Category Archives: Cancer

Feds crushing small business

This time they’re going after the boutique cigar business, all in the dubious name of public health.

“If you are still buying the anti-smoking crusaders’ propaganda that second-hand smoke is killing many thousands of people every year just ask them to point to a single study that tells you what level of exposure to second hand smoke is dangerous. They can’t tell you because it has never been measured in any of the so called ‘scientific studies’ which for the most part are simply surveys of people who have lung cancer and can remember being exposed to second hand smoke at some point in their life. It’s not science, it’s propaganda.”

The ruling class will always be able to find premium cigars. They just don’t want it to be easy for you.

Via Self Reliance Central.

Feds further restrict opioids

Tar and feathers are too good for these big government motherfuckers. Who are, quite simply, always on the lookout for new ways to justify their fat salaries and skinny efforts. While the pols are too busy thieving to help. Rope. Lamp post.

“You can bet that if the powers that be were in intractable pain they would figure out a way to get the opioids. I have a mother-in-law with spinal stenosis who was in so much pain last week that she was crying vigorously. She’s a stoic who has hardly ever cried in her entire life, but the pain was unbearable. We were able to get her fentanyl patches and the pain is reduced. However, the doctors are limited in what they can give her and it is quite scary.” —veryskeptic

“What’s it like for the kids when your mom is suffering excruciating pain because the doctor’s afraid to prescribe her enough medication to deal with the pain caused by cancer? When it seems to take an act of Congress to get a prescription for synthetic THC to deal with nausea brought on by the anti-cancer medication? When your mother starves to death because she can’t eat for the nausea and pain? And you have to watch her suffer and die because some bureaucrat was worried she might become addicted.” —Rob Crawford

Mrs. Charm was also a stoic and she was also in bad pain from her lymphoma cancer but in her case it was more a stubborn refusal to buck bad medical advice than government interference. When she finally did agree to take the pills and later the injections she died in relative peace.

My grandfather, however, died in excruciating pain because his spinal cancer occurred at a time (1935) when the bureaucrats were just starting to restrict the opioids that had, throughout his life, been available without a prescription.

Big government is not your friend. Whatever lying dipshits like Obama and Clinton say.

Via Instapundit.

Amazon’s safe space

Hadn’t been back to view my Amazon reviews for months. Last review was on a good cat scratcher for Senor Gato. Before that, though, it was September 14, 2015, about the time Mrs. Charms’ cancer treatments were becoming seriously ineffective.

In checking the old ones out before doing a new one of Arkwright, a new Allen Steele scifi goodie, I discover Amazon has a “safe space,” a filter to automatically hide reviews of “sensitive products”—defined as anything erotic or controversial that might mean embarrassment for a reader of the reviews.

Concern for the precious little snowflake generation, in other words, readily noticeable on any college campus near you, has now come to the world’s largest retailer. Ugh.

Adios, Ziggy Street

The city government played along for a while. Then they got serious.

Yesterday they removed the David Bowie street sign that Ziggy Stardust fans had got up in place of Bowie Street, an apparent reference to slave dealer and Alamo icon James Bowie, though the history on the original sign is unclear.

The change was less about slavery than about the rocker who finally fell to earth the other day, dead at 69 from cancer, the great destroyer.

Nice try, Ziggy fans. Keep pushing the formal petition. You never know, what with the slavery angle in a city as politically correct as Austin, you just might succeed. After all, Ziggy already has a whole constellation to himself.


Pumpkin’s illness

Back in the mid-1980s, I was assigned to cover the local AIDS epidemic. I got used to reading, talking and writing about HIV and its impact on people, usually gay men, but sometimes straight men and women. I got to know a few of them well, and went to their funerals.

Thursday, taking our new furry friend Pumpkin/Garfield to the vet for a checkup, I learned that he has Feline Immunodeficiency Virus, the cat version of HIV. It cannot infect humans and is spread between cats primarily by bites. According to Wikipedia, it is estimated to have thus far stricken a mere 4.4 percent of the cats in the world. According to some web sites on cats, Senor Gato has a maximum of five years to live.

While Mr. Boy and I already were working on keeping our new companion indoors, for our sake as well as his own, we now must do it, according to the vet, to keep him from spreading the disease to other cats in the neighborhood.  And for his own protection since a common bacterial or viral infection that a healthy cat might fight off quickly could kill one, like him, with a damaged immune system. His own litter box could kill him if it isn’t kept clean.

Ironic, to be sure. Having recently lost Mrs. Charm to advanced cancer we have now returned to caring for the dying. And, eventually, to grieving the loss of another loved one. It seems to be the way of our world.

Ignacio, you vulture

The vultures are starting to swarm ten weeks after Mrs. Charm’s passing from advanced cancer. Gathering their moldering black wings about them, they peruse the newspaper obituaries looking for grief-befogged suckers.

Their subsequent letters, like a recent one from a fellow Central Texan named Ignacio, start off with the usual meaningless condolences. Then they segue into a promise of quick cash for the house should a survivor decide to sell. At an extremely low-ball offer, no doubt.

Trouble is, Ignacio, you got the address correct to send the letter to but you got the address of the house you’re proposing to buy wrong.

Not sure how you did that. Unless, in addition to being a vulture, you’re also a moron.

A gift of grace

When Mrs. Charm was still with us, in the last few days of her life, a big orange cat started hanging out on the patio outside our bedroom where she was going through what the hospice nurses called “active dying” from her spreading cancer.

The dying had a smell. It reminded me of burnt embers, like a camp fire that was going out. A nurse said she’d never thought of that similarity. I had seen animals attracted to human death before so I wasn’t particularly surprised at the cat’s presence.

But it stayed, spending the next several weeks sleeping away the mornings in a chair on the patio, presumably after a hard night of hunting squirrels. Haven’t seen a squirrel in the Back Forty in a long time, so ginger is a good ‘un.

I started feeding the cat at the suggestion of Mr. Goon, my cat-loving friend in Israel. Dry cat food. Leaving a bowl of water beside it. Then, last week, animal lover that I am not, I finally broke down and invited Mr. Cat into the house.

He (or she, we haven’t determined yet) explored every room. Including Mr. B’s where he was still asleep after a late night of Xboxing. The only thing the cat seemed interested in was Mrs. C’s dressing table. It jumped up on the bench, glanced in the big mirror, turned around and hopped down. I let it out and it wandered off and I forgot about it.

Saturday morning the cat was back, as usual. After a little consideration, I asked Mr. B. what he thought about the idea of encouraging it to stay. He was willing to give it a try. I invited the cat in again. Another exploration ensued but, this time, the cat curled up on the rug in the family room and went to sleep. Mr. B. calls it Garfield ’cause it looks like the cartoon cat

Saturday night I bought a litter box, which seemed to please the cat. Its inspection of the box and its litter prompted a lengthy session of ankle rubbing. Then I took pictures of the cat with the phone and sent them to various people, including Mr. Goon. Obviously not an alley cat, he replied, probably an abandoned house cat. Others were pleased at the idea of us having a new pet after our big loss.

Then Mrs. C’s best friend, who had known her since high school, replied with “Wow, the first thing I said when I saw this pic is ‘Pumpkin!’ [Mrs. C.] had a cat like this one long ago.”

I asked Mr. Cat if his name was Pumpkin. Of course I did. He glanced at me. When I asked again, he meowed. I’ll take that for something close to affirmation. I thanked him for coming. And, hopefully, staying.

He’s a hunter, so I expect him (or her) to stay out nights. But, these days, I’m usually up at dawn, anyway, so I’ll be able to let him back in where he can sleep it off in comfort and security. And keep us happier than we’ve been in a while, with our new gift of grace.