Liquid Gold

I have a problem

It never fails.

Once finished, taking a firm grasp, I shake and shake and shake it ~ just as my father taught me years ago. Despite all of my best efforts, however, I never manage to keep the last drop from falling at my feet.

I am glad to discover I am apparently not the only inept person in the world. I watch.

I have seen plenty of other men ~ and women ~ struggle as well.

It is on my mind every time I am pumping gas:

"Will I be able to come up with some new maneuver that will allow me to win the game of preventing that last drop from hitting the ground?"

And, just how much gas and money is wasted every year by the needless loss of these lowly droplets?

Let's just say the average number of drops that fall to the ground per fill-up is "five." (While I can proudly state I never lose more than one or two, I am going by the stats collected by a much smarter and obsessive man than I.)

The volume per drop is roughly 0.05cc or 1.32086026 x 10-5 US gallons. In 2005, he contends there was an estimated 180,000 million gallons of gas pumped in the United States by the likes of you and me. After calculating a rough estimate of the volume of fuel lost to the ground, he went on to perform some admittedly "voodoo" mathematics so as to estimate the cost of these drops. He elected to use a $4 per gallon cost estimated during the fall of 2008, during the period of hyper-inflated prices (presumable in his area).

Regardless of the crude calculations or debatable methodology, his results seem impressive:

1,182,830.36 gallons of lost fuel in drops which fall to the concrete as we finish at the pumps, with an estimated collective cost of $4,731,321.45 per year.

As Labor Day approaches, as well as an all-too-predictable bump in "demand," we will all be party to yet another cycle of inflated fuel prices.

This gives me pause for reflection:

Surely, there is some innovative person out there who has already developed a ridiculously simple and inexpensive solution to this problem; "some clever piece of plastic" that would stave off the loss of these precious drops?

And I should also not be forced into the embarrassing position of appearing as though I am thrown into a fit of convulsions as I try to come up with new maneuvers to beat the drop at it's own game. I do own the drop, after all.

How could I possibly have known I had money "falling at my feet" every few days?

No less, at the pumps of my local gas station!

Go figure.

November Looms

Emma: I want you to tell them it ain't so tragic! People do get better!
Patsy: What do you want me to do?
Emma: Tell them it's OK to talk about the cancer!

from the book, "Terms of Endearment"

During the phone call, a family member was struck by the fact I had not informed everyone. She wanted to know how my complete circle of friends and acquaintances could not be told.

I had my reasons.

I was also free to change my mind.

For the past couple of years I have been under treatment for cancer.

It all began as a nagging point of tenderness in my chest ~ just where my sternum meets with one of my ribs. With one finger, I could isolate the pain and "rub" it away. It went on this way for another couple of months or more ~ no better and no worse. It was tolerable.

Until the night I was awakened by a breath-robbing pain elicited by simply turning onto my side. This was definitely not normal by any stretch. I chose to ignore it anyway.

It did not take long, however, for me to realize I could no longer fool myself into believing the pain might be inconsequential.

I enjoyed a momentary reprieve, however, after talking with some of my colleagues, all of whom were certain the totality of my symptoms pointed to a nerve root compression injury from working out. "We are tired of watching you rub your chest ~ go order a damned MRI and get the problem fixed."

It was not a nerve root compression injury.

The MRI isolated a golf ball-sized mass encroaching on the neurovascular bundle under one of my ribs.

Following an extensive evaluation, a diagnosis was returned: In oncology-speak, the mass represented a high-grade, 3BE Anaplastic Large Cell Lymphoma.

This past March I drove to the cancer center to undergo yet another round of RCHOP21; my second complete course of chemotherapy (due to failure of initial treatment or relapse). As I sat in the waiting room of the lab, I heard my name being called. The woman shouting my name was clearly not one of the lab technicians; she was either a physician or a nurse.

She came forward and introduced herself to me, asked a few probing questions and then left the room. She repeated this process another two or three times before finally explaining that, "the head of the BMT Department would like to speak with (me)." Huh?

I was then ushered into a nearby conference room where a physician (I had never met) was seated at a table reviewing my treatment records. What?

Without wasting a breath, the stranger proceeded to inform me that, as a specialist, he was not confident I would be able to, "see (my) way to a cure without a transplant."

I felt dizzy. "What kind of transplant?" (A stupid question but I was in shock.)

Seeming to appreciate my confused state, the physician hesitated and then smiled as he replied, "A bone marrow transplant, Dr. Marvin."

I am currently biding my time as I await another diagnostic biopsy this November. My transplant future will depend on the outcome of this test.

So, going back to my relative's initial concern. Why haven't I told everyone about the cancer?

Simply put: I enjoy normal conversations with family and friends.

"How are you doing?"

Sure, it is a simple question. But this most common of questions takes on considerable heft when tainted with the knowledge of someone's treatment for cancer. You soon realize every answer is incomplete until you have again addressed the "cancer."

Please don't misunderstand. I appreciate the care, concern, and compassion extended by all my family, friends, and strangers alike. The prayer groups and support I have enjoyed have been a source of great comfort.

After a period of time, however, this patient wanted to be asked that simple question from someone ~ anyone ~ who wasn't aware of my medical condition. I craved normal conversations with people who were only interested in knowing, "what kind of great stuff has been going on in your life?"

This begs another logical question: If this is truly how you feel, why write about the cancer now?

As much as I would like to believe I am living a normal life, I am not. At least for the time being.

I am tired of keeping separate the mental lists of those, "who know," from those, "who don't know."

I am tired of circumventing questions and responding with "half-answers."

And, I am tired of hurting those who, once they have discovered my situation, are slighted by my apparent inability to trust them with the information.

This IS my life. For better or for worse.

I feel great at the moment. I am not now nor have I ever sought anyone's sympathy. I hope anyone who may feel slighted would accept my apology. Your understanding and support wouldn't hurt, either.

In a few months, I will know what my future holds; I remain an eternal optimist.

And, I honestly don't mind if family and friends continue to feel compelled to ask about the "cancer." But do me a favor ~ balance those concerns by also asking,

"What kind of craziness have you been up to lately?"

Lost And Found

Clare Boothe Luce was an amazing human being. She is famous for a highly successful, multi-faceted career which included stints as editor, playwright, politician, journalist, and diplomat. With the possible exception of a few classic plays, I would guess she is mostly forgotten by many who are not of her generation.

I am willing to put up cold-hard cash for an almost certain bet: Most everyone has, at one time or another, heard or uttered one of her most famously cited quotations; specifically,

"No good deed goes unpunished."

Today was my day.

I found a lost cellphone and then tried to return it.

In hindsight, I probably should have kicked it into the nearest sewer.

After a little quick research, I came up with some startling results regarding the annual loss of cell phones worldwide. One study in the United States claims, "10% of the cellphone-using population will lose at least one phone per year." Other research claims the hard numbers range from 6 to 12 million cellphones per year. I would venture all cellphone companies incorporate these data into their annual earnings forecasts.

Other research indicates that theft accounts for a large percentage of cellphone losses. In the United Kingdom, some 700,000 "mobiles" are reportedly "lifted" every year. Other noteworthy factors include: 400,000 phones dropped into alcoholic beverages; 600,000 deposited into the "loo"; and some 200,000 inadvertently put through the gentle cycle of their washing machines. One is left to assume there are quite a few imbibing, loo-using, thieving "sods" who mistakenly do laundry (while drunk) in Great Britain? (Illiteration vs Alliteration)

This lost phone could not have met a more ignoble fate; it was found on a fractured slab of concrete sidewalk in front of a nondescript, smelly Oriental grocery store (I had once gone into this store only to find a woman buried chest-deep -- feet in the air -- inside a deep freeze presumably "fishing" for rotten, stinking scrod). Even while fearing I might drop dead from the stench surrounding that store, "Bobby-Do-Good" had to stop and pick up the damnable phone.

In a recent poll, 89% of those surveyed indicated it was, "definitely worth a shot," to return a lost-then-found cell phone; the other 11% were divided equally among the "snooze, loose" and "it depends" camps. On reading these data, I truly felt vindicated; 9 out of 10 Americans agreed that making an attempt to return the phone was a good idea. The reader may be my judge.

I am no technological wizard. For this reason, I don't know how to work any device not my own; after picking up the lost cellphone, I decided the best course of action would be to first wait for someone to call "me." I would then inform the caller that I had found the phone and would be more than happy, with their help, to assure it's return to the rightful owner. It took no more than three minutes to ring; I somehow managed to answer it the second time around:

CALLER: Hello?

RDMMD: Hi. Are you, by chance, the owner of this phone?

CALLER: Oh, thank you so much! No, the girl who owns the phone is right here. She was hoping to get through to someone who may have found the phone. Here she is ... and, thank you, again.

RDMMD: (My chest swelling) Oh, no problem, ma'am!

LOSER: (As in "person who lost the phone") ..... hey.

RDMMD: Hey, I found your phone and would like to know how I might get it back to you?

(LOSER now will embarrass me with gratitude)

LOSER: What the hell do you mean -- you got my phone? Where the f*** you get my phone?

RDMMD: (chest deflating) What? What do you mean, "Where did I get your phone?" I found it on the street!

LOSERETTE: (now an official female "loser") Well ..... I need my phone! I need it now! When the you gonna bring me my phone?

RDMMD: (getting testier by the second) Where are you, ma'am?

LOSERETTE: What do YOU mean, "Where am I?" I'm at work! I'm at the Sonic ..... Mother F*****(MF)!

(She went on to relay the address which was, by this time, only a five minute drive)

RDMMD: (What can I say? Something snapped) I am heading to the hospital (no, I wasn't); I have an emergency (no, I didn't).

LOSERETTE: Where that be? (Could not make that up)

RDMMD: Oh, I am already across the river; I am at least twenty minutes away (in fairness, I WAS heading in that direction). May I bring the phone by your company later today or tomorrow?

LOSERETTE: I need that phone now! You shouldn' have picked up the phone in the first place! I didn' lose my phone -- I misplaced it! I need my phone, MF!

RDMMD: Fine. I am heading to a hospital (picked at random on my originally planned route) about twenty minutes or so from your location; I will leave it at the volunteer's desk for you to pick up.

LOSERETTE: SumBitchMF! (She eats with that thing!) Who are you? I need to know who am I talkin' to!

RDMMD: Oh, my name is Bill Esry (a former patient and past CEO of Sprint -- her carrier)!

LOSERETTE: mumbling ......

BILL ESRY: You are welcome ! Have a nice day!

LOSERETTE: EXPLETIVES DELETED ...... click

Do I feel good about how I handled this situation? Probably, not. If given the same set of circumstances, would I do it again? Hell, yes. Had she bothered to accord me even the slightest bit of appreciation, I would have gladly returned the phone on the spot.

Clare Boothe Luce was correct when she wrote, "No good deed goes unpunished."

Ask my new "friend" what she thinks.

I believe I do deserve to get credit for the good deed of returning the phone. She, at least to my way of thinking, well, she got "spanked."