Firefighters, Death and Cancer

UPDATE: Sadly, Mitch Fiandt also passed away, late on November 24th, from his cancer.

 

 We lost one of our past firefighters this month, and a present long-time member is fighting a deadly disease.

Joe Meyer was one of my trainees when I was an Albion Fire Department instructor, and he remained a member for ten years, alongside his brother. 

That's Joe second from left, beside me. I particularly liked this group of trainees, only partially because they came in a group--it can be hard to train one or two firefighters to do a job that requires a team. They were a great bunch.

Here's Joe's obituary:

https://www.harperfuneralhomes.com/obituary/Joe-Meyer

Joe was a character, and not just because he could pull off a cowboy hat with his turnout gear. (I don't remember the circumstances behind this photo ... maybe he just got cold easily, like I do. That's probably not it.)

Mitch Fiandt remains a member of the AFD, after transferring from the Orange Township Fire Department when he moved many years ago. He has, I think, six or eight years on me in the longevity department.

Now Mitch is fighting cancer, which is sadly not an unusual thing for firefighters. I've had a couple of scares myself, but Mitch is pretty sick--treatment is ongoing. Chemo, as anyone who has experienced it themselves or through loved ones knows, is rough by any standards.

So say a prayer for Mitch, Joe, and their families, and if you don't pray send good thoughts their way. I expect it's not going to be a fun holiday season for anyone involved.

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My Magnetic Resonance Personality

I spent a lot of time in medical facilities, usually as a visitor, occasionally as a patient. And yet--this will come as a surprise to my fourteen regular readers--I've never had an MRI. Until a few years ago.

Oh, plenty of X-rays, and a biopsy. The MRI was oh, so much more fun, in a world where "fun" is relative.

 The Magnetic Resonance Imaging test was to find whether there might be cancer in my prostate, and also, I suppose, to confirm my head wasn't up there. As I said earlier, there was no cancer, which doesn't mean there were no surprises.

We were told by various armchair testing experts that the MRI would take around twenty minutes. luckily, my wife brought a book with her anyway. It would take an hour, the med people said as they presented me with the only good surprise of the day: scrubs to wear, instead of one of those weird back exposing half-shirts you couldn't tie shut with duct tape and Superglue.

The people there (who were very nice, by the way), asked a laundry list of questions designed to make sure I had no metal on me. There was a pause when I told them I had a piece of metal in my upper chest. Where was it from? I told them "Nam", with a fairly straight face, because the truth is just too mundane.

"Well," one replied, "if your Viet Cong shrapnel starts to heat up, or if any other area catches fire, let us know."

I've seen metal fly into the air before, and it's always very exciting.

(FYI, I was thirteen when the Vietnam War ended. I really need to update that particular lame joke.)

I was also told not to touch my hands to each other, or I might look like one of those movie superheroes generating lightning between their fingers.

As you slide into the little tube, they give you a bulb to hold in one hand. Squeezing it sets of an alarm. One reason for this is because you're packed into that thing so tightly even people with no fear of enclosed spaces feel like the lowest sardine in the pack.

They put headphones on me, because the MRI machine makes more noise than a reelected Congressman on his third drink. I was looking forward to some nice music, or any music, but these were just regular headphones--the music ones were on back order. Instead I was serenaded by the grinding and buzzing of a machine so loud I heard it plainly even with headphones and earplugs. It was like trying to sleep in a jet engine.

And every once in awhile the thing suddenly moved, which no one warned me about. I thought some giant was squeezing me out onto his toothbrush.

But the weirdest thing that happened was right after they turned it on, when someone started tugging on that bulb in my hand. I was startled, because no one was in the room. My hand was floating into the air, as if the Force was trying to get me to lift my car to a closer parking spot.

Then I realized it wasn't my hand lifting into the air--it was my ring. It was trying to float away and take my finger with it, which feels just as weird as it sounds.

This very ring, which, yes, could have come from Uranus.

 

It turns out rings are usually not of a material affected, so Magneto can't try to make you dance from one arm. MRI technicians often don't bother with them.

But my wife, knowing my interest in astronomy, got me a wedding ring made from a meteorite--an iron meteorite. Magneto could go to town on me. 

After that all went well. The sliver of steel is still in my chest--Gulf War?--and I passed the time by plotting out a new novel. It's going to be about a guy who gets transported to another world through an MRI machine.

Or Magneto.

 

Remember: Every time you buy a book, a Terminator gets stuck to an MRI machine. Save John Conner.

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Doctor Finger Probes Prostate Problem

I want to start out by saying I do not have cancer, and this story actually happened some time ago. So not to worry.

But the docs thought I might ... for several years. Specifically, I had high prostate specific antigen readings, otherwise known as PSA. That's why I kept having to visit my urologist, Doctor Finger. What a pain in the ass.

But it could be worse. I always thought a urologist dealt with urine issues, and I don't want anyone's finger going up that way.

So they tested, and probed (!) and tested again, during which time I was told I might have cancer ... or not. So then they went in with a needle and took about a dozen samples, something called a biopsy. Do you want to know where they go in with a needles to get those samples?

No. No, you do not.

A James Webb Space Telescope image of my prostate.

It came up, um, clean, but the PSA count stayed high. Way high. Too high. Something was wrong.

(Some men go for years with high PSA ratings, without ever getting cancer. Women rarely have high PSA readings, what with them not having prostates. But men don't often have to get mammograms, so never mind.)

And so, in desperation, Doctor Finger sent me to get an MRI. That stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging, and costs about a hundred dollars a letter. That's $600 just for the magnet. (Buying and installing one MRI machine can cost more than three million dollars.)

I'll be writing separately about the MRI ... it was an experience. Honestly, I'd much rather go through it again than have a physical exam by my urologist, who's a really nice guy but has big hands. The MRI took an hour, and the digital exam a few minutes, but it felt the opposite.

I know you're anxious to see the results ... um, hear--hear the results. Well, there was no immediate sign of cancer. Yay!

But my prostate was, quoting Doctor Finger, "as big as my head". And his head is even bigger than his hands.

If the prostate was a balloon, mine would be the Hindenburg.

Now, here's the fun part: My prostate is two and a half times its normal size. He explained that PSA readings are like harvesting crops: The bigger the field, the more crops you harvest. So, since my prostate was bigger, my PSA count was naturally bigger, too.

See where I'm going with this?

Yeah. For ten years when I might have had cancer because of unusually high PSA counts, my PSA counts were NORMAL.

So.

You know, I lead a fairly stressful life already; I don't need any help. Just sayin'.

Remember: Whenever you don't buy a book, an author has to have a colonoscopy. Save their ass.

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It's a rough, rough draft when we get serious

Now that I've finished the final draft of my new novel and handed it over to Emily to edit, I had to go back and figure out why I started working on it in the first place.

Ordinarily, when I finish writing a novel I like to have it finished--as good and polished as I can get it, before I move on to a new project. I also want to have it in circulation: submitted to literary agents and/or publishers, depending on the way I'm going.

That's where I have Fire On Mist Creek, Beowulf: In Harm's Way, and We Love Trouble, searching for attention in the cold, cruel world.  Smoke Showing is our upcoming non-fiction book, and it doesn't count because it was waiting for Emily's contribution when her work schedule lightened up in the fall. (Then I put her to work editing something else, so never mind.)

(I came up with all these titles; can you tell?)

So, four books I should be either self-publishing or submitting for traditionally publication. Then there's The Source Emerald, which Emily sent me notes on, and as a result now waits for another look. (The book, not Emily.) Add to that our already-published books, which are begging for some promotion and publicity time.

So when I finished the rough draft of "Found Dog Antique Fire Truck Romance Story" (still blocked on a title), it suddenly occurred to me: Why did I start a new book in the first place?

There's an antique fire truck in it. Specifically, one of these.

 

When I realized I started it in early spring, I remembered why.

My brother passed away at the end of January, and I started the new story about two months later, when the weather was still wintry-crappy. That was why I did it: depression. I don't mind editing or polishing a story, and I don't hate submitting, and I pretend I don't hate promotion ... but it's the writing, the actually telling of the story, that I love. So, to battle feeling down, I started work on a new book in April.

 

Yes, there is a Jeffrey in the new book ... kind of. There is not a Mark.

 

As long as I was doing that, I told my wife, I would also use the new story to work through my grief over Jeff's death. My wife asked me if that was a good idea and I told her something along the lines of, "I know what I'm doing.".

Notice how people who say that so often don't?

Now that the "final" draft is done, it's a pretty good story, although it needed more editing than usual. However, it's not the story I had in mind.

You see, I write in several genres, and one of them is romance. Now, there's nothing wrong with a guy writing romance, although it isn't common. However, all mine so far have been romantic comedies. That's what I like to read (and watch), so that's what I like to write. This was going to be one, too.

 Should have known better.

Hey, sometimes even dogs get depressed.

 

Oh, it still has humorous parts, but let's take a look at some of the subjects covered in the novel: cancer; family loss; puppy mills; animal cruelty; winter depression (seasonal affected disorder); and the stages of grief.

This was supposed to cheer me up?

The final story isn't as dark as that makes it sound, but it certainly couldn't be described with the word "comedy". So, here goes a dive into another sub-genre. How many am I up to, now? In addition to those there's humor, young adult, science fiction, mystery, history, and ... well, I guess The Source Emerald is urban fantasy, given that it has magic being used in modern society. If I had a publicist, they'd be horrified.

But what the heck ... writing's still my thing, and I still love it--even when it's therapeutic.

Genres? Yeah, we got genres.

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