Sunday, June 24, 2007

Some News

The latest news is: The cancer is coming back. After some 7 months of
relative quiet, my PSA (prostate cancer activity measurements) are
elevated and rising rather quickly. In March I was at 7.9 (not
necessarily healthy but better than the 48.5 when I was admitted.) At
the end of May I was at 22. That’s alarming because it’s about half of
what put me in hospital and could mean a serious operation.

I lay this increase squarely at the feet of my response to the “idiot”
and all she did from March until the end of May. I have said that this
was the most despicable person I have ever known and the stress caused by dealing with her antics—I believe—triggered this episode.

I’ve done several things to handle this. I made a follow-up
appointment with an oncologist who is running a clinical trial of a
prostate cancer vaccine that involves getting my immune system to eat
my prostate cancer cells. If you’ve seen much news about prostate
cancer lately, you may be familiar with a new treatment called
“Provenge” for which the FDA is delaying approval. This regimen is
similar to that. I think it involves 12 injections a week for 6 to 12
weeks. When I first applied in April, my treatments—such as they
were--had not failed which was a prerequisite for inclusion in the
local trial. This same doctor prescribed hormone treatments of
excessive estrogen to overcome my male hormones, which typically drive
prostate cancer growth. Other than my watching “Oprah” and “All My
Children” religiously, asking everyone if I look fat in my jeans, doing
my nails incessantly (yes, toes, too), constantly cleaning the bathroom
and yelling at my roommates when they don’t let me know if they’ll be
late for dinner, I haven’t noticed any side effects from the extra

But now that treatment is failing so, other than chemo and radiation,
on to stronger stuff.

In the meantime, I applied for and received a medical “grant” to pay
for massage therapy and acupuncture which aren’t covered by my
insurance. My first sessions were this past Thursday. Let me ask
you, why did I wait so long? The results from both these first of ten
sessions were immediate. For the longest time, I’ve experienced pain
in my left hip so bad at times I literally crawled to the bathroom.
I’ve had little feeling in my extremities because of the diabetes
slowing down my circulation. I could only sleep for two hours at a
time before rising to urinate. I tell you, all that went away within
48 hours of those treatments. The massage was relaxing for sure but it
worked on the pain somehow, which is now gone. Some feeling is
returning to my feet and hands because of the acupuncture, which also
addresses my liver and pancreas. I slept for more than five hours at a
stretch last night; an absolute delight!

The acupuncturist asked if I was afraid of needles but, since I’ve been
injecting insulin daily since last year, I fear nothing. In fact, I
didn’t know they were inserted until I looked for them in my hands,
legs and feet. She said most men are afraid of the needles and most
women aren’t. I may be more of one gender than the other because of
the hormone treatments but it doesn’t matter. I just want to be cured
whether I’m wearing pink and chartreuse or lovely white Guess jeans…

Anyway, this is just to keep you up to date, “Dahlings” (Damn that

Friday, June 22, 2007

I Think About You

“When I am alone,
“I think about you.”

I remember looking at you as you glided toward me
Thinking of the graceful walk and the loving smile

As you came to me.
I see the gentle curves of your body and raven hair flowing across your shoulders and away from your stately cheeks
As you ease your way into this space we call our own.

I see your soft, ivory hand reaching for mine as you settle
Next to me and I look deep into your rich, mahogany pupils;
Transfixed am I by you no matter where I am because for sure

“When I am alone,
“I think about you.”

“When I am with others,
“I think about you.”

Their chatter means nothing to me, their joshing and
Good-natured ness is of no comparison to your soul

And how it envelopes me or your sigh of contentment
At our being together. I envision you moving among

My friends so easily, charming and warming them
With just a comforting word or a knowing wink so

Simply dispensed and so devastating to those that hunger

For your appreciative nod and your accepting them into your world.

I am suspended in thought among their jostling energy for no

Matter how hard they try to hold my attention, surely they must know

“When I am with others,
“I think about you.”

“When I am with you,
“I think about you.”

I feel the gentle touch of your fingertips on my temples
Your palms on my cheeks as you bring my face to yours

And your lips lightly brush against mine for what must be

An angel’s eternity even though this brief moment is just that.
I know the rising passion from just that simple encounter

And slide my arms around you vowing to never let you go into

Any other time zone without me, to always breathe in your rhythm,

To honor the soft tremor of your voice with nothing louder,

To listen to your heart, to hear your ministering, to accept you,

To protect you and bless you, for surely you must always know

“When I am with you,
“I think about you.”

Friday, June 1, 2007

And, So It Goes

The judge turned to me and said, “Mr. Hoyer, in regards to your Temporary Restraining Order (TRO), you as the plaintiff will have an opportunity to tell your story and the “respondent” (the Former Female Tenant) will tell hers and then you can ask her questions and then she will ask you some questions. Do you understand the process?” I answered that I did and said, “Well, Your Honor, it all started about a month or so after the respondent moved in…”

“But Judge,” blurted the Former Female Tenant (FFT), “What about my TRO against him? I called the court and they said it was okay to file it close to my home and then they said it was wrong to do that but I want my TRO against him to be heard right now at the same time; how come I can’t get that done?”

The judge replied that this was not about her TRO against me, this court was in session to hear my TRO against her and in any case her TRO was not even here in front of her. “Besides,” said the judge, “If you wanted your TRO to be heard at the same time as Mr. Hoyer’s, you would have to file it here in Family Court and then we would have to find a schedule that would permit hearing both at the same time; is that what you want?” “Yes,” said the FFT, “That’s what I want!” “Court is in recess for a moment,” said the judge. She conferred with one of the court officers about the possibility of such an arrangement and was told that it would be near impossible to make it happen. The judge then turned to the FFT and said, “It’s not going to happen that way. We’ll proceed with Mr. Hoyer’s testimony. Mr. Hoyer, you may begin.”

“But Judge,” said the FFT, weeping now, “He broke the law when I was there picking up my personal belongings. He had the entire household watching and laughing at me and he was taking pictures of me; doesn’t that count for anything?” “Not right now, Ma’am; Mr. Hoyer, do continue.”

“But Judge,” interrupted the FFT, “He says he has cancer and that he only has only a year to live. How come he’s asking for ten year duration of his TRO against me if he only has a year to live?” Again, the judge turned to her and said, “Well, maybe he’ll beat the odds and live longer than ten years.” “But, what if dies in a year, what happens then?” At this point, I thought I’d get an edge in word-wise and said, “Then the entire subject is ‘moot.’” “Yes,” said the judge, “If he dies before the ten year limit expires, then the TRO is moot.” Moot?” said the FFT. “What does moot mean?”

The only sound next in the courtroom was the thud of my forehead hitting the table top. This was a question posed by a person who purported to hold a master’s degree from somewhere and had taught somewhere else for eighteen years. Surely, I thought, the word “moot” would have turned up in her lexicon at some time during all that study toward an advanced degree and the spreading of precious knowledge on her hundreds of students during eighteen years of teaching. But, no, in a living room-sized courtroom with a surprised judge, a bailiff, several court workers and myself—all of whom knew the meaning of “moot,” [irrelevant]—the FFT was admitting to ignorance and displaying it nicely.

It’s long been my opinion that the FFT was not a complete idiot since she never finished Idiot School as a background check revealed. As well, I learned to hold another opinion of her which was I could always tell when she was lying because her lips were moving. With these two thoughts uppermost in my mind, I took things in stride for the balance of the TRO proceedings. I must admit that I laughed a lot during it all.

Consider this exchange:

“Look, Ma’am, if he does die before the TRO term is exhausted, I can’t order him not to approach you from ‘The Great Beyond;’ it can’t be done.” “Well,” said the FFT, “You could if you believed in the life ever after.”

I had prepared some 40 pages of evidence and testimony prior to this hearing. All of it was in front to me, including the TRO I filed against her following her physical attack on me. I was ready, though, for this entire episode to be concluded and was pretty near ready to agree to almost anything to get this woman out of my life for good or at least for ten years. The judge then proposed that we agree to a ten year “mutual” TRO wherein the FFT could not approach me closer than 100 feet or 100 yards from my home or workplace and the same conditions would apply to me towards her. There would be no findings of guilt included in this mutual TRO, my 40 pages notwithstanding. All we had to do was agree to the ten year moratorium on contact with each other and the hammer would fall with court adjourned. I immediately understood this would end it all—no more courtrooms and no more dealing with the FFT. I said yes right away. I told the judge I had no problem with disposing of the papers I presented and also that I completely understood what I could and could not do with this proposed compromise. The judge asked the FFT, if she understood and her response was, “But Judge, what about my TRO against him?” I pointed out to the judge the court documents I had indicated her TRO had been “terminated” (meaning dismissed) three weeks ago and she said to the FFT, “Look, Ma’am,” all this ends today if you agree to stay away from him as he has already agreed to stay away from you for the next ten years. How about giving us a decision?” The FFT said she would have to call her lawyer and reached for her cell phone. The judge said, “Not in here; make your call outside in the lobby. You have five minutes.” “Well, Judge,” said the FFT, “I may need more time. I mean what if his line is busy?” “Court is recessed for five minutes,” said the judge.

I was told to sit in the specified “Plaintiffs’ Area” until the session reconvened. Five minutes later, the bailiff came for me and I returned to the small courtroom, sat down and waited for the FFT to be escorted in. We all paused while she parked three bags off her shoulder, her purse and an orange and black wheeled case with two beach mats protruding from it into a corner, smoothed her hair and sat down. The judge asked her if she would accept the terms of her proposal and she responded, “So, this takes the place of my TRO? Can I still file one against him?” The judge told the FFT that she would dispense no legal advice from the bench regarding whether or where any TRO would be filed; she was only interested in the FFT’s decision regarding the mutual TRO—yes or no? The FFT mumbled that she would accept the terms.

The judge repeated the terms of this mutual TRO including one section that prevented either one of us from possessing firearms. “But Judge, does that mean I can’t own a firearm?” asked the FFT. “Unless you were a member of the armed forces and needed a firearm in the course of your duties, you would still have to get permission from this court to obtain a permit.” “But Judge, what if I applied for a security guard job and needed a gun; what then?” asked the FFT. “Same conditions apply,” said the judge. Surely, any security guard company would carefully examine anyone to whom they issued a firearm and equally anyone as unbalanced as the FFT would never be sent to guard a crate of oranges much less a nuclear facility.

Court was finally adjourned and I awaited the paperwork. I had been in the courthouse since 7:45am and it was now 1:00pm. When the court officer, Tia, presented me with the final papers I simply said thanks and concluded with, “I don’t wish her ill, Tia. I only pray that she can get some help, somewhere. She may well be intelligent and possibly useful to society, somehow. So many people have asked me if she was on medications of some kind and I’ve had to say I didn’t know. Perhaps I was too close to the situation and unable to be disinterested to say for sure. In any case, Tia, this is over which is all I care about.”

I’m told the FFT now lives on the beach close by Nanakuli. She is on welfare and food stamps presently.

And, so it goes. What goes around comes around.

I wish her well…