Category Archives: Cancer

Cancer, Health, Shadow Mountain

Angels and Radioactivity

2 Comments

Spring and the Trial Moon

Thursday gratefuls:  Melania in Pine. Heather. Tara. Trump, the worst President in U.S. history. Iran. Israel. A chaotic world. Actinium-223. Medical physicists. Rebecca. Taylor. Sam.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Nuclear Medicine

 

Kavannah: Netzach. Perseverance. Trial began on Wednesday. I need netzach as I enter this latest round of treatment.

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: Sloppiness. Careless disregard for human lives. Corruption oozing from every pore. Word salad speeches. Dunning-Krueger effect all the time. Trump has cut through our once proud nation with a buzzsaw, bringing the world hegemon to its knees, not through foreign enemies, but by domestic politics.

 

Yesterday. Lost sleep. Went back to bed then had to get up for the drive first to Littleton, then midtown Denver. By the time I got back, I was well and thoroughly exhausted. Didn’t write.

Today. Still fitful sleep, but better. More rested. Nothing out of the house today. Yay.

On Tuesday Heather from Visiting Angels. An in-home care company. She was a good listener and a lover of dogs. We talked for an hour, hour and a half. I liked her and the services they offered.

She said they recruit in the mountains for workers who can work up here. Glad to hear it because down the hill based services often don’t show up or charge higher prices. Melanie, who lives in Pine, has been waiting for an assignment.

Did not sign up yet. Wanted to talk to RJ and to Rich. RJ (money guy) said they’d increase my draw from the rollover to compensate. One box checked. Gonna call Rich this AM. He looked at folks he knew in the Evergreen/Conifer area.

I’m inclined to hire Visiting Angels, maybe today, if Rich has not found anybody. The worker, the Visiting Angel, would probably start next week. Tuesdays and Fridays. 4 hour shifts.

I need the help.

Yesterday. Bad sleep Tuesday night. Got up early, 3:30 am. Went back to bed until 6:30. Barely enough time to get ready for trial, day one.

Rebecca drove her gray Volvo up to the house at 8:00 am. After a hurried breakfast of peanuts and a protein bar, I was ready.

Made it to the cancer center before 9, my appointment time with Taylor, Dr. Dupathi’s other P.A. Perfunctory. Except. Sam, research co-ordinator, had my lab results. Since my last PSA, which was 92, my PSA went up to 520. Good thing I had Actinium-223 circulating about an hour later.

Rebecca and I drove north toward Denver on Broadway. Past the quaint and the curious shops, later the busy Colorado Capitol building with its real gold roof, and past the Brown  Palace Hotel.

At the research center I sat in a leather recliner, felt the familiar insertion of an IV. Two nurses, me, and a medical physicist.

Safety checks ahead of time, facetime with a nuclear medicine doc who had to give the go-ahead. The injection of the Actinium took five seconds. A thimble’s worth. If that.

Two ekg’s, three taking of my vitals, and an hour in the recliner after the injection.

About thirty minutes into the time, a nurse came with a Geiger counter. Click. Click. Click. Above my feet. Yes, the Actinium was in circulation.

After a review of the stringent protocols for the next seven days, a tired me got in Rebecca’s back seat, passenger side. Keeping my distance.

An hour later I let Shadow out, the first day of my trial winding down as I slumped into my chair.

Cancer, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Pause. Say Good-bye

1 Comment

Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Artemis:  On the way home

Tuesday gratefuls: Miralax. Senna. Michigan. Basketball. Baseball. Another tough night. Artemis II. Space. Hubble. Webb.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Master Travelers

 

Kavannah: Hakarat Hatov.  Gratitude.  “Who is rich? Those who rejoice in their own portion.” Pirkei Avot (4:1)

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: I have been retreating from the world. Lunches and breakfasts are painful due to the head drop. Driving still wears me out though the brace helps. I have new aches and pains. From the cancer? I don’t think so…but.

 

Since last week I have been constipated. Could be a side effect of the Tramadol. Painful. Unresolved. Some progress. Miralax to 2x a day. Add senna.

Went to bed. Early. 6 pm. Exhausted by the demands of the day. Slept well until 1 am. After that. Left side. Right side. Stomach. Back. Repeated and repeated and repeated. Could not find the sleep switch. Up at 3:30 am. Rested. Sorta. Residual aches. Sore back.

A learning about death. You stop. Everything else goes on.  Cars queue up behind a red turn signal. A group of preschoolers, all holding on to the same rope. Going to the park. Shadow circles her food bowl, waiting on you to come home. As you always have. Not this time.

The damnable ordinariness. Years of loving, talking, reading, all made moot. When Kate died her brilliant mind went silent. All her experience as a doctor. A lover. A quilter. Gone.

Yet. Artemis II took three Americans and one Canadian further from Earth than any human has gone before. Michigan beat UConn to reclaim the Men’s NCAA tournament.

I had my aspirations as a young man. Stop the war.  Raise a son. As I worked, people died every day. Good people. Kind people. Their ends did not register in my life. Their momentous parting, everything for them, was nothing to me.

In life I can fight, love. In death I cannot.

Yet I no longer privilege one over the other. When the reaper comes, the fruits of a long and interesting life will gather into my body, then disperse. To create new molecules, new lung tissue, new fingernails.

On these bad days–pain, constipation–I wonder: Is this how the final exit goes. Pain and discomfort. Then, surcease. I hope not. I would prefer to die quietly, surrounded by friends and family, Shadow by my side.

I do not mind dying. Not sooner than necessary. But when it is time. Yes. I take that long last ride.

When it happens, a fisherman catches a bass. A couple will make love and create a new human. I will have gone on ahead.

Stop a moment.
Pause.
Say good-bye.

Cancer, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Casual Cruelties

1 Comment

Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Artemis:  Miles from 244,850 earth. Miles from moon 26,740. As of 5:06 am, April 6th, 2026.

Monday gratefuls: Eggs. Oatmeal. Kitchen. House cleaner. Medical Guardian. Artemis II nearing moon. Michigan v. Uconn.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Integrity.

 

Kavannah: Hakarat Hatov.  Gratitude.  “Who is rich? Those who rejoice in their own portion.” Pirkei Avot (4:1)

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: I blocked myself yesterday. I didn’t want another entry in the distress cycle, a straight run from April 1st. Couldn’t think of anything else. Also, I had stomach and intestinal issues. Thinking straight was not in the cards.

 

This morning. Still the gut issues. Not as intense. Dispiriting.

When my body aches. My mind responds.

Yesterday I had to sit myself down and have a talk. About casual cruelties against myself. I know, I said, the distraction and pain don’t give us much of a buffer to work with.

The rest of us hears it. Over and over. Does that apply to the sick part of us?  The part that missed our phone call with our boy.

Bad hand grip. I’m going to die. Low stamina. Why are you not on the treadmill. You’re impossible!

What I’m proposing is a gentler version of self-talk. Ah, I see we’re having trouble opening that jar. You stumbled on the way to the  kitchen. This is a surprise? No. It’s who I am right now.

This stumbling guy. This cancer trial guy. A father, a brother, a grandpa. A reader, a writer, a friend to the other. A man.

A man who deserves your compassion and concern, not your judgment or contempt.

Hangs head. Yes, I know. I want to do that, I do. But in the moment of pain. You can no longer do what you used to. I worry. Is this the slope? Work harder. Please.

Not very dignified, eh? No. At some point I catch on to the negative self-take. Big sigh. Charlie, not again. Then I sit myself down with myself. Self-compassion is on the agenda. Even if I am weak, I remain Charlie. With limits–as always. Just different ones.

Got my notice for a pre-trial start up appointment. I imagine I’ll get my first treatment date. I need to get started. Yes. I’ve chosen to surrender myself to the trial, to the new drugs. I chose this.

All of the treatments will be in Rocky Mountain Cancer Care’s midtown office near Presbyterian.

Kate, on her death bed, told me: Trust your doctors.  Zip up. Abandon the rabbit holes. The critiquing. Lean in.

With all the upset and uncertainty of the last year plus I hope these trials can calm the worried me.

 

Watch.

Storms come and go.

Shelter.

Cancer, Health

The Costs. Of Staying Alive

1 Comment

Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Tuesday gratefuls: Neck brace. Frailty. Horror. The Big C. Laura Linney. Oliver Platt. Spice Ranch Fusion. Iran. Israel. U.S.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Eggs

 

Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut. cuTo salad. Mark in Hafar. Meds.

Tarot: Five of Bows, empowerment.  “…the battles you face are not necessarily for destruction, but to test and validate your inner power, leading to genuine empowerment.” May it be so.

One brief shining: I lay there on the exam table while Samantha fussed with the EKG machine. Needed more paper, the red horizontal grids. She tried various positions, but had to call in Lee. I asked why I had to take this again.

“The other one expired,” she said with a sardonic chuckle. The extended runup to the actinium trial. Long enough that the EKG I took a month ago was no longer current. “Just another example of our broken healthcare system.”

I like Samantha. She taught ESL in Bangkok. Too humid. “I wanted someplace drier. We’ve lived in Colorado for ten years.”

I drive down Shadow Mountain, down 285. Down the hill. Takes about forty-five minutes adding in a long stretch west on 470. The neck brace reduces exhaustion while driving. Its chief benefit.

I’m not completely fed up with the broken health care system. Not yet. I could get there. The physical demands of driving. Drug side effects. Imaging. Appointments.

It wears me down. I get home, peel off my neck brace, grab a cold water, and plunk down in my chair. Done for the day.

Here’s the irony. Stage 4 is no longer a death sentence. New drugs. New treatments like actinium. I so appreciate all the research. However. The longer I’m kept alive–my goal and my oncological teams–the more dramatic and invasive the treatments.

Costs go up, too. Erleada and Orgovyx. Drugs I’ve taken since 2019. Eight-hundred to nine-hundred dollars each. Monthly. Modest by the standards of other cancer drugs. Privilege. I have the money. I wonder about others.

Early on in this journey I could have had an axion scan. Insurance denied it. 35 sessions of radiation aimed at defined cancer activity. A possible cure. I got radiation to the place where my prostate used to be. 50% of returning cancer shows up there. Wasn’t where mine was.

Litigating the past derails the journey. Could I have been cured? Maybe. I wasn’t. Irrelevant today.

Today, eleven years later, I’m awaiting word on my randomization for the trial. Thursday. Samantha said they all hope I get into the actinium plus the souped up Erleada arm. That touched me. These RMCC folks. Kind. Helpful. Smart

My response to this trial will indicate my future path. If positive, I’ve got years ahead of me. If not…

Get an EKG.
Sign papers.
Keep going.

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health, Memories

The Trial

Leave a comment

Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Friday gratefuls: Cool night. Starting my morning. Tamales. Cheeseburger. Mark in Hafar. Mary in Melbourne. Joe and Seoah in Osan.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Morning Darkness

 

Kavannah: Areyvut. Mutual responsibility.  All humans are accountable one to another.

Tarot: King of Vessels, Heron. Quiet presence. Emotional balance. Waiting for the trial to begin.

 

One brief shining: I want my cancer on its heels. Samantha, trial coordinator, called. I need to go back in, redo an EKG, sign more papers. Tired of all the preparatory work. I want to start the trial.

 

Trial. I’ve had jury duty several times. All in Minnesota. A lot of sitting around, reading. Waiting. I served on one jury, an unmemorable case. We found the defendant guilty.

Juries fulfill the promise, made two-hundred and fifty years ago, that I will not judged by aristocracy, but by a jury of my peers.

This clinical trial brings together a jury of my peers.

The full trial lasts nine months. The sentence will be handed down by my body and the actinium’s aim.

No guarantees. My participation is voluntary.

You could call this a capital trial. Some of us will get a reprieve. Hope I’m one of those.

Science. I had polio, measles, and mumps. Polio was long ago, when I was about a year and half old. Yet it continues to impact me at 79. My head drops. My left diaphragm is paralyzed.

I remember mom coming in to check on me. A dark room. I was sensitive to light. Mom would bring me soup or a sandwich, lay a cool rag over my forehead. Measles.

Here’s the thing. When I was eight years old, I had to stand in line in Thurston Elementary. To get a shot. The polio vaccine. I felt this as a keen injustice since I’d already had polio. Result? By 1979, twenty-five years later, polio no longer menaced the U.S.

If only I’d had the MMR vaccine, first available in 1971, I could have avoided the measles and the mumps.

I know, from direct experience, the need for vaccines.

I have benefitted from medical science. I may have been born too early for the polio and MMR vaccines, but I’m pleased my son Joseph could get them.

Not to mention the many different protocols that have extended my life after my cancer diagnosis. I feel good about participating in the clinical trial. It’s medical science which will  help not only me, but thousands of men in the future.

I’m living proof that medical science matters. At the most personal level.

I’ll go in.
Repeat my EKG.
Sign the papers.

 

Cancer, Friends, Health, Shadow Mountain

Push Cancer Back

Leave a comment

Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Thursday gratefuls: Dr. Josy. Tara and Eleanor. Marshdale Burgers. Ana. No winter winter. Shadow and the puzzle.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Women

 

Kavannah: Areyvut. Mutual responsibility.  All humans are accountable one to another.

Tarot: #11, The Woodward. Cancer requires an unflinching acceptance of hard truths. Not easy.

 

One brief shining: Disturbing news. PSA went way up. Surprised everybody. Especially me. Bupathi says we’re so close to the trial, maybe April 8th for first treatment, that it makes sense to go forward. I hope actinium is a wonder drug.

The trial has three arms. It matters, a lot, which arm I get assigned to.

Randomization. An ugly word. Happens probably tomorrow. That’s when I’ll know. Or soon after.

A high PSA with multiple new metastases. Not a place I want to be. But. It’s where I am. I’m in need of something to slow down this latest run.

An ornery beast, this cancer of mine. Hiding, biding its time. When a treatment fails, it leaps out with a roar. As oncologist Kristie said, “This disease will run its course.”

I want my PSA lower, much lower. I want my cancer pushed back. If I can get a year, a year plus before having to change protocols, I’ll feel good. May not happen. I fear a minimal response.

My weariness peaked last week.  How do I get through this? I’m not alone.

 

Yesterday. An accidental confluence. Ana came first: dusting, vacuuming, cleaning sinks and toilets. Tara came second, bearing cheeseburgers from Marshdale Burgers. Tater tots, too. Dr. Josy came, too. She had dog poop removal equipment.

Ana has been cleaning my house since before Kate died.

Tara I’ve known for over ten years. She brings her black Doodle, Eleanor, over to the house for a Shadow play date. While the dogs play, we talk.

Yesterday, in addition to bringing lunch, Tara brought in my canned water and put it in the fridge. Then, she unloaded my dishwasher. She also brought soup.

Dr. Josy scooped up all of Shadow’s poop deposited after the dog run went into effect. She also walked the perimeter of my fence, finding two trouble spots. Which Tara volunteered Arjean to fix.

Key elements of my resilience.

Love
An empty dishwasher.
A clean dog run.

Cancer, Health

The Gate of Guarded Hope

Leave a comment

Imbolc and the Moon of Liberation

Wednesday gratefuls: Samantha. Salivary gland tests. CT w/ contrast. So much bloodwork. Ruth and David, taking me to Rocky Mountain Cancer Care.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Ruth

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: #11, The Woodward. Strength found in facing inner darkness. I read the diagnostic reports, reeling, then steady.

One brief shining: I counted eight, no, nine vials when Angie, the phlebotomist, placed them on the small table. My left arm had the sleeve rolled up since the right one had had an IV inserted a half an hour before. The clinical trial demanded the nine vials including tests for Hepatitis B, C, and HIV. “I’m gonna be about a pint low.”

My final procedure for this round of treatment. After I swished 5 milliliters of lemon juice for a minute, I chewed on a patch of gauze for three minutes. It got weighed. But. Would it support my admission to the trial?

Samantha, Sam, took my medical history. “So. Polio.”  Aortic aneurysm. Arthritis. Labrum tear. Compared to most others in the trial, Sam said, my medical history was straightforward. Oddly comforting. A threshold I should pass.

I texted Done to Ruth. She and David pulled up to the entrance of the Littleton clinic. She had an iced Americano for me and a bag of free beans. As a Starbucks barista, she has perks.

Next week I find out the start date for the clinical trial. I’ve taken all the tests, filled out questionnaires, had interviews. Now it’s the trial’s turn.

Sometime soon, probably next week as well, I’ll be randomized into one of the arms of the trial: one does not hold what I believe I need. I plan to discuss with Christina, a Bupathi P.A. whom I like, what to do if I’m in the arm with no Actinium. Might be admission to a place I don’t want to be.

Gatekeepers. Check boxes. Say enter. Or not.

This latest gate, call it the Gate of Guarded Hope, is the most consequential I’ve had to face in a long time. When we stand, like Kafka’s K, outside, the interior is a mystery, yet a mystery in which we wish to invest. Amelioration of a dread disease.

I’m calm now, having given myself over to the protocols of a phase three drug trial. Samantha. Angie. Bupathi. Guardians. Caring for me, yes, but through the trial, for others yet to come.

Standing at the gate.

Waiting to be let in.

 

 

Cancer, Health, Judaism

Content?

Leave a comment

Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Shabbat gratefuls: Rabbi Jamie. Rabbi Rami. Teshuvah. Tikkun. Talmud Torah. Bagel table. The Mishkan. Shabbat. Colder.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Torah

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: Page of Stones, Lynx.  “Begin something new that supports your health.” Clinical trial for me.

One brief shining: Each night before I go to bed, I say three things. Hands over eyes, I first say the Shema. Then, hand on the mezuzah, “I am content with who I am. I’m content with what I have.” Last: “I love that little Shadow–all to pieces.”

 

When I say I’m content with who I am, I mean histapkot. This body, linked to all that becomes, has been, is, will be enough. The Shema says that plainly, yhvh is one.

The second part, “I’m content with all that I have.” has become a challenge. Money? Yes. Shadow Mountain Home? Yes. Shadow? Yes.

But. Am I content with cancer?

Cancer and contentment. What about those days I read unwelcome news? What about all the treatments, all the uncertainty?

I am content with having cancer. It can churn my stomach. Yes. It cannot be cured, so it’s a permanent resident. We are not two. We are one. When I eat, the cancer part of me eats. When I sleep, cancer rests with me. I am not content with cancer killing me. I do what I can to prevent that. Then again, I am not content with my heart killing me either. I do what I can to prevent that.

Railing against the cancer. Fighting it. Struggling with it. All those war-like metaphors. No. Why? Because they bind me to self-hatred, stir the anxiety pot until it overflows.

I refuse to live a life where cancer consumes not only my body, but my mind, my spirit as well. Like Medworld from yesterday, I will not allow cancer any more room in my mind and heart than it already has. I do not forget about it. Neither do I focus on it.

I turn to the lodgepole and the aspen. To life with Shadow. To improving my writing. Life is for living, not for waiting to die.

An enduring lesson of the Shema. The oneness of all becoming.  All is part of the one. Nothing lies outside it. Not cancer. Not war. Not crime.

Oneness challenges me to calm myself. To not let life be colonized by fear or self-pity. That’s why saying the Shema can act as a shield against anxiety and discontent. Stay here. Stay now.

Seek what you need.

Give up what you don’t need.

 

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health

Machine Medicine

Leave a comment

Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Thursday gratefuls: Mariposa. Andres. Alan. Bubble study. A long walk. Morning darkness. Ruby. Gas prices. Iran.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Resilience

 

Kavannah: Groundedness. Yesod.    Yesod is about establishing oneself in reality, refusing to rely on comfortable illusions.

Tarot: Knight of Arrows, Hawk. I need to look at the big picture, see cancer as only a part of a long journey.

 

One brief shining: A cold gel. A sonar wand. Andres took the measure of my heart. Possible shunt. A walk, long, to the Evergreen Building for my PET scan. Pleased with how I held up. Once again radioactive tracers. Lounged in the recliner for an hour, reading a Joe Pickett novel. Kindle app on my phone. Lie down.

 

My body, investigated. Bone scan. Echo. PET scan. Baselines for the clinical trial. No more even mild claustrophobia. Too familiar.

Wearing the soft brace around my neck while out and about. My head drops. Not as far. Doesn’t strain my back. I don’t get as worn out. Though. Feels clunky. Odd.

Second Uber back from Sky Ridge. Mariposa, a squat Latina with six-inch all black nail extensions. Drove eighty m.p.h. Quiet. As I prefer due to my poor hearing.

Shadow greeted me with wiggles and kisses. I remind myself, don’t take this for granted. Remember how long it took. How much heartache.

Getting ready for this clinical trial is a trial of its own. Organize rides. Co-pay. Not cheap. A volunteer guided me each time, the hospital a maze. Sit. Again. Wait.

Charles? I’m Andres. Charles? I’m Andrew. Out of the waiting room. Lie on your side. Lie on your back. Do you want a warm blanket?

No results yet. The doctors sit in their offices far away. Reading scans. Looking at results. I sit at home, tired and lacking information.

The life. Chronic disease. Periods of being home, petting Shadow, reading. Periods of whirs, hums, the stick of a needle. Data. Learning what happens next.

Like that frog. Warming water. I grow accustomed to each test.  One of these tests. One of these days. There’s nothing more we can do. The cancer has gone too far. Earlier, that would have been unwelcome news. Now? One point on this path. I’ve had a long life, one not marred by disease or disability. Enriched.

Punctuation marks. My cancer diagnosis pushed me over the line into life’s last phase, the fourth phase. In the fourth phase I acknowledge my mortality. Not as distant. No longer with that slight hesitation. Maybe not me?

I lean on friends and family. Feel my body gradually giving way.  Everything is harder. Yet. I would not change this time. I’m writing my way into it.

I sit in my chair. Calm.

Back Pain, Cancer, GeekWorld, Health, Post Polio

Abraxas

1 Comment

Imbolc and the Moon of Tides

Friday gratefuls: Andrew. Nessa. Bone Scan. Radioactive tracers. Abraxas. Tesla. Uber. Tough day. Noem. Gone. Morning darkness.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Technology

 

Kavannah: Shleimut.   Being present to myself.

Tarot: Six of Vessels, Reunion     Shadow reminds me. My little boy plays with her. Feeds her.

 

One brief shining: Encountering high technology: Radioactive tracers. The bone scan machine. Uber. A self-driving Tesla.  An organic among computer chips and software and radiation sensing crystals.

 

 

Retired Army Sergeant Andrew inserted an IV into my arm at 11:35. Flushed it with saline. Left the room to retrieve a lead box about 10 inches long and five wide. Removed the syringe with radioactive tracers that light up on bone. With a single push he sent it into my blood stream.

He took out the IV. “Come back at 2:30.” Three hours in a place where I could not rest my head. That soft brace? No match for hours in cafeteria and lobby chairs with no head rest.

By 2:30 I was so grateful to lie down. The too familiar curved table. Accepted me and supported my neck. The forty-minutes sandwiched between two cameras sensitive to the gamma rays coming from my bones? The most comfortable I’d been since I got to the hospital.

One of four imaging tests.  Baselines for the clinical trial.

After my much needed rest: time to enter another technology tunnel. Called up the Uber app on my cell phone. Of course. Credit card expired. The ritual:  Card number. Security code. Expiration date. Ah.

I entered the network of self-employed drivers near to me. Who would drive me home? Abraxas took my request.

Abraxas, a man in his early sixties drove a black 2025 Tesla. “Abraxas?” He nodded. “Charlie?” I nodded back while closing the heavy door and looking up through the transparent roof.

“Abraxas?”

A five-thousand year old Egyptian god. Rooster head and snakes for arms. Represents that God is one with everything.

Hmm. OK. Not sure about snakes for arms. Can roll with all is one.

A mind-stretching combination of magical thinking and a self-driving car.

When Abraxas bought his Tesla, he opted for a full self driving kit. Used it all the way from Skyridge Hospital to 9358 Black Mountain Drive. His hands fluttered, on occasion, below the steering wheel.

He even took the Deer Creek Valley road. A road through the mountains. I use it when I’m tired of the freeways. Very curvy. With bicyclists. All on self-drive.

When we got to my house, the Tesla dutifully parked itself.

Bones scanned by machine. Curves navigated by software. Me in my body.

Home again, home again.

Shadow wiggling. Smiling.