Chemotherapy

Of Dung Beetles and Other Seriousness

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“Quit complaining about life’s burdens, a dung beetle carries up 1000 times its own body weight.”
― Anoir Ou-Chad

The things you think about while embraced by the silence….

She has finally gone to sleep…sitting in her infusion chair. Neither of us sleep well the night before her infusions. Her infusion chair looks comfortable, my chair is anything but. No nap for me. There are many of us sitting in uncomfortable chairs supporting friends and family, all hooked up to infusions of “hope.” All of us are uncomfortable in our chairs and our thoughts.

This is Linda’s chemo treatment number three of six. I understand why she has a difficult night but wonder why I’m having a sympathetic reaction. I will usually sleep through almost anything. All night I dealt with intrusive dreams. Minor dealings compared to hers but major to me.

I sit with her as she gets her five hours of liquid “hope”. She picks a room with a view instead of a room with a TV. I sit with my back to the wide windows watching her watch the wind move tree limbs until she falls asleep. Linda can’t tolerate the chatter of TV or radio for some reason, and I am having a problem dealing with the silence.

I do have a computer to provide a bit of noise over my pods and just watched a YouTube video of a dung beetle hard at work. It was an accident. I didn’t just Google or YouTube “Dung Beetle” but once I saw the preview I was hooked and watched several videos. They are hypnotic.

The video was of a dung beetle hard at work. What kind of work does a dung beetle do? They roll small balls of poop into large balls of poop and then feed off them or use them as a breeding chamber. Breeding chamber? Barry White croons in a deep baritone, “I can’t get enough of your love baby.” I think in a high screech, “Hey baby, want to come check out my big ole ball of poop?”

There must be some kind of lesson here, I’m just too groggy to figure out what it might be. “A water buffalo’s poop is a dung beetles cabana?” That wasn’t even funny in my head, I don’t know why I decided to go ahead and add it.

Amazing fact. There are three types of dung beetles, mine is called a “roller” for obvious reasons. “Rollers” can roll up over 250 times their mass in one night and bury it to be feasted upon later. Amazingly, all this demanding work is done with their rear legs while standing on their head. I wonder if female dung beetles are impressed by the size of their paramour’s balls? Of poop. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Obviously, watching videos about dung beetles is not about dung beetles. It’s about not thinking about my sleeping bride who is battling cancer. I clutch every time I think or say the word. It is as if I don’t say it, it might not be true. But then, I see her softened face as she sleeps through her infusion, liquid hope running into her veins.

I wonder what kind of devils run through her mind. I’m sure she has her intrusive thoughts. When we talk, our focus tends to be more about the “hope.” The blood panels have come back good. Cancer antigens have gone down after every infusion but in the back of my mind I worry that the cosmic Big Guy is going to snatch the rug out from under us.

Dung beetles don’t seem to worry. They are perfectly happy to roll up poop balls all day long. I don’t want to trade my life for that of a dung beetle but there is something to be said about a lack of worry.

Historical

Ancient Egyptians held dung beetles in high regard. The “sacred scarab” was in fact a dung beetle.

Update

As I said before, we are halfway, completing chemo treatment number three. She is wired on the steroids that are included in chemo and I can’t help but wonder when the energizer bunny will wind down. She slept not a wink last night and I feel guilty that I did.

Her cancer antigens have continued to drop but her side effects have continued to escalate. There is a tradeoff there, I’m sure. Despite the pain she is optimistic.

Again, thanks for your prayers and comments of encouragement.

Don Miller doesn’t just write about dung beetles. He has published several books, fiction, and nonfiction. They can be purchased or downloaded at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

A Little Piece of Heaven

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“Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?” ― Stephanie Perkins, Anna and the French Kiss

“Home isn’t where you’re from, it’s where you find light when all grows dark.” ― Pierce Brown, Golden Son

“Outside the Front Gate”

We were separated from our “little piece of heaven” in the foothills of the Blue Ridge in the late summer of 1987 by a chain link fence and a locked gate with a puppy dog emblem on top. To ensure we didn’t venture in was a huge, bearlike dog. He was quiet but eyeing us warily from what I assumed was a garage but could have been the Blue Ridge’s largest doghouse. We didn’t know at the time that this would be our little piece of heaven but there was a sign on the driveway saying, “For Sale.”

“Sometimes you don’t know you are lost until you are found.”

We were out making memories as we did back then. Driving unknown roads hoping to get lost on some winding pig trail. Gas was cheaper and our car a steed to find adventure. It would be the beginning of many such adventures but none as important as this one.

We talked about the need to move into something larger. Something rundown we could renovate…a couple of acres of land to surround it. Somewhere we could spread out a bit. Something better for two people and three puppy dogs than a condominium. Somewhere to make memories. This was it we just didn’t know it at the time.

My bride exclaimed, “This is perfect.” “Not so fast” my Lee Corso voice said in my head. That’s not true, I didn’t know much about Lee Corso thirty-six years ago and don’t think ESPN’s Game Day existed. What was true was that there would be many pig trails and switch backs before it became “our little piece of heaven.”

 “Not so fast!”

My bride made the phone call as soon as we got home. When she gets something in her head, she takes the bit in her teeth and will not be turned even if it means galloping over a cliff. The realtor was nice but told us a couple was signing a contract on the property the following week. My bride was deflated. I wasn’t sure what I was.

He told us 3300 Highway 11 was an old farmhouse sitting on the front right corner on eighty-seven acres fronting Highway 11. We found later it was populated with eighty-seven acres of pines, oaks, mountain laurel, black walnuts, and hemlocks. It was cut by seven streams with the scattered remains of moonshine stills littering their banks. Some foggy mornings the smell of sour mash still permeates the air.

Old as in built in 1890. It was described as gently rolling but that was a lie. It was cut with streams that left deep ravines to be navigated. Significantly more land than we needed, and I took the realtor’s word as law and immediately forgot about the eighty-seven acres and the old two-story farmhouse.

A phone call later in the week brought it back to the forefront of my pea head. The realtor let us know, “The owner, Mr. Copeland, would like to meet you and would be willing to take you on a tour.”

Linda immediately jumped at the opportunity and the rest is history. After a day of being walked into the ground by a seventy-seven-year-old retired Methodist minister, Mr. Copeland walked out of the scheduled closing simply saying, “I like them better than you.”

“Through the Front Gate”

I don’t know how many times I’ve walked through our front gate but I’m always glad to be back. I feel like this is where I want to be…need to be. It is where that special person is and where darkness always turns to light.

Despite the trials and tribulations of the past thirty-seven years, this is home. Despite the concerns of getting too old to keep up with the place, no matter how run down or overgrown, this is home. This is home because Linda Gail is there along with the ghosts of people and puppies now gone.

Weekly Update

Linda had her second treatment. She is a little “wired” from the steroids but was able to get some sleep the night after. Two days removed from the chemo she looks like she sat too long in the sun and her bruises are more apparent due to the blood thinner she is on. She is weak as a kitten.

Earlier bloodwork indicates positive results so we are hopeful that the chemotherapy will put her into remission. Her hair is falling out and it has been a bitter pill but Linda being Linda has added colorful scarves, one her grandmother wore, and a floppy purple hat.

She was also gifted a beautiful wig. Thanks for all the prayers, cards of concern and good Ju Ju, and support. Special thanks to Kristen Coward for the beautiful, knitted throw and Christin Bennett for the beautiful wig.

The blog image is at the front gate looking in through Japanese Honeysuckle. It also served as a cover photo of the book, “Through the Front Gate.” It and other books and novels can be purchased at https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Famazon.com%2Fauthor%2Fcigarman501%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR0G8ELuHBR-zAMdiSZ_Z9GoeW5Psc0S14PJw504LpXFf52Jks6KPrEQaRQ&h=AT2IgW5Kbd1ZtAc4wst-zIreyxAHAKtKLouaz6WV3uU4HpYHAY8ein7iMLZ1tAGtutYNPRNJ-Osf6jiN7_6o5okZBWh-zAESJSSmXOdrud3JDHqu2HYvwGecM2OtWP_wdYT_QI-qUUsXgW1B-_qdtw