.

My 3rd stay at the furthest operating table

Ugh...I've been dealing with a rather interesting Doctors' debate over the last several days. All in all, I've got to have another surgery...then radiation and/or chemo...then possibly Antineoplastons. I need to back up though. I need to pretend like I don't know what's going to happen after this surgery. I just know that I'm going to have to get through the first step, then I can deal with the rest.

My surgery's set for Feb. 25th, and I'd love to hear from all of you guys around that time. I'll be up in Baltimore again, so anyone that has the slightest bit of time on their hands should feel more than welcome to come and visit me. It'll be a glorious time of wonder and enchantment (not guaranteed).

Well...so here I am, back at the beginning. It feels kins of terrible, but I know that I'm much better off now than where I was last year. I think that actually being there last year at this time would be far more terrible than this. So on that note, I'm going to go sulk for a bit. Then I'm going to stand up and brush myself off. What else can be done?

Right now I'm officially aboard the terminal patient freedom cruise liner

I think I finally decided that today, this day, i hopped on board the boat of terminal patient freedom. First of all, you get the swinging Sword of Damocles hanging over your head. If that's not enough, you have to deal with the unbridled bs of the insurance industry questioning why I decided to let my "experimental" treatment (remember: though it's not standard yet, it is in phase III clinical trials). I guess that's not good enough in a period in which High Grade Glioma patients have a hilariously short period of time to live. How does three more months matter if my hair's gone, I'm a skeleton with skin, I'm throwing up regularly, and worst of all, I live the dreaded existence of a poor little cancer patient. Three more months of that? No thanks. I'm good with what I've got.

"Why would he say that" you may find going through your mind, but the important fact that I've left out is simply that no known chemo or radiation treatment is a cure. If the docs could tell me, "Hey we'll do this and you have a 50% chance of being cured." I'd say, "Sign me up." They can't say that though. What they can say is that there's no cure. None of these treatments are curative. If I was in a business office and someone was selling me a device that couldn't even offer me a 50% chance of fixing my problem. In fact, there was no chance it would fix my problem. It would only worsen my life while lengthening the problem. Why in the hell would I buy it? Well I'm not buying it right now. What I will offer them, though, is the fact that I will do the fractionated radiation route, if it comes down to it. I'm far from ready to throw in the towel yet though.

Unfortunately, this notion comes with loads of insurance problems. It's all crap, and it's the last thing anybody actively battling a terminal illness needs. Cures are possible, especially with something as poorly understood as brain cancer, so why not let me try some possibilities out before relegating me to a pitiful five-year existence destined for the grave? Seems somewhat unfair if you ask me.

Where I stand as of today

Well it's been a rather stressful week (to say the least). I got to Houston thinking I knew everything that would happen and very little of it actually materialized.

In my first meeting with Dr. Joseph and Dr. Burzynski, we were essentially blown away with the suggestion that I essentially had to do some form of radiation. I wasn't prepared for that at all, but then we talked about it further (and after my blood pressure went from meandering turtle speed to the speed of a rabbit on meth), i actually gave some consideration to doing gamma knife surgery. It's a localized one day outpatient ordeal, and it leaves little to no side effects. "OK," I thought, "I'm gonna do it. I'll just have to go to MD Anderson, and they'll take care of it all. Right?" Wrong. They wouldn't do Gamma Knife without me first doing the much bigger, much longer, much scarier form of fractionated radiation (which I'm just not ready for...yet).

So then my stress levels sky rocketed into the Earth's orbit...again. I had no plan anymore, and furthermore, Burzynski didn't have much of a plan for me either. In short, I had nothing; back to the drawing board (which, by the way, is not where I wanted or expected to be so quickly). Then I met a very kind nurse named Rebecca through Email who heads up the St. Joseph Gamma Knife department. After relating to me that she fully understood what I was going through (one of her family members had had a brain tumor already), she assured me that although she couldn't guarantee anything because she wasn't the consultation doc, she could guarantee me that they would do the treatment without having done the fractionated stuff first. "What a relief," I thought.

From that point on, things have kind of slid on a much smoother plane today, but it was a rough week for sure. I thought my trip to Philly would be ruined. I thought about having to give up this class. I thought about lots of scary things, but for now, I think it'll all be ok...for a bit. I shouldn't let my guard down. You never know what could happen or when. Everything can be just fine, then BAM! your whole world is reeling. I think it'll all be OK. I just have to remember to breathe...

Lessons learned:

When life knocks you down, all you can do is brush yourself off, and stand back up--straight. No cursing or questioning's going to do much good. Just stand up straight. That's all we've got.

Like a rolling stone, I've got nothing to rely on

I've been in the pits today.

Life is rather bitter-sweet down here on Houston's watch. I love to see some of the folks at the Burzynski Clinic--but only so much. Everyone's SO nice and SO positive until I have to sit down and discuss my ACTUAL plan with my ACTUAL future. Then the niceness tends to give way to the realism (albeit a nicely expressed one) of my future (not quite so positive in the docs' eyes). It's always happiness tinged with the tension of not knowing my future. That and the assumption that there is no cure for this illness can be gleaned from just about any statement at any time; it's rather depressing. So much so that I've been in a rather dingy emotional place for the past 24 hours, and unfortunately, I don't really know what's caused it.

They're recommending that I do radiation now. With that "under my belt," I could be open to a much larger sea of salvation (so to speak). Avastin is rather risky business done sans radiation, opening up a person to some rather serious blood-vessel breakage, and I could also then do Burzynski's treatment du jour, Antineoplaston Therapy--but that's still two steps in the future, though. I have many other bridges to cross before I get there.

All in all, my future doesn't really look that bad; it's just not what I was expecting. I made plans to go to Philly that may have to be broken now--200 bucks down the drain. And I'm signed up for a course at Kennesaw that lasts a measly 2 months. I'm not breaking that off though. Not only is it expensive, but it's my damn life. A person can't just be a walking cancer patient forever. Even if I have to come back here in a few weeks, I will not be quitting that class.

What sucks the worst is that I feel fine. I come down here, and everyone's joyfully exclaiming, "Oh look at you. You look SO good." Inside I'm thinking, "Yeah, of course I do. I feel just fine dammit." Of course, I have to respond more politely than that; they're just being nice people. I DO appreciate that in the end (though after some serious reflection sometimes).

If Tuesday's going to be my day in the dumps, then I'm going to buy some hats. So that's where I'm left today. Life gives you lemons, so buy a hat. And that's what I did.

A momentary lapse of awareness

Well I guess it finally happened, or more precisely, damn it, it finally happened. I had a seizure yesterday. Of course it was the first day of the year (and my first seizure...boo), so I've already started it out with an extraordinary bang of sorts. I was in Athens for two nights seeing lots of old friends and meeting new ones all in the same go. Of course I had a few drinks both nights, got little sleep, and missed some of my medications, so I can't really blame it for happening to me. We were there for three total days and on the morning of the third, I got up to take some medication and went to the bathroom. Staring at myself in the mirror, I felt odd: light headed and like I was on the verge of losing consciousness. I put my hands down to brace myself then felt my legs give out. That's all I remember. When I came around my roommates, Josh and Max, eventually said I had had a seizure not long ago, and my best buddy Kevin was on his way down to help out as much as he could (he's a medic in the Navy, so that makes sense to me). I think it rather freaked them out, but natural to that state, I couldn't really help it. We got down to the hospital, and the doctor said everything looked really good (other than the gaping whole in my brain of course). Then we headed out and began our journey home.

For some reason that seizure had a rather profound affect on me. I didn't feel it, didn't experience it, but somehow, I feel different now. Strangely enough, when I was in the hospital, somehow I knew that's where I needed to be at the end of the day. I guess that's the path I'll be taking now. I'm going to start off with a brief Phlebotomy class and work my way up from there. In the end, I'd like to be an MRI tech. It's good money, and I'd have lots of other time to do things that I'm interested in. More than anything else, this plan has actually stuck with me for more than a fleeting moment (which is more than I can say for most of my other hair-brained schemes). Hey, they hospital's one of the few industries that's actually really growing right now, so I guess that's good.

While the plans a long way from coming into fruition, and I still have two more college courses to take, it seems pretty solid to me. Somehow as I was lying in the hospital bed that day for the umpteenth time in a few months, I realized that's what I wanted to do. I can work wherever I want, however I want, I can travel, or just work when they need me. It sounds like my ideal job...so far. There's more I'll have to learn about it as I dig into it further, but I'm fairly excited so far. Hopefully, I can convince these hospital folks to take me in with all this brain tumor business going on.

With friends like these...

Carolynne (Rarebirds trailblazer and Mew co-owner) and I urging more folks to bid on the delightful work that Mew Gallery was offering for next to nothing

A room shot from Dan's camera

My benefit last Friday was an absolute success. My bandmate Bob and my friend Carolynne were largely responsible for gathering all the parties involved. We even had a nice turnout. Who could ask for more? I had great support from the Mew Gallery, Village Green Productions, and Anthropic Records. We had artists displaying their glorious (and ridiculously inexpensive) work, and performances by some stellar bands: Inperfect Silence, Controlled Storms, Monolith, Rarebirds, Grammar Debate, and Adam and Dave's Bloodline. I'd say my friends are all pretty great folks to say for sure. I couldn't leave there without a smile on my face and a bit of a tear in my eye.

This is Joe, one of the Village Green guys, in his band Grammar Debate

I had to add this one after seeing it. Bob, part art curator, part swell guy, and I amazed at the shocking vibrancy of the show.