In Which Jo Twiddles Her Thumbs A Bit.

When a dear, dear old friend decides to grow a moustache as part of a fundraising drive for cancer research, it's best to support him.

Even if the moustache is cringe-worthy.

Like, *really* cringe-worthy.

I would rather see Abilene Rob with a 70's Pornstache (which he once threatened to grow, God help us all) than see my beloved Brother In Beer sporting facial fur again. The first would be temporarily traumatic. The second might scar me for life.

Some guys look distinguished with beards. Some guys look kinda classy with a moustache or a soul patch. BiB looks like he's come down the mountain for his annual hardtack-buying spree and bath.

Darling man, I will send you all the money you want, as long as you promise to shave.

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Speaking of money, an announcement:

The readers of Head Nurse have made it possible for a person from the Oral Cancer Foundation's Forums to get a Therabite that they could not afford to buy themselves.

You guys really have no idea how big a deal this is.

Trismus, or a restriction in jaw movement, affects the majority of people who undergo treatment for oral cancer. The percentages range from 54%, for those folks who merely have surgery that dislocates or hyperextends the jaw (as mine did) to 100%, for those folks who have to have radiation of the face and neck.

"Restriction of jaw movement" doesn't really cover it. My trismus is minor: I have an unforced mouth opening of about 21 millimeters (just about an inch) prior to stretching. Any opening more than that requires that I stretch, and that involves pain. Sometimes I have jaw spasms so severe that I can't sleep. Sometimes my jaw locks up as I'm eating, and I can't close my mouth for a second.

But I am LUCKY. There are people on the forums who can't open their mouths more than seven millimeters. Seven. I think there might be somebody there who can't even fit one tongue depressor in her mouth, and I know there's a person whose *largest* jaw opening is about what mine is prior to stretching.

Think of what being able to open your mouth less than half an inch would mean.

Think of what not being able to open your mouth at all would mean. You can't eat; you lose weight even with supplemental feedings. Talking becomes difficult; oral hygiene is impossible.

A Therabite, which allows a person to stretch and exercise their jaw in a measurable, comfortable way, can literally mean the difference between being able to talk, eat, and take care of your own teeth and...not.

I added up the money last night that was in the PayPal account and cried. All I'm waiting for now is to hear back from the two people I've emailed, to see if they still need the device.

You guys. You guys. What you have done is huge. You have made such a difference for somebody, and once they're done with the Therabite, they'll pass it on to somebody else who needs it, and what you did will keep going.

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In other news, I have to figure out how to catproof a Christmas tree. That should be interesting.

Perhaps hang it from the ceiling?

It's been a bugger-all kind of day.

Which, in itself, is a milestone.

I had two doctor's appointments scheduled today. Neither one of them was earth-shatteringly important--one was to tweak the obturator, the other a recheck for a minor, now healed, problem. I cancelled 'em both, as I didn't feel like driving halfway into Bigton and then hours and hours to Yeehawville. I'll reschedule 'em for later, if I don't rebend the obturator wires myself. I didn't sleep well last night and didn't feel much like exerting myself on the highway.

Attila the Trainer came over, and I had a nice little baby workout for an hour. Eight-pound bicep curls? Sure thing. Twenty curls on a balance ball that left me sweating and panting? You bet. Five minutes of walking--dear Heaven--at 3.5 miles per hour and I'm beat? Bring it on.

Then I had lunch and a glass of wine and a long, luxurious nap. I woke up a couple of times and drowsily petted kitty-bellies, then went outside and rubbed Max-belly, then wandered around the back yard taking measurements of various things. Then I changed my sheets.

You will note that absolutely nothing of any apparent importance happened today. I did not break any new endurance records, clean ANY of the things, stay up longer than usual, or eat any new foods. In fact, I laid around most of the day like a lump and spoiled both myself and my animals. I got out in the sun for a while and made some tasty spinach dip. That was really it.

Which, as I said above, is a milestone. Because--and this is something that I just figured out--after a Nasty Diagnosis and a Near Miss Of Something Much Worse, you tend to overschedule things. You want to make every second of every day count, and do something measurably different or better than the day before, every day. It becomes an obsession and then a habit.

Life sucks if you do that, unless you're one of those motivational authors who makes his living publishing books with lots of exclamation points in them. Sometimes kitty bellies are as important as dragging ass up a highway, or scrubbing the floor, or finishing the Christmas shopping.

Attack (but not really) of the Old Old

"Old-Old" is a semi-official term in scientific circles used to describe people over the age of 90 (though that varies). I've met two people who'd qualify as old-old this week, which is kind of unusual in this field. I mean, generally speaking, if you're going to have a stroke, you're not going to be 95. You're gonna be 50, and something is going to kill you before you hit 95.

But lo! What came in t'other day but a 95-year-old? A sharp, active 95-year-old who (aside from a couple of minor, controllable problems) was about 60 in physical terms? That same day I started an IV on a--get this--one hundred and TWO year old who'd just had a knee scope. I had to chase that patient down in the hallway to get them back to the room so I could put the IV in.

When people over 90--and over 100--start showing up in your hospital's physical rehabilitation unit, you know there are some good genetics going on.

The 95-year-old's kids and grandkids and great-grandkids all showed up over the course of a few days, so I got to meet them. The son and daughter, both in their mid-seventies, looked easily twenty years younger (as did the parent). The grandkids, who were my age, looked 30. The great-grandkids were kids, so they didn't look any younger than they were.

It was like being faced with Lazarus Long and his family, right down to the red hair.

It was Longian in another way, too. Let's face it: if you make it past about 80 without any major health problems, you're running pretty much on genetics. Diet and exercise and not smoking and not playing with flaming chainsaws will do a lot to make your life up to about 75 healthy and active, but after that? Stuff starts to wear out. How fast it wears out and what exactly goes first is largely dependent on your DNA.

Good DNA will enable you to live as long as you're going to live with a minimum of health problems. Good *lifestyle*, on the other hand, will protect you from chronic diseases that would make your life hellish for thirty years before you died. What everybody wants is a life that's active up until the end, then a fast decline without torture.

If I were in a philosophical mood, I could turn this into a meditation about how one spends one's life, and how to make 40 years seem like 90. I'm not feeling philosophical.

It was just really freaking cool to meet two people who remembered not only the second World War, but the coming of electricity, piped water, paved roads, and telephones to their neighborhood.

These are the things you appreciate.

I have an absolutely redonkulous cat.

His name is Notamus. Observe:

Obviously redonk.

Notamus likes to be cuddled. When I'm sitting at this desk, watching Jeremy Brett (rest in peace!) as Sherlock Holmes, he leaps into my lap and proceeds to act as though he's Boneless Cat. His head lollygags over one of my legs, his hind legs stretch waaaay out, and he wants belly rubs.

His brother is not quite as redonk. Flashes will have none of that boneless stuff; instead, he likes to climb up my front and down my back. Cute, if it's a half-pound kitten doing it. Not so cute when it's an eight-pound cat.

Very serious.

I love my cats. They kept me from going over the hairy edge when I was stuck at home.

I also love pancakes. They're easy to eat, they're a good source of quick energy, and made with sour cream, so delicate they nearly float off the plate.

I love my dog. Duh. If there's a Zen master in existence right now, it's him.

No caption can do him justice.

I love the friends and family that I've got that have kept me from climbing the walls, and told me that I sound great, and generally been cheerleaders for me.

I love that I have a job where nobody really notices if I sound like a cross between Daffy Duck and Bridey Murphy when I get tired.

I'm happy that it's going to rain tonight and be cold and rainy tomorrow, and that I have a fridge full of Thanksgiving food that I *like*, including peach ice cream, and a nearly-full bottle of Dalwhinnie, and plenty of Jeremy Brett on Netflix, and a copy of "Young Frankenstein" that is just waiting for me to watch it.

I may only have one third of a mouth left, but I'm thankful with all of it. I hope your Thanksgiving has half as many things to be grateful for as mine does.

I have a lovely pair of shoes.

They're from Boden. They're plimsolls (in Boden-speak; we'd call 'em sneakers or Keds) made of cowhide. They're black with white dalmatian-type spots on them, and green satin trim.

I love them.

So, apparently, does Flashes. I heard growling and munching and snarling in the office and walked in to find him locked in Combat To The DEATH with one of the shoes.

I got it away from him. It is unharmed. He has reverted to killing his brother.

Why are my cats simultaneously so sweet and so weird?