It’s National Hot Dog Day! If ever there were a day to relish, it’s today. Practice safe eating habits and enjoy this truly American food.
Hat tip to our friends at Hot-dog.org for the groovy graphic.
You have been cleared to donate, but the patient is not ready to receive your gift at this time.
That time was to have been this week, or thereabouts.
I would like to say that I had been training up for this moment, like so many triathlons before: Monitoring my food intake (high potassium, calcium and magnesium – low saturated fats); denying myself the pleasures of drink; ensuring proper hydration; getting plenty of sleep and avoiding any reckless shenanigans that might jeopardize my ability to give.
In truth, it’s not hard to register to donate bone marrow or peripheral blood stem cells (PBSC - the method I’m scheduled to undergo) or even to undergo the procedure. Can you sacrifice a little bit of time? Yes. Overcome a slight aversion to needles? Of course you can. Forgo running with scissors or jaywalking? Seriously?
“Hi Stacy, it’s Chi from the National Marrow Donor Program. I have a question about your pregnancy test.”
Pardon me, I just lost bowel control.
One doesn’t have questions about a pregnancy test. It’s pretty much a binary, foregone conclusion: Yes / No. On / Off. + / –. You either are or you aren’t.
Given that my husband has had a vasectomy, and that I have had a uterine ablation which rendered my insides a rocky place where a super-seed escapee from a statistically improbable, failed vasectomy could find no purchase, Chi’s question about my pregnancy test means we have bigger problems than my making a bone-marrow stem-cell donation for an anonymous cancer patient:
Baby Jesus is second-coming out of my vagina. Prepare for the Apocalypse… NOW!
We lost a wonderful member of our poker group to cancer in May.
Ray was a man who rode jacks to ruin on more than one occasion. He had this crafty smile that crossed his cheeks whenever he was trying to figure out whether you were bluffing. He grilled a wicked Polish sausage and traded naughty barbs about his own Polish sausage, that resulted in a good laugh and a little blushing.
Old men are allowed do that, especially around the card table.
So when I learned of his passing, I called some of the players and proposed an idea that I’d seen on The Wire.
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This is a story of despair…
Never on an athletic adventure have I confronted the reality of not finishing, and not just not finishing, but prevailing upon others for needed assistance and flirting with the logistics of a rescue.
When you have 7 miles to go and you’re stuck 4,000 feet below your ultimate (but not final) destination, despair becomes yet another obstacle to overcome… and it’s a bitch.