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Thursday, June 22, 2017

💀 ☠ Aggressive Cancer Treatment Unwarranted at the End of Life Stage │ The One Secret to Leading a Fulfilling Life

Well, the depravity took charge and kept me up late last night. It was at least 12:56 a.m. before I was finally in bed.

The evening hadn't been too bad, and even Mark was in reasonable form.

I don't know how I went amiss and failed to retire well ahead of midnight ─ it was not the start to my Thursday that I had planned.

During the evening, I introduced Mark to a so-called comedy that I had already watched two episodes of ─ I tuned in the first episode for him and re-watched it with him: The Ranch.

After watching the second episode by myself late on Tuesday evening, I felt a little more favourable about the series, but I am still struggling to embrace it. So much of it is contrived and lame.

If you know nothing of the series, the younger of two brothers returns home to the struggling family ranch after running out on it many years earlier. The two brothers are the same two actors featured in That '70s Show as 'Kelso' (Ashton Kutcher) and ever-sarcastic 'Hyde' (Danny Masterson). The latter's name ─ or nickname, actually ─ in The Ranch is 'Rooster,' and his personality is pretty much identical to that of Hyde.

Poor Sam Elliott would have been better cast as their grandfather than their father, but I must say that Debra Winger as their mother is looking rather appealing ─ and she turned 62 this year!

I'll tune in the second episode for Mark quite soon and see if he feels like continuing with it. As far as I could tell, he never cracked a smile during the first episode ─ neither did I, as I recall.

We both hate the out-of-place laugh track ─ nothing the characters say is ever that funny. The show is more of a family drama than a comedy. And the fake laughter gets in the way when an incident or statement suddenly becomes dramatic, as is often the case with the show ─ family conflicts abound.

As I said, I got to bed considerably later than I ever meant to. Still, I slept quite well, not finding myself awake enough to care to get up and use the bathroom until at least 5:15 a.m.

But I definitely surprised myself when I later checked the time and saw it to be 8:08 a.m. Mark and both of my two stepsons had all gone to work, so I was home alone ─ with the front door unlocked, of course. It is a most rare morning that either of my irresponsible stepsons will lock the door when he goes anywhere.

With the late start that I got in compiling further content into the Lawless Spirit post that I am working on, the only way I could think of to help ensure that I would have it within me to tackle the day's exercise session in the backyard tool shed was by having my day's usual two hot beverages while I sat here working on that website.

It succeeded. I had the workout, finding myself afterward to weigh around 186 or 187 pounds ─ I am still somewhat 'up' in poundage from my normal adult weight in the low 180s at a height of five feet 10¾ inches (179.705 centimetres).

I still hadn't eaten anything today, but I wanted to get in a sunning session on the backyard sundeck ─ the day was cloudless and reasonably mild for such a day. I barely seeped any sweat at any point.

I commenced sunning at 11:57 a.m., and wrapped things up at 1:11 p.m.

And then I had myself a hearty first meal of the day.

By the way, an order I made to Amazon.ca on behalf of my brother Mark for CAN-C Eye Drops 2x 5ml Vials back on May 23 finally was delivered today. In a recent eye examination he had, he said that he was diagnosed with the early stages of a cataract, so he is hoping that this stuff will perform the sort of curative treatment that isn't supposed to be medically achievable.

He doesn't want surgery.

Yesterday I entirely forget that I had received notification from Google that it had created a collage of two photos from exactly one year previous as a commemoration ─ otherwise I would have posted it in that day's blog entry. This is the collage, and it depicts Mark and Mark's daughter Rene (Irene) who was 22 years old at the time.

She had a graduation ceremony to attend that day at Bellingham's Mount Baker Theater for passing a welding course at Bellingham Technical College:

  
These are the two original photos:



One of my closest friends ─ Larry Ernest Blue ─ died of cancer on January 21, 2011, if I have the date correct.

My older half sister Phyllis had a husband who died of cancer.

We all know someone who has died after succumbing to it.

Mainstream treatments tend to be darned harsh ─ often, as likely to kill the patient as the cancer. So just when should the mainstream medical profession call a halt to this sort of aggressive treatment?

Or should the fight continue until the death of the patient, even if the prognosis is that he or she will be dead in a month's time at most?

A recent study of American veterans with terminal cancer has found that the trend seems to be aggressive treatment, even in those final 30 days.

The following report is very enthusiastic in its negative interpretation of the study results:

JacksDailyDose.com

A more reserved and clinical report on the study is available at the website of the University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing:

Nursing.UPenn.edu

Might the first report have it correct, and the foremost reason for proceeding with "aggressive care" is primarily to rack up medical charges to the government and/or responsible medical plans?

Can there really be any specialists who truly believe that a terminal cancer expected to kill someone in 30 days or less can possibly be turned around with further abuse of the dying patient?

Whatever the case, I hope never to have to experience this for myself.

On another matter, how would you appraise your close relationships? Would you identify any of your relationships as being quality relationships? 
We measure quality relationships by gauging how much depth and vulnerability exists, how safe you feel sharing, and the extent to which you can really relax and reveal who you truly are ─ “warts and all.”
That quote is from this report:

DrMicozzi.com

Of course I know nothing of your situation, but I can declare that I do not have any such relationships. And it is what I miss about not having friends and relatives with whom I can regularly just kick back and have drinks with, and on occasion perhaps divulge personal 'secrets' that I harbour and keep to myself.

In other words, the "warts and all" mentioned in that quote ─ I have no one with whom I can talk about such matters, nor even reveal their existence.

My brother and I do not have that level of closeness, despite loving one another.

And although I also love my wife Jack, she and I are no longer intimate in any fashion; and I also know that I lost some of her respect when I allowed her to plunge us so deep into debt that my income alone became inadequate to meet our needs. 

I miss her friendship, for I know that has gone, too. We just seem to live with one another more or less amicably, but with nothing of the profound.

By the way, that report cited the following two articles, but did not link to them:

Inc.com


Anyway, if in your life you have quality relationships and realize it, then you have something pricelessly precious.

And now that I have succeeded in bringing myself down somewhat, I am going to close out today's post with the following journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting the little place I had back then in a house set on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

At this point, I must have been about a month into a three-month contract of full-time employment with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

The old building that then housed S.A.N.E. has long since been demolished, but back then it was situated on Carnarvon street right about where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now spreads forth.

I was a swamper on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck, which was usually driven by Esther St. Jean, a wonderful lady in her early 40s.
TUESDAY,June 22, 1976

I didn't get out of bed till 6:40 a.m.

I did a little bit of truck duty today with Took (and Esther).

David was around for a short while; he's back into an apartment on 10th St he had during the winter, but room 3 now.

Coming along Carnarvon after a pick-up ─ about 4:00 p.m. ─ I am sure I saw Angelina & Samantha Smith in front of Safeway. Thereafter I thought maybe I'd get a call from Art I didn't want; but no.

At home I found a census form in my mail box, with the landlady's note saying she'd collect it in the evening. So I filled my part out and put it back; the things were to have been mailed away June 1.

I shall leave for mom's and a mail check no later than 7:00 p.m.

For the first time in a long while mom was home when I arrived. 

She fed me a roast beef sandwich; I almost immediately developed a mild but lasting case of indigestion, but I was hungry.

Tomorrow is Cathy's divorce court.

Mail for me included a Golden Sweepstakes ticket notice of registration, a Lucky Leo draw ticket offer from Nelson's St. Joseph School, a $23.50 tithe receipt, and books from the F.&S.F. Book Co. of Staten Island (the hardcover Howard book The Iron Man, and the 3 paperbacks: Akers' The Suns of Scorpio, Carter's Mind Wizard of Callisto, and Farmer's Hadon of Ancient Opar).

Bed by 11:20 p.m.

My census form was still awaiting.
"Took" was a middle-aged Indigenous Canadian chap ─ he was very likable, but not shy about putting the bum on me for a loan, and I hated that. 

Philip David Prince was an old friend of mine whom I had known since we were in Grade VIII. He had been living in a room at 330 Fourth Street, but now had possibly moved back into what were familiarly referred to as the Fraser Apartments ─ a big complex of cheap rooms that may have been located at 115 Tenth Street. I cannot visually place its location any longer, but it doesn't look proper on that map.

It was the wife and oldest daughter of a former S.A.N.E. co-worker (Art Smith) that I was sure I had seen quite late in my working day ─ i.e., his wife Angelina (Angie) and daughter Samantha. Art was always trying to get me to come over to the home they were renting and have me there to drink with. I generally dreaded this for a few reasons I will not get into at this time.  

After my workday, early that evening I undertook the 1½-hour hike out to the home of my mother Irene Dorosh ─ she and her husband Alex were living in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey. Their little home no longer exists, but it was my main mailing address: 12106 - 90th Avenue.

The news about the impending divorce concerned my younger brother Mark's girlfriend, Catherine Jeanette Gunther. She had been waiting a long while to finally be freed of this legal encumbrance bonding her to her former husband.

I still have that Robert E. Howard book The Iron Man. I will scan its covers and try to remember to post the scans tomorrow as proof.

The visit to my mother's home would not have been for too long ─ I still had the 1½-hour hike ahead in order to get back to my room.

As for that census form, my mail box was just a receptacle outside my room's door leading into the basement. The landlady would put there any mail for me that had come through the mail slot of the main door to the house ─ I had no access to that area, for it was her domain.

So I had a door that led into the basement proper, as well as a door that opened up to the outside world. 

Perhaps the census form was still in my mail receptacle because the landlady did not realize that I had already dealt with it.
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