"kwitcherbellyachin'!"

It's hard to resist the temptation simply to lapse into reporting the latest clinical medical details of my on-going situation. They seem so objective and tangible, as well as impersonal and 'arms-length" -- safe in a way that objective, clinical detachment ALWAYS seems safe...or at least reassuring that whoever is doing the talking actually knows what they're talking about, even if you don't. But as I've said before here, much of this information is simply irrelevant to me. My physicians need to understand it in order to treat me, and I need to understand enough of it to know what the plan is, and what my role is in the treatment process, and how to make intelligent decisions about the course I want that treatment to follow. And I suppose in the greater scheme of things it's also helpful to be able to recognize which pill is supposed to be doing what and why it's going in my mouth along with all the others. But right now my most immediate goal is to be able to do what any two year old can do with the proper incentive of a few M&Ms. So far no joy. Maybe what they really need to do is put me on a leash and walk me around the park a few times....

My biggest personal frustration here has been the inability to reply to all of the wonderful, supportive e-mails I've been receiving, since the hospital's firewall (I presume to discourage SPAMMERS) prevents me from sending outgoing STMP messages to my normal e-mail server. So I can read my regular e-mail no problem, but answering in the normal manner is basically impossible. Still, lots of encouraging words from colleagues and current and former parishioners all over the country as the word goes out; the disappointing thing is that many of my oldest and closest friends STILL don't know, because I have no effective way of contacting them directly, even though at the moment I actually have plenty of time on my hands to do so.

I've been also receiving all sorts of lovely cards, and am especially fond of a batch I received yesterday from the second grade Sunday School class. Lots of folks signing up to help out around the house as well with food and rides in the upcoming weeks, and especially to help out by walking my little dog "The Adorable Parker." Apparently she's been kind of a handful for my Dad and my brother, who aren't quite clued in yet to all of her little tricks and quirks, but are quickly wising up. Parker is far and away more stubborn than I am (and so she generally gets her way with me), but I think in my Dad she may have met her match. Time will tell.

But really, I have no complaints to speak of. "kwitcherbellyachin'!" was one of my grandfather's favorite phrases, which came down to me by way of my own father...and I'm not even sure how old I was before I realized that this wasn't just some sort of obscure Danish expletive, but rather a straight-forward admonishment to "quit your belly aching" -- in other words, to stop whining so much about things that weren't going to change, and instead to just suck it up and get on with it. OK, maybe it's not the most enlightened or sophisticated philosophy of suffering. But it's an OK place to start, and one could certainly do worse. They'll be time enough later to muse over all of the deeply profound existential questions. Right now, I'd settle for a lot simpler satisfactions: a good poop, a long nap, a tasty little tidbit and a pat on the head from a pretty girl. What more could any Big Dawg ask for?