I will be waiting tables next Tuesday, September 22nd at Texas Roadhouse in Davenport, from 5:30 to 8:00 p.m.
All tips go to the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society.
FOX 18 cheif metoerologist, Pat Walker, will join me.
If you want to help Team Sheer Beard reach its fund raising goal for the upcoming Light the Night Walk, come by and ask for me or Pat to be your waiter.
I promise we will not mess up your order. And you can help a great cause.
I battled lymphoma this summer. And one of our co-workers is currently being treated for Leukemia. So it's something close to the hearts of the FOX 18 gang.
Hope to see you there.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
T-SHIRTS!!!
Lined up T-shirts for team Sheer Beard to wear at the upcoming Light the Night walk at Modern Woodman Park.
First National Bank agreed to sponsor our team and pay for the shirts.
I don't know if the bank folks did it out of the goodness of their hearts or because I'm such a good customer. Either way, I don't care.
My wife is our team captain and is in charge of shirt color and design. But I suggested she pick the loudest color possible, so our team will stand out.
We were supposed to get an email today, with a pic of what the shirts will look like.
The Light the Night walk raises money for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society. It will be at Modern Woodman park on September 26th. I battled lymphoma this year. And I have a co-worker being treated for leukemia. So, this certainly means a great deal to me. If you or someone you know has/had leukemia or lymphoma, make plans to come out for the walk. You can walk in honor of a survivor, patient or victim. The event is supposed to last about an hour.
First National Bank agreed to sponsor our team and pay for the shirts.
I don't know if the bank folks did it out of the goodness of their hearts or because I'm such a good customer. Either way, I don't care.
My wife is our team captain and is in charge of shirt color and design. But I suggested she pick the loudest color possible, so our team will stand out.
We were supposed to get an email today, with a pic of what the shirts will look like.
The Light the Night walk raises money for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society. It will be at Modern Woodman park on September 26th. I battled lymphoma this year. And I have a co-worker being treated for leukemia. So, this certainly means a great deal to me. If you or someone you know has/had leukemia or lymphoma, make plans to come out for the walk. You can walk in honor of a survivor, patient or victim. The event is supposed to last about an hour.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
MY NEMESIS
My Nemesis. That's what I call the mask they put over my face for radiation treatments.
It's plastic, with small holes and comes down to about the top of my biceps.
I hate it.
I'm kind of an antsy guy. I tap my feet. I click my heels together when I should be standing still. And I sometimes rub my hands together like I'm trying to start a fire. I'm not insane(or not COMPLETELY insane, at least) I just have too much nervous energy sometimes.
On top of that, I'm a bit claustrophobic. I think that started when I got trapped in an elevator when I was four years old. I didn't really overcome my fear of elevators until I was in college. My first semester at LSU, I lived on the 11th floor of my dorm(Kirby Smith, for any LSU people out there) Anyway, I took the stairs everyday in late-summer Louisiana heat and humidity for about three weeks. It took that kind of discomfort for me to start using elevators.
I'm not trying to make excuses for my girlishness. I'm flat out scared of that plastic mask, whether there is a reason or not. It's irrational. I realize that during rational moments, which is pretty much anytime I'm not on the table with that mask squeezing my face.
Yeah, it's tight. They made the mold a few weeks after I finished chemotherapy. I have gained 10-12 lbs. since then, largely because I started eating and working out like I had before chemotherapy. The chemo had knocked my weight down into the low 160s. My face is now a little fuller than it was when I went in for my mask fitting. Now my nemesis leaves its mark on me. I can see the pattern of tiny holes on my face when the treatments are over.
Now, this is the part that makes me seem really weak:
Each treatment lasts roughly seven minutes. Just seven minutes!!! I'm guessing, really. But the pont is it's not a long time. And I STILL can barely take it. I have terrible thoughts while I lie there. For instance, someone could come in and put their hand over my nose and mouth, and I would be defenseless. Or everyone in the radiation unit could go to lunch at the same time and forget about me, leaving me stuck there like "The Man in the Plastic Mask".
All the techs who oversee my treatment are really kind. They seem understanding and tell me other people have problems with the masks, too. And they try to make me as comfortable as possible. They give me time to breath deeply and put my mind in the right place before we start. And one even brought in her IPod speaker so I could plug in and listen to some music during treatment.
But it still feels a little like torture. And at least once every treatment, so far, I have had an urge to holler and tell them to stop; that I cannot do it today and may not be back.
The good news is I reached the official halfway mark today. Nine treatments down. Nine to go.
If you pray, pray that I can make it through the second half. It shouldn't be that hard. But I am struggling to conquer my nemesis.
It's plastic, with small holes and comes down to about the top of my biceps.
I hate it.
I'm kind of an antsy guy. I tap my feet. I click my heels together when I should be standing still. And I sometimes rub my hands together like I'm trying to start a fire. I'm not insane(or not COMPLETELY insane, at least) I just have too much nervous energy sometimes.
On top of that, I'm a bit claustrophobic. I think that started when I got trapped in an elevator when I was four years old. I didn't really overcome my fear of elevators until I was in college. My first semester at LSU, I lived on the 11th floor of my dorm(Kirby Smith, for any LSU people out there) Anyway, I took the stairs everyday in late-summer Louisiana heat and humidity for about three weeks. It took that kind of discomfort for me to start using elevators.
I'm not trying to make excuses for my girlishness. I'm flat out scared of that plastic mask, whether there is a reason or not. It's irrational. I realize that during rational moments, which is pretty much anytime I'm not on the table with that mask squeezing my face.
Yeah, it's tight. They made the mold a few weeks after I finished chemotherapy. I have gained 10-12 lbs. since then, largely because I started eating and working out like I had before chemotherapy. The chemo had knocked my weight down into the low 160s. My face is now a little fuller than it was when I went in for my mask fitting. Now my nemesis leaves its mark on me. I can see the pattern of tiny holes on my face when the treatments are over.
Now, this is the part that makes me seem really weak:
Each treatment lasts roughly seven minutes. Just seven minutes!!! I'm guessing, really. But the pont is it's not a long time. And I STILL can barely take it. I have terrible thoughts while I lie there. For instance, someone could come in and put their hand over my nose and mouth, and I would be defenseless. Or everyone in the radiation unit could go to lunch at the same time and forget about me, leaving me stuck there like "The Man in the Plastic Mask".
All the techs who oversee my treatment are really kind. They seem understanding and tell me other people have problems with the masks, too. And they try to make me as comfortable as possible. They give me time to breath deeply and put my mind in the right place before we start. And one even brought in her IPod speaker so I could plug in and listen to some music during treatment.
But it still feels a little like torture. And at least once every treatment, so far, I have had an urge to holler and tell them to stop; that I cannot do it today and may not be back.
The good news is I reached the official halfway mark today. Nine treatments down. Nine to go.
If you pray, pray that I can make it through the second half. It shouldn't be that hard. But I am struggling to conquer my nemesis.
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