Home Improvement

The Quest for Normalcy continues... not just within, but without and throughout all of Dallas.  After a pounding rainstorm this past weekend, the city is finally starting to dry out -- aided significantly by strong north winds that, while not quite as furious as those that plagued pilots landing at Addison Monday, are still fairly strong.

There's a chance of rain again tonight... but a small chance, not anything like the 7+ inches most of the city received between Saturday afternoon and Sunday night. Just goes to show... when it comes to Texas, even excess is done on a grand scale.

Meanwhile, I'm slowly starting to make some improvements around the apartment. Nothing major, but I did tackle a few projects that had been at the back of my mind since before the first of the year. I finally broke down and visited the garden department at Wal-Mart yesterday, and bought a new planter for the two spider plants my Mom gave me for Thanksgiving 2004. They'd been thriving in the small pot they arrived in, but clearly it was time for a larger home. After detangling their roots (that had become a rock-hard foundation underneath the old pot) I think I successfully moved them into a large hanging planter. As we approaching 24 hours since the move, it doesn't look like they're dying yet.

Afterwards, I moved the Swedish Ivy I got as a gift from my old boss at AG from the small plastic container it came in, to the larger pot that had once held the spider plants. That move went considerably easier, leaving none of the old dirt and plant entrails the spider plants gave up on my patio. My only concern is the new pot may be too big for the ivy... and I've already tossed the old container; oh well, we'll just have to wait and see.

Other improvements... I ordered a new stereo online, remote control everything, a few weeks back. I was tired of admiring the home stereo decks of others, while my five-year-old K-Mart-spec White-Westinghouse (a brand renowned for its high-quality audio equipment) soldiered on in the tinny background. The new deck arrived Monday. It's just a Memorex -- so, OK, a small step up -- but has much better sound quality. It also had a record player on top... so I could finally listen to the Jim Croce album my friend Jennifer bought me for Christmas. What struck me as a cool-but-quirky gift at the time has turned into my favorite album... in fact, I might start to search out some other old vinyl because of it.

I also want to get a small table to accompany the two chairs on the patio. I hardly spend any time out there... but really, it's a great planewatching spot when ADS is using 33. I can tune in the tower freq on my navcom, and about 30 seconds (Learjet) or two minutes (Skyhawk) after I hear the takeoff clearance given, the plane comes roaring (Lear) or puttering (Skyhawk) over the house.

I guess all of this is to make the apartment presentable when the folks visit next month for Easter. It will be nice to have both of them here... as well as erase the "last time you were here" stigma from Mom's visit in February, and my last visit to ABQ in January (a photo of me, Mom and Abby is below.) Plus, I get to see Abby again.

They're scheduled to drive down on the 12th of April, and stay through the 17th. That's but one day after I'm due to return from Lakeland, FL for Sun 'N Fun... so I'll pretty much only have time to unpack before they get here, no time to clean up. So that means I have to do all the cleaning done beforehand. No biggie -- the apartment is only 750 sq. ft. -- but still. I want the apartment cleaner than it's ever been before I leave for FL on the 2nd. That's probably a psychological thing, tied into the cancer scare.

Which reminds me... I don't think I've had a soda since the end of January. No particular reason... although the fact they aren't very healthy (and some diet sodas contain things the FDA isn't completely certain don't cause cancer) weighs on that. I almost slipped a few weeks ago; I ran by KFC on my way home and grabbed a value meal. Instinctively, I ordered a Pepsi with it -- habit -- but when I got to the window, the guy asked me again what I'd ordered to drink, so I changed it to tea. Almost like I was supposed to stay away from soda... let's see how long the streak continues.

Except for trying to keep a healthier diet altogether, as well as eating MUCH less and exercising MUCH more (getting weighed every month at the oncologist's gives me an incentive, and a way to track progress) I haven't altered much else about my day-to-day life in the wake of the cancer scare. To attempt to determine what caused it would be a path to madness -- no one knows what causes TC. It's likely a perfect storm of dissociated events -- a genetic predisposition, perhaps, combined with environmental and, who knows, physiological factors.

That reminds me... and this is how I'll end this post. As a rule, I despise "reality" televsion. Unless you are able watch it with a properly jaundiced eye -- which, if you can do that, what's the point of watching it in the first place -- it's always seemed to me to serve only as an escape for those who cannot completely function in the reality of everyday life. Okay, there's a difference between programs like "American Idol" and "Amazing Race" that award talent and creativity, versus those like "Joe Millionaire" and, the latest from the bastion of Quality Programming that is FOX, "Unan1mous" ... but it's all tripe, IMO. All filler, no nutrition.

The premise of "Unan1mous" is interesting: in order for one contestant to win a cash prize of up to $1.5 million, all contestants must reach a unanimous (so clever, ain't it) decision on who to award the prize to. Each time consensus is NOT reached, the amount of the prize is reduced by x number of dollars and one of the contestants is "voted off". Sounds like a neat game show, really... although it isn't hard to imagine most of the shows ending with everyone involved going home with washing machines, and no actual money...

...So, FOX being FOX, they've spiced things up a bit. SEX! DECEIT! INTRIGUE! And one contestant who attempts to garner sympathy by telling the other participants that he has testicular cancer. He doesn't, of course... but may I recommend to whatever higher power exists, that he probably should get it?

That's just sick. Bring on the lions in Coliseums, because maybe our society is doomed, after all. Meanwhile... back to housecleaning, and not drinking soda.

I Am

I never been on a railroad, as many times as they pass me by
I never crashed in the desert or seen a rodeo
I don't know much about the world wars, or Vietnam
I've yet to read about Uncle Tom
Never climbed a real rock... or seen Colorado

Am I the son I think I am
Am I the friend I think I am
Am I the man I think I wanna be..?

This song, "I Am" by Train, was on the mix CD I tossed into the player this afternoon as I drove down to ADS to catch a few moments of watching planes land in 29-knot direct crosswinds (with gusts to 38!) 

I couldn't believe it, but a few brave (incredibly dense/lucky?) individuals were even out in their 172s. I could tell those pilots were NOT having fun, with their planes crabbed at 10-15 degrees off centerline up to the final moment the right main wheel touched down. From my perspective down the runway, it even looked like they were taxiing in a crab, too... like one sudden gust under the wing might flip the lightweight (most Skyhawks gross out at around 2400 lbs) planes right over. Because... well, it could.

"That did not look like fun" the controller told one of the pilots, who had made a less-than-graceful arrival on the runway.

"It wasn't," came the somewhat shaky reply.

"Well, you made it, you're on the runway," the controller said. "Left at Gulf, contact Ground on 121.6."

Something I love about Addison... for such a busy airport, the controllers seem to be a generally jovial bunch, quick to offer student pilots encouragement (or, on the flip side, chastise experienced pilots who really should have known better.) I can't wait to fly out of here, someday. I hope I do.

I never had a day where money didn't get in my way
I never listened to much Elvis
I can't remember a warm December

Am I the son I think I am
Am I the friend I think I am
Am I the man I think I wanna be

Next up: a dilapidated Lear 25, part of freight hauler Cherry Air's fleet of similarly taxed ancient jets. They're loud, they're ugly... and, they're fast (top speed 465 kts Mach.) Did I mention they were loud? Two Stage I noise-restricted CJ-610-8As (Stage IV is the current state-of-the-art) that positively wail at full throttle. Like when they're taking off.

In fact, if the wind is strong enough I can hear these things take off in the middle of the night from my apartment, three miles away. So imagine the noise when it's about 150 yards in front of you.

Yeah! The sound of freedom, baby!

I can't hear the radio very well as the Lear rockets off the runway, but I watch with some amusement as the jet immediately sets up a crab angle relative to centerline. You know its windy when it's strong enough to make a jet fly crooked.

I'm here for my sanity, sanity
I am here for you
I'm here for your fantasy -- sanity, I am here
I am

"Wind, 230 at 25, gusts to 35." A Citation decides to brave it, and takes to the skies with nary any visible effort.

A Challenger, sitting down near the Mercury Air Center ramp, decides to wait. "Eh, we don't have to leave right now," the pilot tells ground control, requesting a taxiback to Million Air. "I don't think the owner will mind if we sit here awhile longer, especially if it means we don't burn all his fuel fighting a 150 mph headwind." They must be heading west; for as bad as it is on the ground, the wind usually blows MUCH faster up in the flight levels, above 18,000 feet.

"Taxi back to Million Air," the ground controller replies. "See ya in a minute."

Am I the son I think I am
Am I the father that I think I am
Am I the man I think I wanna be

I'm here for my sanity sanity I am here for you
Whether or not I'm walkin in
Or whether or not I'm walkin out
I'm always here for you

By 3:30 pm, no one else seems willing to brave the winds. Tower and Ground frequencies are both quiet; I briefly switch over to Approach, and catch the tail end of an American pilot asking "what are the winds like at DFW?"

"240 at 28, gusts 36."

"Holy..." the pilot's voice trails off. "This is gonna be a fun one."

Given that most of Dallas's winds come from either a) south, from the Gulf of Mexico, or b) north, from the jet stream, nearly every runway around the metroplex is oriented more-or-less in a north/south direction. Addison's runway skews southeast/northwest, 15/33, meaning a wind from 230 -- the southwest -- is almost a direct crosswind (80 degrees). DFW's runways are 17/35 and 18/36 -- directly north/south, a little better -- but still a force to be reckoned with.

Maybe all of the shit happening recently in my life is just a crosswind... and I'm just waiting things out on the ground until the breeze calms down... you know?

The American plane must have gotten down OK; I never saw or heard otherwise.

Normalcy

A funny thing happened Thursday afternoon as I walked through my local Wal-Mart, pushing a shopping cart filled with groceries and more than few impulse-buy items: I started to feel like a human being again.

The dull pain I've had since my operation disappeared -- likely because I wasn't at home, at the computer, thinking in the back of my mind how it still hurt and wondering if/when it was going to go away. In fact... walking wasn't a trial at all. I'd struggled to get out of bed that morning; now, I felt fine. Just a little tender, is all.

As I was driving home, I deliberately took the long way around the block (I live one mile from the nearest Wal-Mart -- as do 98% of all Americans, it seems.) Why? Because I was singing along to a song on the radio, and I didn't want to stop. It was the first time in nearly a month I'd wanted to sing about something.

When I got home, I brought my bike -- the one I bought right before December 6, that has been sitting outside getting rained on every since -- inside, and I started to clean it up. It's now ready for me to start riding it -- and I have.

Today, February 24, marks one month since I was diagnosed with TC. I "celebrated" tonight by meeting some of my old friends from American Gypsum for drinks at our traditional hangout, The Old Crow. After several hugs and Q&A  sessions, things settled down to the familiar banter over the LOUD jukebox I've grown so used to these past 18 months. After drinks, we went to dinner at a local Italian joint. Normal.

I drove home tonight singing to the radio. That was the longest I'd been on my feet, out in public, since my operation. I still feel great. I also feel like, finally, I'm taking my life back... which is odd, as one month ago you couldn't have told me I'd be back to my "normal" routine so quickly.

Things aren't normal. They may never be completely so again. From now on, every two months I'll go through a few days of nervous agony, waiting for test results to come back to see if cancer has sprung up again somewhere anew. That's part of the agony of cancer; most patients feel completely normal as it grows inside of them. TC, at least, gave an indicator that was hard to miss. Many forms of cancer don't, until they have spread.

But that's in the future. Tonight I know I'm okay, as I will be tomorrow and the next day. I'm fine until someone tells me otherwise, which I'm betting will never happen.

Cancer, I don't have time for you right now, and I refuse to grant you the satisfaction of sidelining me again. I gave you one month. That's all you get. My life started again on a Thursday afternoon in a Wal-Mart.

I'm normal again

Pray For Us Who Fly, Part Two

I've resisted writing about this for awhile now. Partly out of fear, somewhat out of embarrassment but, most of all, out of uncertainty of how all of this will ultimately turn out. Well, this morning I received most of the news I've been waiting to hear... and things look good. So, with that, I feel I'm ready to share the following with all my friends, and the whole entire blogosphere.

I'll warn you now... the following is very personal and mildly graphic in parts. You may read Part One here.

The next several days passed by in a blur. I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. West Thursday morning, and I then spent the better part of the day at Trinity getting poked (blood screen), scanned (CT scan) and zapped (chest X-ray) to give the doctors, and me, an idea how much my cancer might have spread.

When I got home, Mom called to tell me she would be driving down to Dallas with Abby (the family schnauzer) that weekend. That's when I knew this was serious; Mom had last filled up a gas tank, by herself, sometime in the early 80s. And now she was driving 650 miles to stay with me.

***

Tuesday morning, January 31, 6 am. Check-in at day surgery at Trinity. Before they knock me out, Dr. West gives me some good news: the scans returned clear of any additional tumor growth. "Your blood test does show the marker for tumor growth, though," she said. "Which was expected. It means you either have cancer... or, you're pregnant." Turns out the same HCG marker shows up in a woman's blood when she's expecting. The things you learn.

In the days after learning I had cancer, there were several choices. Dr. West had asked if I wanted to talk to someone regarding the... well, loss... I would soon me experiencing. Although there is usually no (repeating, NO) significant aftereffects from losing a testicle - there's a reason guys have two (God bless the inherent redundancy of the human body) and the other one really does "step up" - it can cause a psychological impact. No, that's OK, I told her. I think I've made my peace with that.

She also asked me if I wanted to bank sperm, in case something DID happen that caused infertility. It's rare, but it does happen occasionally. I thought about that for awhile... and, well, I'll keep my decision on that to myself. Suffice to say, it's a choice I was comfortable making, and I still am.

Which is why, when the time came to go into surgery, I only really wanted one thing. "Please get this evil thing out of me," I told Dr. West. And that's pretty much all I remember.

***

I went home at 3 pm that afternoon  I'm proud to say I walked out of the hospital by myself - no wheelchair - although it hurt like hell. Not as much as sitting down in the car did, though.

The pain eased quickly, though - thank you, Vicodin! - and I was able to walk well enough by Thursday (February 2nd) to go back for a follow-up appointment with Dr. West.

The news from the biopsy was good: it looked like it was "seminoma" cancer, the weakest kind, and light radiation usually kills any remnants left behind. She arranged an appointment for me with an oncologist, who would be handling the next stage of my treatment. Dr. Bhogaraju ("call him Dr. B.," West told me) came highly recommended, and she noted that he was known for being VERY thorough.

The appointment was for the following Monday. I spent the weekend regaining my ability to walk more-or-less normally, and I even started writing for ANN again Thursday night. By the weekend, I was working a full schedule; it was something to do, besides watching TV and dwelling on things.

***

One more thing about that weekend. Saturday morning, I started wearing a gold necklace my friend Jen had given me for Christmas two years ago. I'm not a bling-bling guy (MAJOR understatement, that) but I made it a point after she gave it to me to always wear it while I was flying. Call it superstition, but it's always protected me... and, to paraphrase Ray Kinsella in Field of Dreams, I needed all the karma I could get right now.

The necklace, 24-karat gold, has a small pendant at the center. "Our Lady of Loretto," it reads over an image of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, "pray for us who fly."

I haven't taken it off since.

***

Monday morning, 8:30 am. Dr. B's office. I was feeling pretty good, actually; this appointment would set the course of events in motion to get the rest of this taken care of. To a degree, I was even looking forward to it. This was Day One of the recovery phase.

Well, it didn't go as smoothly as that. Here's the email I wrote to my family and friends after I got back from the appointment, while I was still a bit dazed from it:

Well, of course, this would have to be more fraught with drama than anticipated...

I had a very thorough discussion and exam this morning with my oncologist, who we'll call Dr. B (I honestly can't pronounce his last name.) He took some more blood, and scheduled me for another CT, this time for the chest area (the last was pelvic, with a chest X-ray) just to make absolutely sure there is nothing that's going to surprise us down the line.

There is one area of concern... although in his words, it's "nothing I should lose sleep over." One of my "markers" shows higher than usual for a straight seminoma. On a severity scale of 1-10, this is akin to going from a "3" to a high "4", as non-seminoma is unresponsive to radiation. Should it turn out to be non-seminoma, I would need some combination of chemo and/or surgery to make sure everything is removed. Dr. B also emphasized that the chance of complete curability remains at 97 percent, no matter what type it is.

There is a strong chance it IS "just" seminoma -- after all, two different doctors reached that conclusion last week. Dr. B also explained to me all about what the radiation treatments would entail, so that tells me that's the direction he's still leaning towards. Radiation would be a comparative cakewalk next to surgery... but if it's necessary, then OK.

He also noted there is an 85 percent chance that I am currently 100 percent tumor-free, and might just remain that way forever (although I will need to get checked regularly for the rest of my life.) The rub is, we'll know nothing for CERTAIN for another 10-14 days, as the pathology results make the rounds. These will be nerve-racking times...

***

After the appointment, I made the biggest mistake I could: I went to the online testicular cancer research page and read worst-case scenarios. The surgery option, called "nerve-sparing" RPLND (there's a reason for the modifier that I won't dwell on here) is intensive, painful, and has a long recovery period. And chemo is... well, chemo. Needless to say, I didn't like the uncertainty, but there was also nothing I could do about it.

Mom stayed for another week, before heading back to ABQ on Valentine's Day. She wanted to stay, but had to get back. There wasn't much point to her staying; by then, I was more or less back to maintaining a normal routine, even driving (took me 10 days to do it, though, before I felt comfortable again with a 5-speed.) And, really... I wanted my apartment back.

The 14th was also the day for my chest CT scan. It went much as the first one did, except this time I didn't have to drink a barium solution. Phew. The radiology tech - who was otherwise a very nice, talkative guy - pretty much harpooned my arm, though. It's a week later, and I still have a "track mark" on my left arm (just like a heroin addict!)

My follow-up with Dr. B was scheduled for Monday, the 20th. Not much else to do except work, and wait. In the afternoons, I went down to watch planes at Addison. Again, it was something to do... but it was also sad.

Flying means everything to me. Even when I'm not doing it, knowing it's there, knowing I can, gives me strength and hope. When would I be able to fly again?

***

Which brings us to today, Monday, the 20th. It's about 11:30 at night as I'm typing this out. It's been a very long day.

First of all, my appointment was canceled this morning, as the results from the pathology report Dr. B sent out for a second opinion still haven't come back. That means I'm still in limbo. I asked the nurse to have Dr. B call me with whatever news he DID have.

When I called my parents to let them know the news, they also told me my Grandpa Finfrock passed away yesterday. I wasn't very close to him, or to my dad's side of the family in general. I won't feel his loss as much as I felt the loss of Grandpa Sayers last November. But it still hurts... and worst of all, I knew it was one more thing causing my dad grief.

God... enough. When is this shit going to end?

Well, it hasn't ended... but about an hour later, I got a call from Dr. B.

OK. I just got off the phone with my oncologist, Dr. Bhogaraju (bo-gah-RAH-zhu) and he filled me in on what's going on. There's more GOOD news than bad.

But, there's some bad. While he's waiting for the Indiana University results to come back, he had Trinity take a closer look at the pathology reports, too. Upon closer observation, they found 1% of the tumor was embryonal carcinoma (not sure if that first part is 100% correct) -- a NON-seminoma form of cancer. That's what I was hoping to avoid, as it's not treatable with radiation.

Here's the good news, though. At this writing, I AM OFFICIALLY COMPLETELY FREE OF CANCER. My chest scan from last week came back normal, as did my bloodwork (I'm officially not pregnant.) My chances of remaining like this forever are 75%. Not as great as before (85 percent), but still a bet I'd take in Vegas (essentially, my odds of developing cancer again are the same as any of us have of developing it in the first place. See your doctors regularly, guys.)

Moreover... the preferred course now is observation. I've been freaking out about the possibility of a non-sem diagnosis because the treatment methods are a) chemo and b) surgery to remove the lymph nodes. Per Dr. B, neither is called for in this case. If something does show up again during the course of observation (belly CT scans & bloodwork, which will start out in one-month intervals and gradually lengthen as time goes on) then, depending on what shows up, chemo is usually the response... although surgery may be required then, too.

Still... for the first time since January 24... I'm breathing a sigh of relief today, and I don't think I'm tempting fate by doing so.

***

And that's where I am now. This isn't over. There is a 1-in-4 chance this will come back, someday, and I'll then have to undergo chemo (that's more likely at this point than the surgical option.)

But for now... I'm healthy. And there's a 3-in-4 chance I might never have to go through this again, either. The rest of my life will be a numbers game, though. The threat never really does go away... I'm only considered "cured" if I go 10 years without anything else developing.

Here's the thing, though. Even if it does come back, my chances of ultimately being cured completely are still absurdly high -- close to 98 percent. If you have to get cancer, TC is the "best" kind to get. 

So... we'll see how this all plays out. There isn't anything else I can do. But really, as far as I know I'm cured, and I intend to live my life from this point on with that as resolute fact... praying every minute.

Pray For Us Who Fly, Part One

I've resisted writing about this for awhile now. Partly out of fear, somewhat out of embarrassment but, most of all, out of uncertainty of how all of this will ultimately turn out. Well, this morning I received most of the news I've been waiting to hear... and things look good. So, with that, I feel I'm ready to share the following with all my friends, and the whole entire blogosphere. I'll warn you now... the following is very personal. I wouldn't share it, though, if I didn't feel completely comfortable in doing so.

The morning of Tuesday, December 6, 2005, was to be more or less like any other day. It found me slaving away at the computer for Aero-News, while also planning for a trip up to Omaha, NE for my grandfather's funeral mass; Mom was flying into Dallas the next day, and we were leaving for Omaha on the 8th. As I took my shower that day, though, I first noticed something was wrong - at least, unusual - with a certain area of my anatomy.

I was concerned, but - given all that was going on - I rationalized it. I probably hurt it, somehow... probably when I got on my new bike for the first time the night before.

After all, I'd done the self-checks... not sure the last time I'd done it, but I was sure it had been pretty recent... and come to think of it, I had felt a twinge 'down there ' when I'd sat on the bicycle seat for the first time. So, that was probably it.

That thought carried me up to Omaha and back, but  I saw my doctor the Thursday after I returned. To my relief, he didn't seem all that concerned, either. "Looks like a hydrocele," he said, caused by trauma of some kind. After hearing my bike story, he agreed that probably did it.

Still, he advised me to keep an eye on it ("sometimes, these don't go down for months") and he gave me the name and number of a urologist and told me to give him a call after the new year, in case it hadn't started going down. By the time the middle of January rolled around, it still hadn't gone down, and it was becoming uncomfortable.  Although I otherwise felt fine, I broke down and scheduled an appointment with the urologist after realizing I had to sit differently at the table while dining with friends. The doctor I'd been referred to wasn't in, but another one was.

I went to that doctor the next day, a Friday. She (the source of some initial embarrassment) agreed with the assessment my primary care doctor had given me: a hydrocele, albeit a big one. Still, Dr. West wanted me to have it ultrasounded, "just in case" it was something other than it was presenting as.

After heading back to ABQ for a second time in three weeks -- this time, I was able to stay longer than 48 hours -- I had the ultrasound on Tuesday, January 24, at Trinity Medical Center in Carrollton. It was only a short drive from home. I was fully expecting the results to be fine... although my, the test was taking longer than I thought it would. To keep calm I mentally flew the pattern at TKI several times.

Those thoughts were shattered when the radiologist (a beautiful blonde... a shame this wasn't all under better circumstances) brought a doctor in. "There's no pain?" she asked during the examination as the doctor watched the screen.

"Well, that feels strange," I replied in nervous good humor, "but no, it doesn't hurt."

The doctor sighed as the blonde replaced the scanner. "Well..." he began. It was then I braced for the worst, which came two seconds later.

"It's NOT a hydrocele. It's one of two things: an infection, except if it were that, you'd be in pain. So that leaves a growth. A tumor. And, those are almost always malignant."

"Okay," I said quickly. I had heard the words, if not their precise meaning just yet. "So it has to be removed."

"Yes. But fertility isn't as affected as you might think," he said, his tone brightening somewhat.

He said some more things, offered encouraging words ("this has an EXCELLENT survival rate") and left as I got dressed. I walked out of the radiology department in a daze.

I had walked into the hospital at 9:30 that morning in good spirits, mentally writing the rundown for the day and thinking I'd only sprained a part of my body "meant to be treated nicely," in the words of Chandler Bing on "Friends." I had even been joking about it, as such, days before.

Exactly one hour later, I walked out with the diagnosis of testicular cancer.

Read Part Two here

Finally...

It only took two trips, about 1900 miles of driving, around $80 out of pocket (not including the cost of Cable One highspeed internet access) and untold levels of grief... but I'm now, finally, in New Mexico. Again. For the second time in three weeks.

God willing, this trip will last a little longer than the last one, which found me hightailing it back to DAL so I could work. Seems Rio Rancho's promised "highspeed" wireless internet access didn't live up to the hype, and I had no way to do my weekly duties with ANN while in NM with only dial-up access. This time around, though, the 'rents have real HS access, and it looks like I'll be able to work... while also making some attempt to relax and, you know, have a vacation.

What a concept... so far, though, I haven't had much of a chance to do anything but work, as there's been a LOT of news out there in the Aero-world. But it's still great to be home.

Things I've learned so far:

1. Satellite radio is a godsend on long road trips, especially XM 150 (Comedy). And I've really come to enjoy Warren Zevon music.
2. This trip marks the third time I've gassed up in Childress, TX instead of continuing north another 30 miles to fill up in Memphis -- where gas is priced at Amarillo-levels, about 20 cents cheaper than prices closer to the Big D.
3. The Albuquerque Sunport has canned its fantastic viewing area, off the approach end to Runways 8 and 12, for two smaller locations -- neither of provides nearly as good a view of the entire airport. Nuts. For the record, it looks like Eclipse Aviation's Final Assembly Integration building, the Sunport 3 facility that is currently under construction, is displacing both the old viewing area and the B-1900 boneyard that was once along Taxiway Echo.
4. It took less than 20 miles -- less than the mileage from the NM-TX border to Tucumcari -- for me to recall my old statement that I love New Mexico's scenery... but truly can't stand most of the rest of it. A Ford F-150 travelling 15 mph slower than the speed limit in the left lane of I-40, barely passing two semis up a steep hill, had a lot to do with recalling the memory.

Oh well... it could be worse, and it's great to see family and friends again. For all its faults (the NM Chamber of Commece will never have me as an employee) the state IS home... and the Sandias are gorgeous at sunset.

Is that enough?

My Grandpa

It's taken this long for me to be able to write about it... my grandfather died Monday morning, at 4:00 am, after a very protracted battle with the ruthless scourge that is Alzheimers.

Harry Sayers would have been the first one to tell you that he wasn't a great man. He had greatness thrust upon him a couple of times, along with wealth and power. In his later years, he was very candid about why the lost those things, time and again. He drank it away the first time, although he was able to stop in the early 80s after being literally scared into it -- his doctor had told him, quite candidly, that the next time he came into his hospital because of something he'd done while drunk... the doctor wouldn't do a thing to save him. The world needs more of that, I think.

My grandpa was also the type of guy who, when his 11 year-old grandson asked him four years later why he had ever drunk so much that he threw away a lucrative car dealership, and had almost ruined his marriage over it ... he told me. I'll never forget that conversation... it was probably one of my first Defining Moments, right up there with my first girlfriend, Catherine, and learning to fly.

Money came and went for my Grandpa. When he had it, he spent it lavishly -- he'd owned over 30 Cadillacs, after all. He also bought my aunt a new car -- that I naively believed to be my own, when he told me to go downstairs and look in the garage, there was a surprise down there. I was sixteen, and I thought the teal Saturn was mine. I was crushed when he told me it was Peggy's... maybe it was the lingering effects that alcoholism had on his mental state, or perhaps it was just his personality... but I don't think he ever did understand why I was so upset.

I got over it, though (I got a sort-of revenge, several years later, when I bought my own Saturn... a nicer one than Peg's) and I'm proud to say I helped him pick out what would be his last Cadillac... a 1992 Sedan deVille, two-tone brown with a vinyl roof. "Which one of these do you think I picked out?" he asked me on the showroom floor of Classic Cadillac. I went right to it... and he then told the salesman that any flaws I found on the car, the dealership was going to fix. They did.

Familial relationships were strained several times. He sometimes did and said things that were unconscionable, so hurtful that you staggered back as though you'd been hit by a baseball bat. He eventually came around, though, and soon things would be back to normal. No one in my family ever forgets anything... but we do chose to forgive, for the simple joy and need and love of being together as a family.

Come to think of it, that would also become a defining trait in my life.

Grandpa's health began to fail long ago. He suffered frequent asthma attacks, and the ambulance made semi-regular trips to my grandparents' duplex on Grover Street. This was before dementia and Alzheimers... I don't remember when, exactly, he was diagnosed with it. Probably around 2000... it seems both like he'd always had it, and that he just got it yesterday.

He got worse when my grandparents lost their little poodle, Clancy, a few years ago. He had been my grandfather's best buddy.

Being in Albuquerque, and later Dallas, I didn't see very much of my grandpa. In fact... my God... the last time I saw him was Christmas of 1998, when my mom and I drove up to Omaha.

How did I let the last seven years go by without seeing him? How could you do that, Rob?

Until he was placed in a nursing home earlier this year, we did speak every week. I remember one of the last times I talked to him: standing outside the breakroom at American Gypsum, on my cellphone. He had just been admitted to the home. He didn't understand why.

"When I get out of here, I'm going to get the money together to pay for your flying lessons," he told me. "You'll have to fly up here, fly over the house and wave to me."

Okay, Grandpa, I told him.

This past Monday morning, I woke up with a start in my bed in Dallas at 4 am. I had heard a prop plane fly very low overhead. I got up and looked out the window, but couldn't see any lights. I grabbed my NavCom and tuned it to the ADS tower frequency. Nothing.

A minute later, again I heard the plane. It sounded even lower now. Once more I went to the window. Nothing, nor was there any chatter on Addison's CTAF.

I fell back asleep, only to wake up at 6 am. I had kept the NavCom on, and the controller announcing on frequency the tower was resuming operations is what woke me up. I got up, turned on the coffeemaker, and began the day for Aero-News. It felt good to get a headstart on the day.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. I knew why when I saw the phone number.

Grandpa, I'm happy you're finally in a better place. You weren't living your life for the last few years, just a shell of it.

I'm so very sorry I didn't call more, and wish I would have hugged you more often when I had the chance.

And I'm sorry I didn't see you waving Monday morning... but it was dark outside, and you were flying too fast for me to see.

Love, Robbie