Yes, Mountains Move

Some days I feel like I can do anything. Kicking cancer's ass is of course at the top of that list, but in general I feel strong, empowered, and able to conquer any mountain that moves to block my progress.

And yes, mountains move.

Those days are great. I feel relaxed and ready to take on the world. Nothing can stop me.

Today is not one of those days.

Today I want to crawl into bed, get in the fetal position, and just cry. (And yes, real men cry.)

I got my PICC line today. It sucks. My arm hurts a little and the whole goddamn thing is just uncomfortable. I can't get it wet, so showers should be interesting. When I had a PICC line before I was so sick that I didn't give a shit about taking a shower, so they were fairly rare while I had the PICC line in. I think I may have resorted to a few quick baths. I hate baths. I'll probably have to resort to taking quick baths again. Ugh.

Here's what it looks like with the "sock" on it, you know, to help keep the end from flopping around:

And here's what it really looks like:

See those two ends on the right there? Yeah, I got a double one. Yay me.

Around 20% of all the people admitted to hospitals around the country end up getting a PICC line. That's pretty remarkable. However, I'm disappointed I'm in that 20%.

But I have to get my chemo treatments.

I have a few more lessons, blood draws, and dry runs before the actual treatments start. I'll have thirty-three radiation treatments and three chemo treatments over the next seven weeks. The chemo treatments are to help with the radiation treatments. The radiation treatments are what's going to kill the cancer.

I'm sure no one ever feels ready to begin this shit. I'm no different. I do want to start because I'm tired of waiting, I'm anxious, and the sooner I start then the sooner it'll be over.

But no, I'm not ready to begin this shit.

But it's been almost seven weeks since I had surgery to remove the tumor and lymph nodes. It will not be good if we wait much longer.

Luckily, the wait is almost over.

Going Through Hell On A Roller Coaster

I had four medical appointments in three days. Two on Wednesday, two on Friday. So, Rachel and I decided to stay in Seattle three nights and have a day and a half of vacation, something we have not done in at least ten years. I hope to hell it's not another ten years before our next vacation.

Tuesday night: We arrive in Seattle at 10:30pm and check-in at the hotel. I thought this was a very good sign:

A perfect room number for a math teacher.

Wednesday morning: Met with the surgeon who did the original big surgery back at the end of May. This was a follow-up to get the go ahead to begin radiation. Everything looks good, so radiation is a go.

Right after he left we met with the speech therapist. I've met with her several times before as she has always been present during my appointments with the lady ENT at Swedish. She gave me some swallowing exercises because in the not too distant future (probably 2-3 weeks) I will have difficulty swallowing. The goal is to not get a g-tube so I need to be able to keep swallowing, no matter how painful it may be.

After we met with her, Rachel and I had lunch at Piroshkis. We'll probably go back again in the future. It was pretty good. Our good friend Jeff joined us there and then he dropped us off at Half-Price Books while he went back to his place to finish up his work for the day. I could spend hours in Half-Price Books. I love used bookstores. Yes, we found some good stuff.

Rachel and I, then, went for a little walk around the area we were in, actually headed to a real comic book store. It was nice to just walk with my wife on this beautiful day in the big city. I'm not a big comic book guy but it did give us an endpoint to walk toward. Jeff picked us up there and we all three headed to dinner. I don't remember the name of the place we went to for dinner, but man, that was some good Italian food. It was a good ending to a great day.

Thursday morning: Rachel and I slept in (when does that ever happen?). This was the day we had planned to be our "vacation" day. We were going to be tourists, so we headed to the EMP Museum. We spent a few hours around the Seattle Center, mainly at the EMP Museum. It was frivolous and it was fun. I really liked the history of the guitar exhibit. The Nirvana and Hendrix exhibits were cool, too, but, to me, not as cool as the guitar one.

I also really enjoyed the Science Fiction exhibit, Infinite Worlds. There was a lot of movie and television memorabilia. Stuff from Star Wars, Aliens, Dr. Who, and even Mork and Mindy.

The first exhibit we went to, though, was the Star Trek exhibit. On display were several costumes worn by the cast members during filming of the various TV shows and movies, props, such as weapons and miniatures, and even the bridge from the original series. What the exhibit really made me want to do was go home and watch all six Star Trek series. Yes, I'll probably do that. My kids need to watch those shows.

After spending a few hours at the EMP Museum we headed back to the hotel. Jeff picked us up a little while later and we hit, yet another used bookstore (I have an addiction), and then we had dinner.

I was only allowed to sleep four hours or less on Thursday night because I had an EEG scheduled on Friday morning. So while Rachel slept, I stayed up. I slept from 1:00am to 5:00am, and then waited for my wife to wake up and join the living. That took for what seemed like forever.

Friday morning: Had 24 electrodes placed on my head for the EEG. They flashed lights at me and then had me do some quick breathing, all in order to see if I would have a seizure. I didn't. Then I was to rest (sleep if I could) for the next half an hour. I actually did sleep for about 20 minutes. Then the tech woke me up, cleaned my head, and then I was done. Rachel, Jeff, and I then went and had lunch.

Friday afternoon: Met with the epileptologist. This is my third doctor at Swedish. All three have been fantastic. The EEG was normal. That's not really important, though. After all, it was just a quick snapshot, like 30 minutes, out of my day. But at least nothing was glaringly wrong.

The MRI, however, was not normal.

This was the MRI that was taken at the local hospital on the same day I had a seizure on the operating table. Recall that there were "spots" on my brain. We'll now call these "spots" lesions. I have several lesions on my brain. One in particular is located on my temporal lobe. This lesion is probably why I had a seizure.

Here's the best guess as to why I'm in this situation: When I had staph endocarditis back in 2003-2004 and was hospitalized for 17 days, I had petechiae several places on my body. They were like little hickeys except for the ones that ended up at the end of my finger and toe. Those areas ended up turning completely black as the blood vessels there burst.

Essentially what happened was the bacteria that was growing on my aortic heart valve started breaking off and traveling through my body because, you know, the circulatory system and everything. I remember getting an EKG (several actually why I was in the hospital during those 17 days) and actually seeing the bacteria, which looked huge on the screen, flopping around every time my heart pumped. It was amazing. The violent pumping of my heart made this bacteria flop around, literally like a fish out of water. It was pretty cool to see. Not to experience, mind you, but to see it was amazing.

I remember one of the many doctors I had during that adventure was doing the EKG on me one day. This was after the antibiotics had started working and I was starting to feel a little bit better. While he had the EKG gadget on my chest, he pointed at the screen and said, "See that. That's the bacteria." And it was violently flopping around with every pump. "We don't want that to break off your heart valve."

"Why?" I ask.

"We don't know where it might end up," he answered.

In other words, we don't know where it will go, but it could go somewhere that could kill you. Like my brain or my lungs.

A few days later I had another EKG done. When I looked at the screen I could see my two heart valves, but the bacteria that had been flopping around so violently before was no longer there. It had broken off my heart valve.

I was devastated.

When they got me back to my hospital room, I literally just sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

A nurse walked in on me and all I could do was hug her while I kept crying.

I knew I was dead.

Obviously I didn't die, but at the time, I thought that was it for me.

I had several MRI's during that hospital stay and they showed that I had petechiae on my brain. Several places on my brain, actually. And this is what we think caused those lesions that are now present on my brain, including the one that probably caused my seizure. The bacteria traveled to those places on my brain and caused the blood vessels to burst.

Very little is 100% positive in medical care, but this is our best guess as to what has happened.

So I now have a seizure disorder. All it takes is one seizure for you to meet the new definition. I'll probably be on anti-seizure medication for the rest of my life.

That's fine.

Essentially, I had a stroke and didn't even know it.

The really bad news, though, is that by law I am not allowed to drive for six months (provided I don't have another seizure). That's January at the earliest.

This will make things difficult for the Anderson household.

Chemo and radiation begin next week. Radiation is Monday-Friday which means I need to be at the Cancer Center on those days to get treatment. For the next seven weeks. Not being able to drive myself there has put a burden on our daily schedule. Despite this difficult situation, we'll figure something out. Getting to those treatments is the top priority for me and my family.

There's also no swimming or operating heavy equipment, but that's ok. It's just the no driving that is difficult to deal with.

I next see an expert on strokes to make sure there's nothing that's been missed. I'll be doing that after the chemo and radiation treatments have finished. At least that's the plan right now.

As you know, I was unable to get a chemo port because of the seizure. So now the plan is to get a PICC line. Yeah, I said I didn't want a PICC line, but that's what has to happen. I get that early next week because that's how they are going to administer the chemotherapy. I'm not thrilled about it, but it is what it is.

My dad told me once, when he was dealing with his cancer, that getting old is hell. He was making a joke at the time, but underlined that joke with the seriousness of his and my mom's health issues.

I think it's more like: Getting old is like going through hell on a roller coaster.

There are ups and downs and curves and sudden drops and giant hills to climb.

You know, it's just life.

If you're lucky you get to ride that roller coaster for quite awhile.

I'm strapped in, but I refuse to keep my arms and hands inside the car at all times.

Here we go.

I'm Angry, I'm Sad, And I'm Definitely Scared

I woke up, showered with the special cleansing fluid they want you to use before surgery, then, after Stacie got here, Rachel drove me to the hospital. It was to be a routine surgery to put my chemo port in, so, Rachel dropped me off and headed back home.

After meeting with the surgeon and the anesthesiologist they wheeled me to the operating room. I moved from the bed to the operating table, and that's the last thing I remember.

I awoke to nurses telling me I had a seizure during surgery so it was called off.

I'm instantly an emotional wreck.

"I need the fucking chemo port!" I yelled at them.

I know my time is running out. It's been five weeks since I had the big surgery to remove the tumor and lymph nodes. There is still a lot of shit that needs to get done before I can start chemo and radiation, and this aborted surgery is shortening the very little time that I have.

They try to calm me down but I'm having nothing to do with it. I just keep repeating that I need to get the chemo port. It's fairly chaotic in the recovery room but eventually the shock is so overwhelming that all I can do is stare off in space. I block out everything but my thoughts.

What do you mean I had a seizure? I've never had a seizure before. I need to start chemo and radiation soon. Do I now have brain cancer, a fucking tumor on my brain? What the fuck am I going to do now? Why can't I get a fucking break?

Frustration and fear overwhelm me.

All I can do is cry.

A nurse wipes away my tears with a tissue.

I continue to stare off in space.

Then my family doctor enters the room.

I've known this man for the past 15 years. He delivered both my kids and has helped Rachel and I deal with all the shit we've been through during that time. He was the one who saved my life when I was hospitalized for 17 days with staph endocarditis. He knows us very well and we have a terrific relationship with him.

We make eye contact.

The ability to control my emotions disappeared and all I can do is cry even more. Sob, actually. I'm just livid and sad and scared. Crying was all I could manage to do.

He touches my arm and says "I know, Randy."

Through anger and tears I reply, "I need my fucking chemo port, Rob."

A nurse wipes away more tears.

He had seen the report of the aborted surgery and he just wanted to come down and check on me.

That's who he is.

My family is lucky to have him as our doctor.

His presence helped ground me. Oh, I'm still pissed off and scared shitless, but I started feeling the ground under my feet again. He gets credit for helping that happen.

They want to keep me overnight to make sure I don't have another seizure. So after Rob leaves, they wheel me up to my room on the second floor.

Another shitty hospital room.

Another shitty hospital bed.

Another shitty fucking day.

Unbeknownst to me, our friend Stephanie, who is a nurse at the hospital and actually helped get me ready for surgery, called Rachel and told her that I had a seizure and she needed to get to the hospital.

The nurse is getting crap hooked up to me when Rachel enters the room. I think our friend Stacie, who also works at the hospital, is behind her but I can't see for sure.

The nurse walks out of the room for a minute.

Rachel says "How are you doing?"

I start punching the bed and screaming "I'm fucking pissed, that's how I'm doing! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

She remains calm.

We're alone in the room. So if it was Stacie, she exited.

If I had had something to throw I would've thrown it. But I didn't, so I just kept saying I was pissed off and I needed my chemo port.

The nurse came back into the room.

Rachel and I stayed quiet, but I'm sure we both we're thinking the same thing: I have brain cancer. I'm a dead man.

A short while later they take me to get an MRI of my brain. That was fairly uneventful.

Then it was back to the hospital room.

There was a lot of just staring off into space.

I was in shock.

It was around noon or so now and I had expected to be home watching a soccer game. Instead, I'm staring at another hospital room wall.

Rachel wrote our goal/plan for the day:

It was a good goal.

By this time Stacie had joined us in the room. I think she and Rachel had lunch while I had the MRI. Doesn't seem like a fair deal, but anyway. I still hadn't eaten since 6pm the night before, so Stacie suggested ordering a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch. It's not on the menu. She says to order it anyway. Rachel calls in the order. Oh yeah, and a vanilla shake. They have recently become staples in my diet. Stacie was right, it was a pretty good ham and cheese sandwich. I devoured it fairly quickly. And the shake? Let's just say that I had three more of those before I left the hospital the next morning. (Of course I had one with breakfast. You think I'm foolish?)

The MRI results come back. No one could see a mass on my brain, but there are these strange spots on it. More spots than should be there for a 48 year old non-smoking, non-drinking male.

But the doctors are thinking I have brain cancer. They contact Swedish Hospital in Seattle and the plan is to transport me to Swedish because they have more tools to deal with my situation.

Wait. You're going to transport me to Swedish? Like, tonight? This is all moving way too fast.

By this time our friend Bonnie had joined us. When we got the news about being transported to Seattle, Rachel and Bonnie headed home. Rachel had to get things ready for the boys (and where they would stay because they certainly were not going to Seattle with us), handle what to do about the dog, and get stuff ready for us to go.

Stacie stayed with me. A good thing, because I was still livid about this whole situation. She kept my mind focused on other things.

Then our friend Laura, who happens to be a pediatric doctor and therefore knows most of the doctors in town, shows up and the three of us have a good conversation while we wait. Stacie has to leave, so it's just me and Laura when the doctor comes in.

The neurologist at Swedish had looked at the MRI scans and he didn't see a mass either.

That's good news.

Yes, he saw the spots, but he didn't think there was anything that required urgent care. In other words, he didn't think I needed to be transported to Swedish.

That's even better news.

So when Rachel and Bonnie showed up, Laura and I were in a fairly jovial mood. We had just had a great conversation about parenting. I know she understands the struggles that my family goes through, and I certainly understand hers.

We didn't do a very good job of explaining the situation to Rachel, so Laura went to get the doctor. She came in and updated Rachel on the situation and verified that we were not going to Seattle that night.

Finally, things slow down a bit.

I slept well, even though it was in a hospital bed. They put these pads all around the bed just in case I had a seizure.

See those blue pads. Yeah, I felt like I was in a padded room. At times this whole experience leaves me feeling insane, so maybe it's not far off the mark.

I only woke up a couple of times during the night, which for sleeping in a hospital room is pretty damn good. I was up for good around 5:00am. I just listened to music, watched the sunrise, and tried to come to terms with my thoughts.

Our family doctor, Rob, came in around 8:00am or so. One of the things I like about him is that he always stays calm. He tells it like it is but it is always in a calm, relaxing manner.

He had looked at the MRI, and just like everyone else, he didn't see a mass either. And just like everyone else, so far, he didn't know why I had a seizure.

But he did say I could no longer drive.

Fuck.

Tesla and Google need to hurry up so I can get one of those self-driving vehicles.

As usual, it was comforting to talk with him, especially when I am in crisis mode.

So, at the moment, no one is thinking brain cancer. The plan is to go to Swedish and have an EEG and discuss the situation with a neurologist (because I need, yet, another doctor). We'll do this soon. I need to know what's going on with my brain.

As far as I'm concerned, the plan for chemo and radiation is still on track. We'll see if they'll put a chemo port in over at Swedish. If not, then I'll get a pick-line to administer the chemo. I have experience with a pick-line, and I don't really want to go that route. They suck.

One good thing about my hospital room, though. The view:

It's hard to see, but yes, that's Canada across the water. Simply beautiful.

I am very grateful for Rachel, Stacie, Christine, Bonnie, and Laura. Rachel, because without her, well, there would be no me. Stacie, Christine, Bonnie, and Laura for all the help they offered during this most tumultuous time in my life. Christine, thank you for watching my kids. Stacie, Bonnie, and Laura, thank you for spending time with me in the hospital and for keeping me somewhat grounded when all I really wanted to do was scream, cry, throw things, and break anything I could find. I can not express my gratitude enough.

So, not what we expected when we woke up on Thursday morning, but, it is what it is.

You move forward or you give up.

I'm tired.

But I'm not ready to give up.

I'm angry. I'm sad. And I'm definitely scared.

But there is no way in Hell I'm giving up.

The Line

There's a very thin line between doing okay and plunging over the edge into the dark, forbidding places that lurk within you.

Places that are ready to swallow you whole if given the slightest chance.

We all walk a slight variation of this line at some point in our lives, and unfortunately, sometimes we walk it more than once.

Everyone is different.

Some walk the line just fine, without falling one way or the other, and they get through to the other side where things are far better than just okay.

Praise them for that accomplishment.

Some struggle to walk the line. They teeter several times from okay to the dark places, but eventually, they too, make it to the other side.

Help them walk that line. Then praise them when they have succeeded.

Some are unable to walk the line and they plunge over the edge to those dark, forbidding places.

Carry them to other side. Praise them for letting you help them.

I've been walking this line since I learned I had cancer.

It would be very easy to just fall over and plunge to those dark places below.

But I fight it.

Yes, I want to crawl under a rock and just cry.

And sometimes I do.

I just refuse to stay there for very long.

I get back to walking that line, even though I can't see any light at the end.

But I'll keep walking.

I plan to make it to other side.

Stages

Life is a series of stages. These stages are of various lengths, and they can even be nested within one another. We go through each of these stages not really knowing when one stage ends and another begins because these stages bleed into one another making it seem like one continuous life. It's only when we reflect, look back on the events that made us who we have become, that we can see these individual stages.

But every once in awhile something will happen that is so traumatic that you know, right then at that very moment, that you've entered a new stage. It will be painfully obvious, and will probably scare you right down to your core.

Well, today, I enter a new stage.

It was pretty overwhelming to hear the words "Stage 4".

Everything went blurry and I needed a minute to refocus.

These are words we never expect to hear, yet, there they were, hanging in the air, no, make that choking the air, as I tried to comprehend them.

The tumor was the size of a walnut. Ok. But out of the total of 24 lymph nodes they removed from my neck, two of them had cancer.

That right there made it Stage 4.

If there had only been one lymph node with cancer, then it would've been Stage 3. I think she was trying to keep me from panicking. She did a pretty good job.

There was some cancer found in the deep margins around the tumor. But they couldn't get any better margins without seriously damaging me. That's not good.

And, one of the two lymph nodes was leaking.

Think of the lymph node as a balloon filling up with water. At some point, the balloon is going to burst and begin leaking. That's what happened with the lymph node, only it was filling up with cancer.

This means I still have cancer in my neck.

And that means radiation and chemotherapy are next on the agenda.

It's the radiation that scares me.

I haven't even been given the list of most of the side affects, yet, but I know to expect dry mouth, possible damage to my teeth and jaw, and, oh yeah, not being able to eat, you know, real food. It will become very difficult to swallow. In fact some people have a gastrostomy tube (g-tube) inserted through the abdomen to deliver nutrition because they can no longer swallow.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Really?

Fuck you, cancer.

I'm going to try to not go the g-tube route.

I hope I make it.

In any case, at the moment the plan is 6-7 weeks of chemo and radiation. Radiation every weekday during that time. I'll know more about all that fun stuff after I meet with the Medial Oncologist and the Radiation Oncologist. I'll meet with them soon.

So there you have it.

The hits keep on coming.

But I'm not down and out.

Life happens.

But life is worth enjoying to the fullest.

Even during those stages where enjoyment maybe difficult to come by.

This just happens to be one of those stages.

Life Happens

I was supposed to get the seventeen staples taken out today.

Well, that didn't happen.

Last night, at dinner, my oldest son's lunch decided to evacuate his stomach and intermingle with the dinner he was currently eating.

Yeah, fun times.

Then, in the middle of the night, his other end decided to join in the fun.

So we didn't get much sleep.

We didn't want to risk taking him on an 8-9 hour trip to Seattle and back, plus I didn't think I'd be able to make the trip by myself because I hadn't been out of the house in about two weeks, so we decided to reschedule.

Life happens.

We were supposed to get the pathology results today, as well. But you know, it doesn't really matter. We're going to do whatever needs to be done next. If the results come back in the best case scenario then there will be nothing else to do. That would be ideal. But if the results come back saying we need to do radiation and/or chemotherapy, then that's what we do next. I'm not going to screw around. I'm going to give myself the best chance to beat this shit. But I need to be healed from my surgery before we can start radiation, and I'm not healed, yet. Hence, it's fine we don't yet know the pathology results. We'll know soon enough. I'm thinking if it was excruciatingly awful, then I'm sure they would have contacted me by now. When we know, we will let you all know soon thereafter.

In the meantime, here's what's been going on since I updated you all last:

Nothing.

Well, maybe not completely nothing.

For the first week home I spent many more hours in bed than I did out of bed. You know, that's not a good thing. My body ached. Legs, neck, back, shoulders, and arms. It sucked. Yeah, I'd get up and walk around every day, but then I'd have to head back to bed after I did my laps. It's just all I could do. Yes, I slept a lot. That was good for healing, but it was murder on the rest of my body. These things still ache today. I am so looking forward to seeing my massage therapist. She's awesome, but I know I'm going to be knocked out when she gets done. I'm that bad off.

Then this past Sunday (a full week being home and 11 days after surgery) I was pretty down. Not depressed, more like "I'm tired of this shit" but I was too tired to do much about it other than lie in bed and listen to music. Reading was too tiring, watching Netflix was too tiring, writing was too tiring. I just wanted to lay in bed and listen to music and beat myself with "I'm tired of this shit. When's my tongue going to feel better? When will I feel my face again? Damn, my arm hurts, my back hurts, my legs hurt. When will I be able to swallow without pain? Alexa, play the Milk Carton Kids again." Pretty exciting day.

But the next day, Monday, I woke up feeling better. It was the first day I spent more hours out of bed then I did in bed. Rachel took the little guy to school, then came home and took the big guy to his appointment, then afterward they headed to Costco.

So I had some time to myself. It was nice. I watched the last two episodes of Jessica Jones on Netflix, which by the way is a series that I really did enjoy. I followed that by watching the documentary "We're Twisted Fucking Sister". You know, it's the era I grew up in, and yes I did enjoy it.

The next day I was alone again (Yes, that's a Dokken song) and I finished watching the documentary "History of the Eagles Parts 1 and 2." I enjoyed that, as well.

But I didn't just sit down to watch these shows. Instead, I walked. I swayed. I tried to sit as little as possible. I don't think I've ever watched a television show by standing through about the entire show.

But it helped.

The standing and moving helped me feel better.

The music helped me feel better.

Knowing Jessica Jones and Luke Cage are far more fucked up than me helped me feel better.

It was all good.

But then on Monday afternoon, Rachel brings home liquid Tylenol. Well, I can't swallow pills. I'm trying to get off the oxycodone because I have a slight allergic reaction to it, plus, it's oxycodone people. I don't need to be on that stuff for a long period of time.

Anyway, the liquid Tylenol:

She pulls it out of the bag and it's blue.

Yeah, blue.

The flavor is called "Cool Burst".

What?

"Cool" is not a flavor. Cool is Fonzie. (Look it up if you must.)

Look at that color.

Yeah.

And it tastes absolutely disgusting. Why is grape flavored reserved for kids Tylenol, while disgusting Cool Burst is for adults? Supposedly there's also Cherry Burst, but forget the "burst" thing, Tylenol, and just give me something fairly decent tasting to swallow. Don't try to be fancy. Ugh.

So around 5pm I decided to muster all the strength I had to get this down the hatch. The directions state to take 2 tablespoons of this stuff. I said screw that and took one tablespoon. I knew from the hospital stay that half the dose still worked for me.

And it did again.

About 30 minutes later my mouth was feeling pretty good. Not great, mind you. Not back to normal. But I felt I could swallow. So I decided to try these meatball things that Rachel got at Costco earlier. We had never had them before, but the boys had them when they stayed over at a friend's house while I was in the hospital. They ate them then, so Rachel thought she'd try it. I ate four of them. They were freaking tasty.

I took the Tylenol again the next night and then ate quite a bit of Chicken Alfredo. (Yes, this was the dinner my oldest got sick at.)

I was slowly getting actual food into me. Up to this point, breakfasts have consisted of one scrambled egg, while lunch, as well as several dinners, have consisted of tuna mixed with mayonnaise. It was good to eat something different.

On Wednesday, the day we were to head to Seattle to get the staples out and get the pathology report, I decided I had to leave the house. I hadn't driven or left the house in two weeks. My oldest was sick and so he was just going to lay around and watch television all day. Knowing that I was not going to want to watch what he wanted to watch, and that I didn't want to spend the day in bed, I dressed for the first time in two weeks and then headed to the college.

I missed my first class because I just couldn't get there any earlier. So I arrived during the middle of my second class. It was an absolute pleasure to see them and to see them diligently working. I got to help several of them with their math questions while I visited. It was nice to be back in the classroom.

Afterward, I visited with some colleagues and then left to pick up the little guy from school. He wasn't expecting me. I wasn't expecting to pick him up. But I needed to spend some time at the office, therapy and all, and ended up staying longer than I had anticipated.

All in all, I've had three pretty good days in a row. Each one slightly better than the day before. Maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I just can't see it yet.

But I think I can feel it.

Hell Left The Light On

Born with no choice

Yet fights society every day,

He wonders if it’s worth it to go on.

When different on the inside

Than the outer shell does say,

You can see Hell left the light on.

She prays for it to end

But no god finds time to intervene.

She drifts to a world that's far gone.

Violated, humiliated

Her whole self now unclean.

All because Hell left the light on.

His color viewed as “lesser”

By those who find pleasure in hate.

He stays in the shadows, withdrawn.

He goes on with his life

Though the pressure is great.

Always wary, since Hell left the light on.

Her husband and children

Slaughtered before her eyes

She was then raped and sold before dawn.

With God as the government

The devils arise

To make sure that Hell left the light on.

The disease has spread

Poisoning him to his core.

Death is a conclusion foregone.

He’s fighting for life

In a game he can’t score.

And he knows Hell left the light on.

Knelt before the man of God,

Then told he’d be released from sin.

He prayed it wouldn’t take long.

He wipes himself clean,

Looks in the mirror again,

And wonders why Hell left the light on.

Alone with their despondency,

Their world has crashed all throughout.

The loss of their child they dwell on.

They speak of before

When that’s what life was about.

Long before Hell left the light on.

--Randal D. Anderson

June 7, 2016