Pets are a lot like children, only you don’t have to give them an allowance.  It seems like we have always had a dog.  We had been married for about a year when we got our first one.  I was in law school at the University of Missouri and we were living in University housing (10-I University Terrace).  This was 1959 and University Terrace was brand spanking new.  No pets were allowed, but I’m a little fuzzy about what we knew and when we knew it.

We found out that someone out in the country had some terriers for sale.  So we drove out to look at them.  We found the farm and there really wasn’t much to see.  They only had one puppy left and he was black and tan and gray and white.  He was a small little dirty creature.  We were sure when we got him home and washed him, he would look better.  We were wrong.  After he was washed, he was the same little dirty looking puppy.

We named him Micky because his face looked like Micky Mouse.  When he was fully grown, he weighed 12 pounds and had stumpy little legs.  His head was too big for his body and his ears were too big for his head.  His tail had disappeared before we got him.  He looked like a little piglet walking down hill.

The little apartment had only one closet and, of course, no door on the closet.  One night, while in bed, we heard something rattling around in the closet.  We flipped on the light and there stood Micky with a slipper in his mouth.  We read him the riot act and he seemed to grasp that slippers were not a good idea.

With Carole working and me going to law school, Micky was either in the apartment all day or outside all day.  On those days he was outside, he ran the campus.  Leash laws were not yet in existence.  One day while I was walking past the book store, here comes Micky from the other direction and he has someone’s lunch sack in his mouth.  I acted like I didn’t know him (he acted like he didn’t know me).  Ships passing in the night.

Micky wasn’t the most famous dog at MIZZOU.  That honor belonged to Tripod, a three legged mutt, well known on campus.  Legion had it that the Veterinary School used to practice surgery on unsuspecting dogs.  After the dog recovered from the amputation, they would put him down.  But Tripod escaped.  The stories vary as to how he got loose.  Everyone loves a conspiracy theory.

Micky also had a skin problem on his back.  He lost some of the hair and the vet would give us a salve to make him feel better.  That must have been the purpose, because it sure didn’t heal him.  His back must have itched and one of the ways he got relief was from rolling around in dog dirt.  I would come home from school and there was the smelly little creature, happy to see me.  I would pick him up very carefully and dump him in the bath tub.  Washing a 12 pound short haired terrier was no big deal (once you got past the smell).

On days when he was left in the apartment, he would climb up on the back of the front room couch and look out through the drapes.  I believe that is how we got caught.   All of our neighbors knew Micky and were “cool” with his presence in the “hood.”  Well, we received a letter from the University telling us that Micky had to go or we had to go.  One of my classmates wives came through for us.  Penny and Dick Sonnich rented a house close to campus and they agreed to take care of Micky.  Penny was so sweet to take on the task.

The Sonnichs kept Micky tethered when he was outside.  But, Micky had a masters degree in escape and evasion.  There were still Micky sitings all over campus.  About  three months before I was to graduate, I received a phone call from our vet.  He said, “I guess you know your dog is dead.”  There has to be a better notification process.  I was overcome with grief.  It appears he got into a dog fight with three big dogs and before anyone could break it up, Micky was beyond recovery.  Carole was about six months pregnant and took it worse than I did.  Her doctor fixed her up and life moved on.

Micky was the only male dog we ever owned.  The memories are all good.  He was small, muscular and feisty, but a loving pet.  We had a movie camera back then, but the only movies we have of Micky is of him scooting into the University library.  Maybe it was lunchtime.

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

No, you can’t blame this one on sequestration.  It happened when there were plenty of Keystone cops running around the airport.  In fact, if there had been fewer security guards, the operation might have been more efficient.

The whole thing started last year when a good friend of mine, a retired Marine colonel, was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  I have read that one out of every six guys will eventually end up with prostate cancer.  The odds are no better than Russian Roulette.  Well the good news, if there is any, is that the ways of treating prostate cancer keep getting better

I have another close friend (I’m at the age where if you have six friends—) who when diagnosed, decided to use fiducial marker seeds to clearly identify where the radiation should be concentrated.  The seeds are about the size of grains of rice and are gold.  Well, his procedure was completely successful with practically no side effects.  He told me the other day that if he dies first, his wife wants the gold seeds!

My Marine buddy’s procedure was different.  It’s called brachytheropy.  Yes, there was implanting of seeds.  But, these seeds had radiation in them.  So the seeds could be planted close to or even in the tumor.  The only disadvantage in this procedure is that your wife doesn’t get any gold when you kick the bucket.

I have no way of comparing the two procedures.  I am clearly not qualified and I hope I don’t have to make a decision in the future.  I can say that both of my friends are doing exceedingly well.

Every year, my Marine buddy takes his wife and goes to Mexico for a couple of weeks.  They meet family and friends down there and he gets in a number of rounds of golf.  This year was no exception and a good time was had by all, until they tried to get home.

While passing in front of an immigration agent at the George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, the agent’s radiation monitor alerted.  He was immediately arrested for trying to sneak radioactive material into our country.  I was personally pleased to find out we do have a system in place for identifying radioactive material coming into this country.  So he was thrown into the “tank” with a number of unwashed suspected illegal visitors from Central America.  That was the best part of the exercise.

The fun began when the security agents tried to locate the source of the radioactivity (clearly there was the possibility of a dirty bomb).  I was advised that at least three agents spent an hour scanning his groin with a half-a-dozen radiation meters.  Some didn’t work, some perhaps worked.  The problem was that the results needed to be inputted into a computer to get the results needed.  This required some knowledge and competence.  Shouldn’t he have had a letter from his doctor explaining all of this?  He did!  But the agents weren’t interested.  They had to follow their procedures.  And, of course, anyone devious enough to hide radioactive material in his prostate, wouldn’t have any trouble getting a bogus letter from a doctor.

My friend began to realize that if the folly continued, he was going to miss his connecting flight.  Let me politely say that he has a way of letting people know when he is unhappy.  And, he was becoming very unhappy.  The immigration agents decided to take him down to Customs.  Customs also deals with these issues.  Again he was zapped and questioned.  The Customs agent wanted to know if he had a letter from his doctor.  Duh.

The Customs agent bought the letter and gave him the green light.  Now all he had to do was get through security and find his gate.  By the time they passed through security, their flight had almost completed boarding.  He commandeered an overloaded curtesy cart and they made it to the gate with two minutes to spare.  He told me that for next years trip, he is going to purchase some lead skivvies.

Writted by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

Life is just a series of mistakes.  Some big, some small.  Some you recover from, some not so well.  How many times have you said, “I should have done this or that.  I should have said this or that.”  As you get older, you recover from mistakes better.  Sometimes you even do or say this or that, and sometimes things get better (and, sometimes worse).

When I was a kid, I had a nice smile.  There wasn’t much orthodontic work back then.  I don’t think we knew what an orthodontist was (someone who watched birds), but my teeth lined up fairly well.  I also had dimples, so I loved to smile.  When I was 11, I got into an argument with a kid at the movies on 40th and Waverly.  We went outside allegedly to fight.  One of my buddies told me that the other guy was too smart to fight me.  After we got outside and while I was waiting to see what was going to happen, he punched me right in the mouth.  I became furious and beat the hell out of him.  But my upper left front tooth was really loose and very painful.  That bit about the victors and the spoils is overrated.

The nerve of the tooth was dead.  It quit hurting, but over a period of time it started getting darker.  I ended up going to a dentist and having a root canal.  That was supposed to keep the tooth from getting darker and it probably did.  But I still had a dull tooth right in the middle of my smile.

I went through high school, undergraduate school and law school with a shaded tooth.  Under our present school system, I am sure there would have been a counselor to discuss my shaded tooth and self-esteem issues.

When I got in the military, I received free dental care.  At Fort Hood, Texas, I had a dental corps lieutenant colonel examining me.  He said, “Rice, you have a dark tooth and your eyes are too close together.  I said, “Colonel, it’s a good thing you are in the Army, because on the outside, with your bedside manner, you would go hungry.”  He said he couldn’t do anything about my eyes, but he could bleach my tooth.  And he did!  So for the next ten years, I had reasonably normal looking teeth.

Five tours later, I was teaching on the JAG School faculty on the grounds of the University of Virginia.  Mr. Jefferson called it the grounds and not the campus, so saying campus identifies you quickly as an outsider and, even worse, perhaps a Yankee.  My only concern is whether “grounds” should be capitalized?! 

One of my neighbors was a dentist at UVA and after examining my mouth, he decided that he might be able to make enough money out of my mouth to go into private practice.  I ended up with more caps than a toy six shooter.  He also decided that he should cap my troublesome front tooth.

The cap he put on my front tooth was too white.  It wasn’t as white as a Chiclet.  More like a four-day-old Chiclet.  We all knew it was way too white, me, the doc and his assistant.  I think this should be covered by the hippocratic oath.  I should have spoken up.  I should have said, “This is unacceptable.”  But, I felt like he was doing me a favor.  He had convinced someone down at Fort Lee to pay for it.  He was just getting his business started.  Blah, blah, blah.  Anyway, by not speaking up, I wore that headlight for the next twenty years.

Twenty some-odd years later, in the 1990s, I disposed of my four-day-old Chiclet once and for all and replaced it with perfectly normal, perfectly natural bridge.  They are now using my tooth at the Cape Henry Lighthouse at the mouth of the Chesapeake (from one mouth to another).

So there you have it.  Lots of little mistakes.  I shouldn’t have let that bastard sucker punch me.  I shouldn’t have let my neighbor, the dentist, stick that Chiclet in my mouth.  I shoulda, shoulda, shoulda.  Here it is, 20 years later and I think I need a counselor.

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

I heard on the radio, a few days back, that Walmart would be hiring 100,000 military veterans over the next five years.  The broadcast stated that as long as the soldier wasn’t dishonorably discharged, Walmart would hire him or her.  A dim light came on in my dim brain and I thought, “That can’t be right.”

Not every bad actor in the military has a Dishonorable Discharge.  So I checked on the internet and found I was right.  Walmart is going to hire 100,000 military veterans over the next five years who have received an Honorable Discharge.  Big difference.  In between the Honorable and Dishonorable are other types of discharges and I would doubt that Walmart would want some of these characters.  The names change through the years, but the nature of the individuals stays the same.

The least offensive of the inbetweeners is the General Discharge (under honorable conditions).  This is the guy with two left feet.  He’s trying, but he just can’t hack it.  He is a disaster and it is best that he and the military go separate ways.

Back when you couldn’t be a homosexual in the military, we discharged them with General Discharges.  When we went to “don’t ask, don’t tell,” if they told, they got a General Discharge.  Now that it is OK to be gay in the military, I guess it’s Honorable.  An old sarge told me that he was in when it was illegal, then, he went through “don’t ask, don’t tell.  Now that it is OK, he has decided to retire, before Obama makes it mandatory.

The next category is the “Other Than Honorable” Discharge.  Sounds a lot like not honorable or dishonorable.  But it doesn’t mean dishonorable, it means other than honorable.  I hope you’re confused.  You should be.  The funny thing is we used to call it an “Undesirable Discharge,” but somebody decided that sounded bad (it’s supposed to be bad!).  So let me say this as succinctly as I can.  Undesirable sounds worse that “Other Than Honorable,” which is not honorable, but not dishonorable.  Well, we got that taken care of.  Anyway, Walmart is not going to take any of these turkeys.

The General and Other Than Honorable Discharges are administrative in nature.  That means someone may get one without going to trial.  A trial by courts-martial may result in a Bad Conduct Discharge or a Dishonorable Discharge.  Definitely not Walmart material.  However, they are still eligible to be Walmart customers.

I thought I went to my first Walmart in 1958, when I was a student in Columbia, Missouri.  The store was downtown, not too far from campus.  The thing that got me excited was that everything had two prices on it.  It had the retail price and the Walmart price.  I could see what a great deal I was getting.  I was young.  This whole experience is so vivid in my mind.  I figured that the store might have been one of Sam’s early ones.  So I looked up Walmart history.  The first Walmart store was in 1962 and the first store outside of Arkansas was 1968.  So, that ruins my fond memory.

There’s a lot of people out there who don’t like Walmart.  The big box store. “It killed the quaint little stores.”  I loved the little stores in the downtown area; the hardware, the office supply store and the delicatessen.  I’m sorry they went the same way of Kodak film.  But people will go where they can get the widest selection at the best price.  Home Depot will never be as romantic as that old downtown hardware store, but we need to get over it.  Walmart isn’t just a big box store; it’s a very, very successful discount and grocery store.  It’s the largest grocery store chain in the country.  If someone else were selling better bananas cheaper, people would go elsewhere.

So, I tip my hat to Walmart.  Doing something for military veterans in good.  Giving them a job is great.  Just one more reason the GI should strive to get an Honorable Discharge

Witten by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

David Feherty, an unpredictable and sometimes outrageous commentator on golf,  was interviewing the guest Hall of Fame basketball player, Bill Russell.  Feherty has his own half hour show on the Golf Channel and interviewed a wide variety of famous athletes.  Russell spoke of the close relationship he had with his Boston Celtic’s coach, Red Auerbach.

When Red was close to death, Russell went to see him for the last time.  As Bill Russell was about to leave, Red called him back to the bed and whispered to him, “When you get old, don’t fall.”  When Russell told Feherty, they both chuckled.  They acted like, here we were, hoping for something prophetic and all we got was the musing of an old man.

Well, I’m not so sure it wasn’t great advice.  Remember, Auerbach was the man who said “Records are made to be broken.”  He’s quotable.  You just have to be there.  None of us believes we are there yet.  In fact, those of us who consider ourselves athletic, think we will never get there.  But about ten years ago, I was playing third base in an old timers soft ball game and the throw from the outfield was low.  As it went by me, I realized that I could no longer bend over to get it.  When you have been doing things like that all your life, and then, you can’t, it’s a real shock.  I mentally made some lame excuse and moved on.

Part of being an athlete is knowing how to fall.  It’s nothing you are taught or trained to do.  It’s just inherent.  But it is important.  Sheep dogs know how to herd sheep and athletes know how to fall.  A few years back, when I was 70, I was jogging along and I slipped on some ice.  We are not here to discuss dumb decisions I have made, like jogging on an icy day.  We are here to discuss the art of falling.  And what an art.  I slipped, then tumbled and rolled and came up in good shape.  A few scratches, but overall quite proud of myself for still being among those who know how to fall.  Ah yes, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.

I’m a few years older now and for Thanksgiving, Carole and I drove from the DC area down to Roanoke, Virginia to spend the holiday with our son, Paul, his wife, Sandy and their two sons, Josh and Jack (PJ3).  Thanksgiving lived up to its name and to top off a perfect day, the Redskins beat the Cowboys.  It is really heart warming to watch Jerry Jones at such moments.

Friday was a kick-back day.  Lots of football on TV and no one had to go to work..  I saw my 13-year-old grandson, Jack, kicking a soccer ball to himself in the cul-de-sac below the house.  They live on Reed Mountain, so everything is up or down.  I announced that I was going to kick the ball around with Jack and headed down the driveway.  I didn’t last five minutes.  About the third time he kicked the ball to me, it bounced higher than I thought it would and smacked me on the forehead.  It just missed my glasses and I was pleased I hadn’t broken or cut anything.  Then, I noticed my footwork wasn’t any good.  I decided to stay away from my bicycle kick.  I wasn’t even going to try my tricycle kick.

So we just kicked it back and forth at about 20 yards.  Pretty mild stuff.  Then the ball got away from me and started to roll down the street.  I started to move quickly to catch it –  and that was it.  I don’t know what happened, but I do know I was falling.  Completely out of control.  I skinned both hands, my knee, my elbow, my shoulder and banged my head.  The pants and sweater I was wearing were later rejected by Goodwill!

I’ve thought a lot about the fall.  First, I didn’t break anything.  Paul said at my age, I should be thankful.  Second, as I was falling, I was turning to the right to reduce the damage.  I think 20 years ago, I would have made pretty much the same move, but my head would not have smacked into the asphalt.  Third, I should have let the ball roll down the hill.  Next time I will.  I will be older and wiser.

Writted by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

Whenever something horrible happens, like the inexplicable senseless shootings in Aurora, Colorado, Congress postures, holds hearings and does nothing.  I decided I really needed to write on this subject, but then I realized that I am woefully ignorant of what laws are on the books.  Maybe I will figure some of them out before I finish this.  I do, however, have strong feelings about gun control.  I am satisfied that the NRA would consider me unamerican and the Brady gun control gang would think I am an idiot.

I spent 28 years in the Army and have never owned a gun.  I think guns are beautiful.  I just have no use for them in my house.  I have qualified with both pistols and rifles.  I’ve disassembled them, cleaned them, and reassembled them.  That’s part of being a soldier.  I guess the bottom line is that I have never lived in a place where I felt threatened.  If I lived in an area where the safety of my family was an issue, I would damn well betcha get a permit for a gun and purchase something that would put a big hole in an assailant.  I hope that never happens.

I strongly believe in keeping guns out of the hands of criminals.  Tacking a lot of years on to the sentence of a person who uses a gun in the commission of a crime should have some deterrent effect.

We also need to keep weapons out of the hands of crazy people.  But crazy people can, on occasion, act normal and that’s probably what they do when they are purchasing a fire arm.  I have no problem with background checks.  Who cares if it take three days or five days.  It serves a legitimate purpose.

I am not an outdoorsman, whatever that means.  But I respect their right to hunt, fish, drink beer and tell wild tales.  But, certain weapons are not for hunting.  I don’t think Bubba is going to take an AK-47 out to shoot squirrels.  We need to figure out a way to restrict military weapons.  I don’t believe the NRA will accept any restrictions.  Something about a slippery slope.  Well, that’s where I depart.  I would prohibit automatic weapons and military semi-automatic weapons.  I would also limit the number of rounds a magazine can hold.  You don’t need 100 rounds to shoot Bambi.

This is a great country.  When Mizzou plays Kansas and I am frothing at the mouth, I have to back away and remember we are all Americans.  I got sidetracked there, but what I want to say is the country is too diversified to have the same gun control laws in Wyoming and New York City.  I think states, and, in some cases, cities should set their own standards for gun control laws.  I doubt if Wyoming has many restrictions and I am sure that New York City has quite a few.  That makes sense.  If you don’t think it makes sense read no further.  I can’t help you.

I’m not a big gun control advocate, but I don’t believe the Government is staying up late at night trying to figure out how to take away our guns.  If I am wrong, then the Government will have to issue me one before they can take it away from me.

In 1978, Tom Daschel was elected for the first time to the House of Representatives.  He won a contested election by 139 votes in a recount.  He brought his family to DC and then rented a house next to ours in West Springfield.  We were neighbors for one year before I was reassigned to Fort Riley, Kansas.  I never discussed politics with Tom.  I did one snowy day push his car out of a snow bank.  I have often wondered if this would have been a better country if I had left him there.  I did, however, have a chat over the back fence with his wife, Laurie.  She was taking me step by step through the Democratic agenda.  All of a sudden it dawned on me that in South Dakota, Tom couldn’t have been in favor of gun control.  I asked Laurie what Tom’s position was on the right to bear arms.  She told me that Tom was in favor of the right to arm bears!  I gave up.

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

When certain things happen in your life, your previous priorities go out the window.  In early June, we were to fly down to Fort Worth, Texas, for the annual reunion  of the Retired Army Judge Advocates.  We had been to 22 reunions in a row.  Canceled!  In the middle of June, we were heading back home to Carole’s high school reunion.  Canceled!  None of that seemed important.

On the 29th of May, 2012, Carole went in for a somewhat routing CAT scan of her lungs and GI tract.  We were subsequently notified that a small nodule was discovered on her pancreas.  A small nodule on her pancreas.  That’s an attention getter.  Carole’s younger brother, Bob, had died of pancreatic cancer.  We were now on a roller coaster racing up and down.  Two days later, Carole’s GI doctor, Dr. McBride, had set up an MRI for that day.  He then called us later that night to let us know that there was a small tumor and it needed to be addressed.

He told us that a Dr. John L. Cameron at Johns Hopkins Hospital was probably the best at the type of surgery that Carole would need.  He didn’t think he could get Dr. Cameron to handle Carole’s case, but if he could get Carole into the Johns Hopkins system, then Dr. Cameron would be in some oversight roll.  Dr. McBride told us he would call Dr. Cameron’s office the next day and see what he could do.

In the two days between the CAT scan and the MRI, I had been searching the internet on pancreatic cancer surgery.  Any number of times, I would end up on a Johns Hopkins website.  I knew of Dr. Cameron before Dr. McBride mentioned his name.  I also had heard of the Whipple Procedure operation.  They call it the Whipple Procedure after a doctor who improved the procedure and because no one could pronounce a pancreaticoduodenectomy!

Dr. McBride called us very excited the next morning (June 1).  Dr. Cameron had agreed to take Carole on as a patient.  We were equally excited.  The roller coster was climbing again.  That same day, we contacted Bonnie, Dr. Cameron’s administrative assistant and set up an appointment at Johns Hopkins with Dr. Cameron for Wednesday, June 6.  That date was our 53d wedding anniversary, but we were right where we needed to be.

On that Wednesday, we made our first trip to Johns Hopkins.  I plugged the address into my car navigation system and it took us on a very strange route to the Outpatient Clinic.  Then, after taking us on this circuitous route, it dropped us off two blocks North of our destination; an area where you would not want to have car trouble late at night.  I had previously studied maps of the area and got us to our destination.

Dr. Cameron was everything we hoped for and he explained to Carole that she had an Islet Cell tumor (pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor) near the head of the pancreas (on the Uncinate – Hey, look it up, I ain’t teaching no course here) and it needed to come out.  She needed a Whipple Procedure operation.  We were to call Bonnie and set up a date for the operation.  Dr. Cameron also said that if we wanted to go to the reunion we should go.  We had already decided not to go, but it pleased us that he believed that we could go to the reunion and still have time for a successful operation.

Carole and Bonnie set up the operation for Monday, June 18, within three weeks of when we found the tumor.  Carole had to get pulmonary and cardiology clearance for the operation.  Fortunately, she recently had a clearance from her Pulmonologist and her cardiologist had recently given her an EKG and an eco cardiogram.  The only remaining test she needed for the clearance was a stress test.  With the great help of her cardiologist, Dr. Stoebner, at DeWitt Hospital, Fort Belvoir, the nuclear stress test was set up for Tuesday, June 12.  This would give us a chance to send the results up to Johns Hopkins before the Friday, June 15 pre-operation meeting.

Early Tuesday morning, we went to DeWitt Hospital and Carole’s nuclear stress test went smoothly.  In the afternoon, however, we received a dreaded phone call that the result had shown something that might be blockage.  They would need to perform a heart cathorization to determine the extent of the blockage.  AND, if the blockage were over 50%, they would have to put a stent in.  AND, if they put in a stent, she couldn’t have surgery for 30 days!  The roller coaster was racing down hill and completely out of control.

So the next morning at 7:00 AM, we were back at DeWitt waiting for Carole’s next procedure.  The heart catherization showed no blockage!  All the doctors at DeWitt were exceedingly helpful.  We were back on track.

The Friday pre-operation meeting went smoothly.  We used that trip to Baltimore to set up housing for me for the while that Carole was in the hospital.  Johns Hopkins has a family residence called Hackerman-Patz located right across the street from the Weinberg Building where Carole would have her surgery.  In fact, the two buildings are connected by a sky walk.  The morning of the operation, I put Carole in a wheel chair and we used the sky walk to travel to the surgery reception center.

She had to be there at 5:00 AM.  The processing took about forty-five minutes and eventually they took Carole back for her preparation.  They brought me in a few minutes before they would wheel her into surgery.  I kissed her and told her that if she had bought me any golf clubs as a surprise birthday present, this was the time to tell me where she had hidden them.

Johns Hopkins has a policy of keeping the family of the patient informed as to the status of the operation.  I was informed that the operation began at 8:20.  Dr. Cameron had told us that the operation would take approximately five and a half hours.  Every two hours, someone would contact me and tell me that the operation was proceeding well.  That was appreciated.  After five hours, at 1:20 PM, Dr. Cameron found me and told me that Carole had done well and that I could see her at about 4:00.  It was closer to 5:00 and she looked like she had just lost a heavy weight fight.  Her eyes were puffy, plus, she had a ventilator coming out of her mouth and a drainage tube coming out of her nose.  I felt so sorry for her.  I came back later and the ventilator was gone.

The next morning, the nose drainage tube was gone.  This was progress at the most basic level.  She spent two days in the intensive care unit and during that time, they had her up and walking around the ward.  Dr. Cameron and his entourage visited Carole twice a day for the nine days she was hospitalized.  On Friday, June 22, Dr. Cameron mentioned on the way out, “Oh yes, your lab reports all came back negative and there will be no need for further treatment.”  No need for chemotherapy, no need for radiation, no need for nothing!  Now, all we had to do was survive the operation.  An operation where all kinds of things were removed (part of the pancreas, the duodenum, part of the intestines, the gallbladder, some lymph glands, some of the bile ducts and a portion of her stomach) and then what was left was resectioned back together.  Now do you understand nine days in the hospital?  Do you also understand why we were gleeful when we found out that Dr. Cameron, the best in the business, had agreed to operate on Carole?  Humpty Dumpty could have used Dr. Cameron.

We came home on Tuesday, June 26, and I became Dr. Mom.  It makes me appreciate women when I have to do the routine things they do every day.  I was and still am exhausted.  Carole came home with one drainage tube which I dutifully emptied three to four times a day, c
arefully recording the number of milliliter in the collection bulb and the color of the substance.  I came up with some new descriptive colors, like “strong tea” and “grapefruit juice.”

Every Friday, we trek up to Baltimore to get Carole checked out.  On Friday, July 6, they took Carole off of her pain medication.  That was easy for them.  They said no more Oxycodone and have a safe trip home.  The pain came back in spades.  I can’t believe how the codeine had masked Carole’s pain.  I believe it now.  Then, we had a little accident when the drainage tube fell out.  Oops!  It had pretty much run it course, but I felt pretty foolish calling up Bonnie and saying, “Oops.”

Last Friday, Dr. Devi, Dr Cameron’s assistant removed the last of the red, inch and a half long retention sutures.  For the last week, they had been doing more bad that good and we are now trying to recover the skin that was rubbed off.  So no bikini for Carole.  No great loss.  Her not wearing a bikini has long surpassed Cal Ripkin’s consecutive game record.  The problem is only a nuisance and not a threat.  And, because they felt sorry for the discomfort caused, they gave her a few more happy pills.

By the time I get this published, both of our daughters, Becky and Missy, will have visited and helped out.  Life is starting to return to normal.  Things that everyone takes for granted are starting to happen, like Carole rolling from her one side to the other in bed.  We feel like we still have a mile to go and we are doing it an inch at a time.  But, we are definitely moving, and what is known as a silent killer was discovered in time and removed.  Removing the tumor was a five star event.  Now, we are starting to focus on a Crystal Cruise of the British Isles in late August!

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com