Surgeversary II

Amid all the fun of recovering from last night's drunken poker session and preparing for tomorrow's awesome flight to Europe, I need to take just one minute to mark Surgeversary II -- the first anniversary of my second brain surgery, which was a year ago today.

I've written here before about the first surgery, in November, boasting about how I was Mr. Cool even in the prep room before going under. The second time, not so much.

The docs had determined I needed a second surgery because, two months after the needle biopsy and the seizures that prompted it, they still hadn't been able to determine what was causing the problems ... even whether the masses showing up in MRI scans were in fact tumors. So the plan was to operate in the same area -- cutting along the existing scar on my scalp, in fact -- only this time instead of pushing a needle through a small "burr hole," they would saw through and lift out a triangle of cranium, do another biopsy and, assuming it appeared cancerous, remove as much of the tumor as possible.

As chill and optimistic as I try to be, this didn't sound good to me. I don't know whether it was the reading I had been doing about brain operations, or the not-so-fun experience of recovering from the first one, or just dumb superstition, but I had a bad feeling about the upcoming surgery. That's not like me. Michelle even said just the other day it was the only time she's ever seen me seem superstitious. But I really didn't like my chances all that much.

When we got to Swedish Hospital at the ungodly hour of 4:30 or 5 a.m., whatever it was, we were placed in a small, curtained surgery-prep waiting area, along with a bunch of other people including, I remember, a guy who had been in some kind of horrific logging accident.

While we were waiting, an ancient nun (this was a Catholic hospital) came in and asked if she could pray with me. She was dressed in white, with a deep-wrinkled face and knobby little hands; she looked like she might have been Mother Teresa's mom. I remembered her name for a long time but can't recall it now ... something that fit her looks, like Sister Carlotta. I know a lot of people would take comfort from this. It had the opposite effect on me. I'm already freaked out enough, I thought, without Mother Teresa giving me my last rites.

The good thing about the surgery was that my doctor, Marc Mayberg, inspired much more confidence than the University of Washington dude who did the first one. They determined that the mass was in fact cancerous -- oligodendroglioma -- and removed a large chunk, about the size of a Ping Pong ball, I think, from my right frontal lobe. (I can now testify, firsthand, that the old joke is true: I would rather have a bottle in front of me.) A second, larger tumor in my left temporal lobe -- about the size of a lemon -- was deemed to be inoperable, and that's what we're treating now with chemotherapy.

So, a year ago today at about this time I was out of surgery and in intensive care. The recovery was hard. Although I was pretty out of it, I remember one horrible, painful night in the hospital when I threw up on Michelle (sorry, baby) and really wasn't sure I was going to make it. (The above photo was taken at home, a few days later.)

All of which gruesome details serve, for me, to inspire appreciation for the long way that I've come in the last year and, as I've said before, the incredible love and support of so many people, notably the readers of this dumb blog.

It's hard to believe that exactly a year after my low point of fear and pain I'm packing my bag, along with the amazing partner of a lifetime, for a high point of joy and pleasure.

We'll be thinking of you all in Rome and Paris.

No senior discount

Yesterday, hot to press my 2008-long winning streak at the tables, I drove down to the Muck for some afternoon poker action. I've been building big chip stacks lately and so playing with a lot of confidence -- the winning and the confidence can multiply each other -- and this looked like a juicy game: a couple of tight old farts (usually a sign they can be pushed off a pot) and a bunch of overeager youngsters, including several I've played with before and knew to be beatable (wait for a hand and let them overplay their cards).

But from the beginning my session didn't go well. The kids were hitting their unlikely draws, the old guys were standing firm to notch me with a better kicker, and my cards were going dead when I needed help. Losing, like winning, can build on itself, and it wasn't long before I needed to rebuy. It was a good game, I still thought, but it was slowly dawning on me that I was the player making it good ... for everyone else.

In one hand I flopped four cards to a flush. Normally I might bet out, hoping to pick up the pot right then or, even if I were called, expecting to collect even more when my strong draw came through on the turn or river. I was feeling cautious, though, afraid my bet might be raised by one of the young aggressives, so I just checked, hoping to get a free card.

"No way," said the punk in Seat 8, flipping out four white chips, "no senior discount."

Ouch. Ow.

So I'm not a young gun, or even a savvy middle-aged player to be reckoned with. I'm another pathetic pensioner bleeding off chips.

The old guys at the table looked at me with ... not sympathy exactly, more like camaraderie. Yeah, it's annoying, isn't it, they seemed to be saying. Not bad enough that we're old guys, but these damn whippersnappers have to dangle it right here in our wrinkled old faces. Welcome to our world.

Needless to say, my draw failed to come in, again, and I had to put two more bets into Seat 8's pot.

Here's where a wise old man might have sussed out the situation with its dwindling prospects and called it a day. Me, stubborn beyond my years, I ran through another rack of chips looking for a chance to wipe the smirks off all that peach fuzz. Never happened. No senior discount, or comeback either.


All the major food groups

Tonight we get another chance, and with like-aged pals and the friendly setting of a reporter's home game. Michelle and I are invited to play at Jack Broom's house with a couple of old Times colleagues, including my friend Jim Simon, and Michelle's boss from the P-I, David McCumber. It's a reprise of a game we had a few months back at Simon's house, and I'm really looking forward to seeing everyone and trading stories over a deck of cards.

Jack's a great guy and was the first member of Team Mark, my financial backers and rooting section last summer for the World Series of Poker. We've been playing cards together, off and on, for 20 years.

I asked him what we could bring tonight and he said he's already covered on cards, poker chips and drinks. So I walked up to the Junction just now and bought a can of nuts and a bag of chips. Then, as I was walking past the donut case I noticed a chocolate raised calling out to me. I decided to break my weeks-long donut fast, what the heck, and take it home to have with a cup of coffee.

When I got to the counter the checkout lady rang up my order and half-smiled at me: "This is a healthy-looking meal if I've ever seen one."

Man, you'd think they'd train the employees not to mock the customers. Yeah, I said, you gotta take care of yourself.

When she asked for my Safeway Club Card I half expected her to offer a senior discount too. But no. Healthy eating is its own reward, I guess.

"Have a nice day, sir," she said. Close enough.

American Idol again

"They call me the black Clay Aiken," says contestant 1. Janice, that's a guy from Idol Season II. Black Clay, no way.

Deanna, the bitter waitress: nope

A gross couple who met on the Idol message boards. No.

Jeffrey and Michelle. Brother and sister. Very flamboyant. Very funny. I mean, the man wears a tie around his head. They're in. That'll be fun.

Montage, ridiculing contestants.

Next: "I'm Amy, Amy Catherine, AC, whatev." ERrrr!
Simon says: "It was a bit like annoying girl singing in the bedroom. There are a lot of people who are going to find you very very annoying."

Mark bets me a dollar she's not getting in. I WIN! Pay up sucker.

"I'm shocked," Mark says.

Pay up, sucker!

Cheesy story line weaving in and out about contestant #1 (was supposed to be) whose wife goes into labor before he can step up. He looked so pissed that he had to go have a baby instead of singing for Simon.

Next: A blond wiggly voiced breathy singer singing Good Morning Heartache. We hate her. Randy/Dawg likes the tone. Paula's going for it. The blondness is working again. She's in. "Based on your vocals" Dawg says.

"Right," Mark says. "Based on your ass!"

Next: A chick who flies big planes. But she cain't sing. Pitchy, Dawg says. Simon says she's a good cabaret singer. "It's a no, sweetheart," Simon says.

Yow, now a chick with GIANT breasts in a bright turquoise dress that says "lookit my titties!"

"Oh my," Paula says.

Ouch. Close the mouth. Stop the sounds.

"The funny blue dress, the huge belt ... doesn't work," Simon says.

"I have an amazing voice," Aretha says. "I stop crowds."

"You seriously murdered the ... song," Simon says.

"I think I really did good with that song."

"You can't sing!"

"I really can sing! I heard a lot of people you let through here. They weren't even that ... some of them was not up to par. ... I don't even believe this. Can I get one more chance?"

NO!

"Honestly, I think I'm great," Aretha says in the hallway. Dang.

Next up: Joshua sings horribly, then claims "This show is faked and rigged. ... I am a good person and you're not."

Next: A montage of people who have heard no, no, no. Wiping tears, hand to the camera. "I am not going to cry," one says. "Because, why?"

The guy who had a baby -- Emma Grace -- sings with too much vibratto. Gets three NOs. I lose my dollar in a bet that he'll make it in anyways. It's an Idol Baby, Dawg declares.

"Emma Gross," Mark says. At least he's even money.

PS: The Idol Blogger at the LA Times is a genius:

"But at the end of an "Idol" audition episode, what the two hours really bring to light is just how fine a line our society walks every day. How often in each of our days do we stand beside people who wrongly consider themselves intelligent, beautiful, witty, brave? Often it seems just about everyone we know (certainly everyone I know) is deeply, horribly deluded in some way or another. And in real life, Simon Cowell never shows up with their glass of cold water. ..."

Have you found your passport yet?

That's been Michelle's daily refrain now for a couple of weeks, almost ever since Christmas when she sprang on me the all-time amazing surprise gift -- tickets for Rome and Paris, timed for the end of this month when I'm between chemo rounds and most likely to be feeling up to traveling. Awesome.

It didn't occur to me until last night, when Michelle posted about booking our Paris hotel, that our plans have gone otherwise unremarked here, except for a stray hint or two in the comments. My bad. Of course we're totally psyched for the trip, and I can't believe it's coming up so fast.

I've been to Italy several times, including once with Michelle, but never to Paris, and I'm really excited. We leave Sunday.

(Note to burglars: Don't even think about it. We've got the guard guppies, plus people looking in on the place, and the security system thoughtfully installed by the previous owners. Not much worth stealing anyway.)

We've been getting some great trip-preparation help. First, Kaye sent us a couple of cool books -- "The Secrets of Rome: Love & Death in the Eternal City," by Corrado Augias; and "Pudlo Paris 2007-2008," the Paris restaurant guidebook, by Gilles Pudlowski -- and put together an awesome post on NiteNote with all her favorite Paris spots. Very nice.

Then yesterday Mom sent another good-looking book, "Paris to the Moon," by Adam Gopnik, who is The New Yorker's correspondent. Thank you everyone.

But anyway, as I said, Michelle has been nagging me to put fingers on my passport. I get that; it would be a total drag to head off to the airport on Sunday and have to just wave goodbye as Michelle traipses through security. And if you're Michelle, you think that way. I've never seen her go anywhere without searching for her wallet and keys for 20 or 30 minutes. When you don't know where anything is it makes sense to start looking right away.

Me, I've got systems. I know where stuff is. Even so, knowing that Michelle would interrogate me again soon, I decided this morning to get the passport out of its spot in my dresser drawer.

... What? Not there? What?

After a few minutes of panic, including looking in the other couple of places it must be if it wasn't in the place it was supposed to be, I looked in the dresser drawer again and, yes, there it was. Whew. The last thing I need, on top of blowing the trip, would be listening to I-told-you-sos for the rest of my life.

Just now, Michelle called from work to say hi and give me an update on a couple little things. "Have you found your passport yet," she said.

Sheesh. Of course, dude. It's right here.

Paris, Mais Oui

The deed is done -- I've booked our Paris hotel after spending a good 4 or 5 hours on tripadvisor.com, among other recommendation sites. This one's cheap, clean, in the Latin Quarter.


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