Distinguished in a Cancerous Kind of Way

I've taken up smoking!  I'm sure some of you thought I was joking when I mentioned lighting up one of Dad's old pipes in an effort to eliminate the hospital smell/taste that had been haunting me.  Well, I wasn't joking.  I was totally fucking serious (as serious as cancer, you could say) and I am now knee deep in Pipe Paraphernalia.  Guess what?  The horrible medicinal smell has been wiped out.  Replaced by a far more pungent and at least a little bit pleasing aroma of handcut black cavendish tobacco. 

Earlier today SugarDust (of Raft City fame) and I enjoyed a long smoke on the front porch of his house.  Just two dudes in their late thirties sitting around, tamping our pipes, discussing the weathers effect on our joints and how kids just ain't right these days.  The only thing we were missing was rocking chairs and some wood to whittle. 

Sure my eyes burn a little bit and I can no longer taste most foods but dammit if I don't look a whole lot smarter with that beautiful briar pipe between my teeth.  Pop a pipe in even the most dimwitted of mouths and you're bound to have a more studious looking human being.  Throw on some horn rimmed glasses, tuck a copy of the New Yorker under their arm and you've got yourself a possible college professor.   

My Father left almost two dozen pipes behind - that we have found so far.  I spent the better part of yesterday wandering the dark corners of the internet finding out all kinds of things about pipes.  It's amazing that this underground world wide interweb phenomenon exists given the average age of most pipe smokers and how that rather high number is almost always in reverse relation to computer literacy.  I read about the history of pipe making, who makes the best ones, what smokes the best, so on and so forth.  My bet is only a small portion (probably 40%) was posted by creepy old men that are registered sex offenders.   

Not allowed around schoolyards

My goal is to research, restore and smoke all of them over the next few months.  I've been in need of a hobby since this whole Hodgkin's Lymphoma (sorry, still contractually required to mention it in all posts) thing hit and pipe smoking seems as good as the next.  I bounced around the idea of not taking on a hobby that can cause cancer but that just seemed silly.  The way I figure it, I've already got a pretty full beard, a large collection of plaid flannel shirts and a tangled mane of hair (until I shave it into a Costanza) so pipe smoking was inevitable.  Over the next few days I'll be shopping for a Greek sailors cap and a wooden leg.

Can't You Smell That Smell?

I was discharged from Eastern Maine Medical Center on September 9th.  For four nights and five days I'd stayed on the Sixth floor with a bacterial infection in my blood and, for at least the first 36 hours of my stay, a temperature of 103.4 (a great radio station I'm sure but not a great body temp).  I'd never been admitted to the hospital before.  I can remember as a kid wanting every strep throat infection to result in the removal of my tonsils and a chance to choke down all the ice cream I could manage but other then that fleeting childhood fantasy I've tried like hell to avoid hospitals at all costs. 

Sadly, the hospital was unavoidable this time around.  My brand new Port-a-Cath was infected after only nine days.  The picc line that I'd been so quick to vilify would have probably kept me from all the time spent in one of those drafty johnnies.

I've got a great ass

If I'd only listened to my Father.  He'd gone through two Port-a-Cath surgeries and in his opinion if I could tough it out with the hygiene limitations (it's damn near impossible to take a good shower with your arm wrapped in a plastic vice) then I'd be better off with the picc line.  "What the hell does the Old Man know?"  I said as I watched them rip the plastic tubing from my right arm.  In what would be one of his last bits of Fatherly Advice, I chose to ignore him.  So, really, not that different then the previous thirty-seven years of Fatherly Advice.

Anyway, the point of all this is that after 96 plus hours in a hospital without even a whiff of fresh air I cannot get the smell and taste of that wretched fucking place out of my head.  Or maybe it's not in my head.  Perhaps it's ingrained in me somehow.  It's infiltrated my skin, my taste buds, my olfactory senses.  This stomach turning smell of medicine and cleaning products folded into a faint scent of urine(admittedly, mine but do you have any idea how hard it is to keep it in those damn jugs when you're woozy from a 103+ temp?), old people and rubbing alcohol keep popping up no matter where I am.  In the car?  Yup.  By the lake?  Yup.  Wal-mart?  Yup.  Granted, Wal-marts always smell awful but I was hoping for a different kind of awful.  Perhaps the scent of bad life choices.  Anything to take away the lingering hospital odor but to no avail.

I'm eleven days removed from my stay and the smell isn't going anywhere.  I'm still on anti-biotics so that may have something to do with it.  I've got chemo running through my veins so that may have something to do with it.  And I still wake up during the night to feel for an IV hanging from my arm or chest before rolling back over so that may have something to do with it.  I've decided my only chance of combating it is with one of the dozen or so pipes my Dad left behind.  Pipe smoke typically smells great plus I've already got cancer so how much worse can it get?

I Had a Dream

As my favorite Op-ed author Jim Anchower would say, I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya but in case you haven't noticed I've been neck deep in it these days.  As it turns out cancer is not nearly as fun as it seems.  Since September 5th it's been a sad and bizarre odyssey.  I've wanted to get back to writing for a week or so now but haven't had the heart until I woke up this morning.  You see, I finally had a dream with my Dearly Departed Dad in it. 

It was a rather odd dream.  I was at some kind of Charity Softball Benefit where everyone was dressed to the nines while also taking bp, working on their fielding and splitting up into teams for a nail biter of a game.  I've got such a deep seeded need for competition that even in my dream I was crashing into the catcher (a mother of three that I graduated high school with) while attempting to score the game tying run.  Despite what was probably a set of broken ribs she hung onto the ball and I was out.  After arguing with the ump (my jr. high history teacher) I was ejected.  I stormed off the field and joined my Lovely Girlfriend, My Mom and Sister and My Dearly Departed Dad at a lavishly set banquet table just off the field.

I have not seen my Dad, in physical form or in a dream, since he passed at 10:38pm on 9/9/11 - in room 627 if you're keeping track.  He looked good.  He looked like he always did during his many years as an attorney working so hard to set the bar so low for acceptable court room attire.  He had on a short sleeve dress shirt - the Sipowicz, as I call it - unbuttoned at the top with a bollo tie, a worn blazer, a pair of wheaty jeans capped of with a pair of boat shoes and no socks.  To be clear, wheaty jeans are just tan-ish jeans that give the appearance of khakis but aren't quite so dressy.  To sum it up, my Dad was as spiffed up as you could ever get him.  Also at the table were a number of couples that My Lovely Girlfriend and I are friends with.  People I've known for the better part of my life in most occasions. 

My Dad did not speak.  He followed the conversation with his eyes, his smile and his laugh.  I kept making eye contact with him, waiting for him to weight in but he never did.  His expression said it all.  I could read his response without needing to actually hear it.  The topic of conversation turned to long term relationships.  A few couples had been together since high school or just after, others for five or ten years, still others for just a few.  Everyone deferred to my folks as they had been together for all of our lifetimes.  When asked exactly how long they'd been together for some reason I answered for them.  I don't know if I'll ever forget what I said in my dream.  "They celebrated their forty-fifth about two weeks before my Dad passed.  What are you doing here anyway?"  Everyone turned to him on the question.  He gave a wicked grin and a shrug, like he'd been caught red handed without any possible excuse.  He just giggled.  I woke up.

Now I could go into a lengthy debate about all of this.  What kind of message this may have been and what it all means.  But the truth of the matter is I have no idea what this dream means.  I'm not going to try to interpret it.  I'm just happy to see my Father again.   

Them Above All

I have to take a moment from all of the chaos of planning my Dad's funeral to tell everyone about some truly amazing people at JetBlue.  I was so moved by how they handled my recent flight cancellation that I thought it would be worth my time to pass it along to all you readers so you might shower them with comments in response.

I had a flight scheduled for the 12th to fly from LA back to Maine.  I wasn't in LA, that flight had been cancelled when my Dad's health started to fail two weeks ago and the good people at AirTran when hearing the reasons for my cancellation were happy to waive any and all fees and wish my Dad the best of luck.  I will have to fly AirTran more often, what they lack in amenities they make up for with outstanding customer service and extremely reasonable prices.  AirTran is aces in my family's book.

So I call JetBlue to let them know and the woman on the phone asks me the reason for the cancellation.  I explain to her my Father's passing, my own cancer and everything that is going on right now that prevents me from flying.  I am then warmly informed that I will be charged One Hundred Dollars (!) to cancel the ticket.  By the way, the ticket cost 185.00 so I'm being charged more than half of it's value.  I asked if there was anything they could do about this given the circumstances, she tells me she has to speak to her manager.  After putting me on hold for about a long enough time to draw a really deep breath she returns to the line and says - Sorry, but that's our policy.

Okay, I can live with the cxl/change fees, they're total bullshit but most every fee the airline charges is bullshit these days.  I accept that and I move on.  But why ask the question?  Why ask for what reason I'm canceling my flight?  And what possible fucking answer would suffice if "My Dad just died from cancer and to top it off I've got cancer, just had a week long stay in the hospital and I've got bacteria in my blood" isn't good enough for a full refund?  Was it that the icy-cold customer rep is so darn inquisitive about everyones lives that she wanted to know how mine was going?  Does JetBlue make a habit of hiring Sadists to answer calls, make people re-live the sorrowful things that necessitate the change in plans only to gleefully inform them that helping anyone out during a bad time in their lives is against their corporate policy?  Or, are they possibly just a bunch of Fucking Assholes? 

So I have made two pledges.  One - never fly JetBlue again.  Two - dedicate a little time each post to remind those that read this blog that no one should ever fly their miserable little airline.  Below is their "Give Concerns" page so if any of you should feel the need after reading this to let them know what skeeving vermin they are feel free. 

http://jetblue.com/help/contactus/help_contact_problems.aspx

Fuck you, JetBlue.  Fuck you very much.

An Uncommon Obituary for an Uncommon Man

This is the obit I wrote for my Dad that should run in the Bangor Daily on Monday.

"When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."  We don't know if he was familiar with this quote but the man certainly lived it.  Julio Vincent DeSanctis III, born 12/4/1943 in Vineland, NJ to Elsie DeSanctis and the late Julio DeSanctis Jr. passed away peacefully on 9/9/11 while surrounded by family after a nine year struggle with cancer.  Julio grew up with six younger sisters, Barbara Kay Shapiro, Beverly Jean Johnson, Marjorie Lynn DeSanctis, Jacalyn Rae Matkowski, Cheryl Lee DeSanctis and Nicola Marie DeSanctis and on a street where most of the neighbors were also relatives.  He attended Vineland High where he excelled in wrestling and generaled in trouble making and went on to achieve a BA at his beloved West Liberty State College in a mere seven years.  At West Liberty he continued his illustrious wrestling career both on the mat and, on occasion, in saloon parking lots.  Julio received his JD at the University of San Francisco, much to the dismay of a legion of District Attorneys.  He married his high school sweetheart Joan Beverly Donohue, on 8/27/1966, they recently celebrated their forty-fifth wedding anniversary.  Joan DeSanctis is currently the pastor at Old Town United Methodist Church and Stillwater Federated Church. 
Julio began his law practice in the late sixties in San Francisco fighting to end the Vietnam War before moving on to Atlantic City, NJ to help get narcotic addicts into rehabilitation programs instead of jail, long before such advocacy was common.  The program (NARCO) still exists today.  Julio and Joan moved on to Pittsburgh, PA where Julio attended seminary and Joan gave birth to their first child, Julio Vincent DeSanctis IV.  Shortly thereafter the little family made their way to Bangor.  Julio had a short lived career as one of the worlds most interesting taxi drivers before turning his attentions to what would become his lifelong pursuit, driving other attorneys, judges, clerks, cops, witnesses and criminals nuts.  In what could only be described as a ravenous desire for justice - and perhaps a bit of just always wanting to be right - Julio stood head and shoulders above the crowd.  After over thirty-five years of defense work his reputation for pugnacity and as a champion of the underdog is unparalleled.
The family settled in Orrington where they welcomed their daughter, Francesca Donohue DeSanctis and opened a small convenience store/ice cream & pizza parlor/antique shop and eventual home law office, living there for twenty years.  They followed that up with brief stays in Eddington, Woodstown, NJ and are now in Old Town.
We hope that everyone holds their memories of Julio DeSanctis as close to their heart as his family does.  Viewings will be held on Tuesday September, 13th from 6pm to 9pm and Wednesday September, 14th from 9am to 12pm followed by a Celebration Service and reception at the Old Town United Methodist Church 744 Stillwater Ave. Old Town, ME 04468.  In lieu of flowers the family requests that donations be made toward Cancer Care of Maine at 33 Whiting Hill Rd. Brewer, ME 04412 or The Joan and Julio DeSanctis Memorial Fund at Camp Mechuwana at PO Box 277 Winthrop, ME 04364. 

Little Women

I come from a rather large extended family.  Our family reunions regularly pull in damn near a hundred relatives from all different ethnic backgrounds - Southern Italians, Northern Italians, Central Italians.  It's a little like the United Nations only instead of discussing world issues everyone complains about their Puerto Rican neighbors.  Just kidding - nobody from my family would live next to Puerto Ricans.  We feast on massive plates of pasta, meatballs and sausages, guzzle homemade wine and gesticulate wildly with our hands while we talk.  If we'd just take the time to rent a monkey and an Organ Grinder we'd be fulfilling all of the Italian Stereotypes at once. 



Uncle Giuseppe - Last known photo



I'd like to think that somewhere near the heart of these reunions is my Dad and his Six Sisters.  That's right, six younger sisters.  Obviously growing up together they have all inherited some very similar traits (they are all crazy) but each one is still very different from the other (varying kinds of crazy).  The Sisters came for a visit this week to see their Big Brother in the hospital.  I don't think the Doctors would have recommended a hospital room filled with people but that really wouldn't have mattered anyway.  Another common trait in my family is the innate ability to ignore the demands of people in authority.  We want what we want and we will damn well get it! 

So there everyone was, The Sisters, the Kids, Grandma, Friends Come to Visit, all stuffed into a tiny room.  In between naps my Dad held court.  They all told stories about the old neighborhood in New Jersey, playing at an abandonded factory as kids, scaring off Jehovah's Witnesses with sexual innuendo, the cops stopping by - I'm starting to get the feeling my Grandma and Grandpop weren't the strictest of parents.  If the cafeteria food hadn't been so awful it would have qualified for this years family reunion. 

My Mr. Universe

When I was in about fifth grade my parents got me a set of weights and a bench for my birthday.  I had been playing Police Athletic League football for the last two years and I had it in my head that it was time I started adding some big-time bulk to my ten-year-old frame.  They obliged me with a Joe Wieder set that I think totaled out at about 95lbs. 

I remember how excited I was putting it together, setting up the weights and reading the little pamphlet on recommended exercises and the proper technique.  I was convinced that it would only be a matter of days before I was pumping some serious pre-teen muscle.  A matter of months before I looked like the Fully Grown Professional BodyBuilders on the box. 

I quickly found out that I do not care for weight lifting.  Not at eleven years old and not now.  It is a tedious and painful workout.  There is no finish line.  No high or low score.  No winner or loser.  Just count reps, rest, repeat.  There are few things on this planet duller than lifting weights.  I was lucky in a lot of ways.  I'm naturally strong (freakishly so in my legs) and turned out to have a pretty big frame for a little kid (I think the department stores called it Husky back then) so even though I barely touched the weights I got stronger and bigger on my own.  I even got up to the point where I could lift the whole 95lbs at once.  Damn, I thought, I am one sexy middle school bad ass! 

I was thinking about this earlier today as I watched my Father struggle to sit up in his hospital bed.  A man that at one time watched me work out on my Joe Weider weight set.  Saw me revel in my achievement of lifting the Whole Damn 95lbs then proceeded to pick it up with one hand and lift it over his head.  He put it back down and just for good measure changed hands and did it again.  Holy fuckin shit, is what I remember thinking at the time.  It was a very clear message, you're a strong kid but you've got a long way to go before you can best your Old Man.  I have to admit, even pre-Hodgkin's I'd struggle mightily to do that.  I'm not so sure I could do it with my right arm even on my best day. 

Old age and illness have robbed my Dad of that strength.  It's robbed him of his energy and his stamina.  His vim and his vigor. (thought I'd throw in an old fashioned phrase for the older folks that are reading this and with the hopes that the younger generation of readers might adopt it as well.  Other great old time phrases - lollygag, ne'er-do-well and donnybrook.  Start using them today and see how much turn of the century style fun you can have!)  It wasn't until I was about eighteen that I had pulled even with my Dad in a wrestling match.  He was as strong and as tough of a man as I have ever met.  Now he struggles to breath.  Can't do it properly without the aid of a machine.  And yet, in those moments when some old friends come to visit and he's got the oxygen pumping into his lungs just right, he raises up in the bed, his eyes widen, his speech clears up and you can see that amazingly powerful man again.  If only for a moment. 

I'd like to see more of those moments.  I know there aren't that many left but I'd like to see as many more as he can muster for as long as he can muster them (Muster, another great old fashioned word, kids).