Memorial Service

A memorial service for
John Buzbee will be held on
Wednesday, September 21st
at 10:00 AM.

Woodend Sanctuary
Audubon Naturalist Society
8940 Jones Mill Road
Chevy Chase, MD 20815

In lieu of flowers the family requests donations in the name of John Buzbee to your preferred cancer research organization or the American Cancer Society.

Memories... flying kites in the field behind your house...

There are a lot of reasons to keep a blog like this. It's therapeutic. It's an attempt to explain to the next generation the odd cocktail that makes up a personality. It's s way to preserve small bits of family history, and even the odd bit of history writ large, for better or worse. And it kicks off a lot of old stories. A few of the best of those, courtesy of Mike Flannagan:

The best darn tree house ever.

Memories

Flying kites in the field behind your house.   The parachute!

Nights looking at the stars on the tennis court.

Walking through the underground sewer system.

Playing in the creek.

Baseball with a tennis ball in our backyard.

Skateboarding down HH.  Wasn't that what we called that hill where we would do the hookups?

Your brothers, my brothers.

Skateboarding to Town Square Hair to ask for our sponsorship.

The fort in your attic. 

Kilroy

The Buzbee Annual Tennis tournament.

The best darn tree houses ever.

Our dogs!

The Gruntly Team!

Riding bikes to Ridgeview Lake to fish.

Pachinko, Monopoly, chess

Running over to your house to see you. I would run as fast as I could and jump over two bushes at the Mathews' house every time.

Olympics in LA.

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Brother Jim notes that this whole discussion of "Time to call Hospice," "That sucks," "Well, on the bright side, Strasburg's ulnar collateral ligament is intact" (at least according to one of those pesky MRIs) is getting a little surreal. Hard to argue with that.

Monty Python's Life of Brian. "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life!"

I can only say that my primary frame of reference for end-of-life issues is Monty Python (despite actual reading of somewhat more contemplative literature on the subject) while my primary frame of reference for life issues is baseball (in addition of course to the love and support of family and friends and the goodness of humanity and all that) so where are you going to go?

Regardless, it was clear when Sally and I watched Strasburg slink off the mound on Wednesday night, muttering into his glove, that I was not the only guy in Washington preoccupied by health issues this week. Despite the circumstances, we owe the Nats organization huge thanks for accommodating my mobility issues with elevators, cheerful young men pushing wheel-chairs, and a swap of our field-level seats for accessible club-level chairs that looked directly over Strasburg's sad march down to the dugout after only 42 pitches. 

Wasn't much of a game, either, at least at first -- an hour-long rain delay followed by some anemic baseball until a give-and-take in late innings and ultimately a Ramos' walk-off single in the 11th, when we were long in bed. And by that time, I imagine Strasburg was on the phone to his family, keeping things in perspective. A $175 million, seven-year contract extension will help with that as well.

But this was supposed to be his season, and it sure looked that way early on. The news of his contract extension in May was cause for great rejoicing in Washington, and after his stint on the disabled list, those 42 pitches -- well, 40 pitches, number 41 looked tragically hinky -- in August seemed a road map to the World Series. He is certainly allowed a grimace.

We shall forgive Stephen Strasburg if he doesn't choose this moment to look on the bright side of life. 

And as for the reaction of F.P. Santangelo, Nats color guy extraordinaire, well what do you hire color guys for? "So this is about the worst possible thing that could happen."

Yes and no. For another perspective on that, there's Falluja and Tikrit, and Orlando, and yes, the more immediate issue in our household of how I'm doing. 

Could be better, no doubt, but I'm in good hands.

Fenway

When Sally and I went up to Boston and got some bad news on my clinical trial, we had arrived on Sunday afternoon for the Monday appointments, and in the interim we had plans to catch the Royals against the Sox that night.  At least some stars were aligning properly.

We had made a few pilgrimages to Wrigley. but never to Fenway, and now both the Royals and Sox are gunning hard for the post-season. Of course we would proudly represent Kansas City -- we brought along our World Champion gear, one of us a little more stylish than the other -- but we didn't know quite how the local fan base would receive us. On our first trip to Boston 25 years ago, after driving cross-country with Kansas tags, as Sally tried to navigate the cow-trail streets downtown a local driver helpfully suggested to us "Dorothy, go back to Kansas!"

That is apparently a funny joke to someone who lives in Boston. They are a tough crowd, even to their own. Ted Williams was not only the greatest hitter in the history of baseball, he was also a Korean War hero who raised money for children's cancer treatments. But the fans gave him a hard time because he was not properly deferential to the fans. (Nats fans, like Royals fans, are consistently polite; we stand and cheer even for the guys we don't like.)

So Sally and I approached the park warily, as we had in Philly earlier in the year, and found that in fact our seats behind home plate were within spilled beer range of the standing-room area where hooligans could congregate pre-riot.

Fortunately we had some serious protection. Sitting behind us was an 81-year-old grandmother from Connecticut (which is apparently the Yankees and Red Sox Alsace-Lorraine) who said she had been coming to Fenway once a year since 2004 just to see David Ortiz hit a home run, and she had not seen one yet. She didn't care who we cheered for, she said, as long as we didn't cheer against Papi. We put our hands to our hearts and assured her that we had no intention of cheering against Papi, in Fenway, at the end of his valedictory season. There were those ruffians to consider.

Photo by Connecticut Grandma.

The Royals didn't show the Sox such respect, however. They went ahead in the second with a Salvador Perez solo home run that bounced off something in left field; that big green wall is quite disorienting. Then, bottom of the fourth, Royals up 2-0. Big Papi goes deep. The stadium erupted, the grandmother erupted, and we gave her enthusiastic and sincere high-fives. She told us it was now OK for the Royals to win and pulled out her phone to call the extended family.

The Sox moved ahead in the fifth 4-2, generating enough enthusiasm to rally a few of those hooligans behind us. One particularly well lubricated young man waited for the stadium to settle down then shouted, over and over, "Let's Go Red Sox," while pounding the standing-room rail. A few scattered fans joined in, then settled down, then after a pause, he resumed. We huddled behind Grandma.

His cheers of sorts continued even past the top of the sixth, when the Royals put the game away with all of 8 runs. That gave us a chance for some contemplation of the park, which struck me as claustrophobic as much as historic.

Can't they just knock down that outfield wall and start over?

Royals stadium -- now The K -- was designed to nestle into the open expanses of the Blue Valley in suburban Kansas City. There was, and still is, nothing much there but the intersection of two cross-country interstates, leaving plenty of space for tailgating as well as room for Amos Otis, or Lorenzo Cain, to roam in the outfield. It is a wide-open ballpark for a team of the West that likes to run.

Fenway seems to have been designed by guys in tri-cornered hats, its dimensions constrained by the effective range of the muskets of the local militia, or perhaps the grazing rights of the Royal Governor's Sheep. While acknowledging Fenway's history and tradition and all that, and genuflecting to Ted Williams as required, to me the Green Monster in Left Field looked like a big construction wall they forgot to remove. Then there's this thing in Center Field where they failed to line up the bullpen with the bleachers -- the architect having spent too much time in the local tavern debating the Articles of Confederation -- leaving an odd angle more appropriate for miniature golf than baseball. And Right Field -- Right Field just keeps on going, out into the neighborhood, backing up apparently into an alley behind that local tavern, or crossing the border into the next little state up the coast. Maine?

Who knows. Royals, 10-4.

Hospice

Stand Up To Cancer ran a lively commercial between innings recently that featured the Springsteen song "No Surrender," a great tune and appropriate soundtrack for all the martial metaphors about cancer treatment. It's Jersey Churchillian: "No retreat, baby, no surrender."

In that context, a call to Hospice has the whiff of Vichy, while cancer evokes the Blitz. Cancer has an ability to adapt and overcome that I have to admire, particularly because I have produced it. I have created a cell that got a wrong steer from some bad genes and now the thing just can't stop expanding. Perhaps because I have to own it, the martial metaphors don't seem right to me. Rather the disease seems like a joyous teen who discovers an unhindered ability to grow and unbounded fields in which to wreak teenage havoc, realizing only when the liver is shutting down and the lungs are shot "Oh God, what have I done?"

So that's when it's time to call Hospice. Sally and I were in Boston on Monday for a CT scan to see whether the experimental drugs in my sixth clinical trial would curtail the spread of the disease. The answer is sadly not, the docs said -- the scan revealed the cancer growing rapidly. Now, after five years of trying everything at cancer centers around the country, I am out of options.

Hospice is not a surrender worthy of Marshal Petain. While the Hospice people do not treat the disease, they do treat the symptoms, and I have enough aches and pains at the moment to get them started. In time -- how much time is, without doubt, a question of some interest -- they can haul a variety of medical equipment into our living room in hopes of keeping me out of the hospital.

How much time?  The docs won't say, because they actually don't know, but I've become significantly worse during the last few months and that downhill trend will continue, barring a fortunate strike of lightning. So I'm holding on to my high hopes for the World Series -- Nats are comfortably headed to the playoffs, Royals God love them are fighting to stay in contention. But I am not making any plans for Spring Training, and I'm buying black crepe paper for Sally to hang on our seats next season. Alas, I had just renewed our season tickets.

Seaplanes

I do not have a bucket list. That's not because I've done everything I would like to do -- that would be a long list for sure -- but really more of a fear of regrets. I do not want to be spending my final moments surrounded by family and friends, the hot oil lady done for the day, Mick Jagger wailing "Shine a Light" on the stereo, thinking "Damn, I never jumped out of an airplane" (n.b. I never jumped out of an airplane.)

Another problem with bucket lists is that I would add things faster than I could cross them off. For instance, if I had a bucket list, I would have just added "Ride in a seaplane." For the last few days, I've been watching seaplanes from the balcony of our short-term rental in Split, Croatia, a nice little city on the Dalmatian coast across the Adriatic from Italy. I had suggested we come to Croatia for a quick week away because I didn't feel like doing much but sitting, drinking coffee, and watching the water, the Mediterranean is the ideal place to do that, and Croatia is one of the few places in the Mediterranean region this summer where there are not -- and as far as I can tell, not likely to be -- headlines about things blowing up. Of course it's not the only safe -- as far as I can tell -- vacation destination in the region, but it is reasonably priced, relatively un-touristed, and has those other fabulous Mediterranean qualities: olive trees, arid breezes, Roman ruins, and in the corner market across from the cafe where the old guys are watching soccer, a palatable bottle of wine next to the Nutella.

Split also has ferries, and I do love ferries. Sally and I inagurated our Mediterranean ferry travels 25 years ago with an overnight from Brindisi, Italy, to Patras, Greece -- overnight because we were traveling cheap and wanted to save a night of accommodations. However, we sprung for interior seats, they smelled moldy, and I concluded that if you're traveling rough, it's best to sleep free on deck.

It's also best to know where you're going. Two weeks later we were on a ferry from Rhodes, Greece, to Haifa, Israel, and stopped for a day of touring in Limassol. That was great -- it's an interesting port to explore -- but as we wandered around, we didn't actually know what country we were in. There had been some sort of immigration procedure, but very cursory, and it was a little embarrassing to ask. We didn't recognize the flag, didn't recognize the currency, and couldn't tell any difference in the language. Yes, the possibilities are limited in the eastern Mediterranean, and we were being a little dumb about it. But we did eventually figure it out. (Cyprus). And we had a fine time doing so.

During a summer excursion to Jerusalem a few years later, when I was enjoying an academic schedule and Sally was sadly stuck at home working, I wanted to make a side trip to Beirut. Beirut is an easy drive from Jerusalem, except for, well, someday. At the time there was at least a relatively easy ferry connection. I took an overnight from Haifa, sleeping on deck with some reading for school and a bottle of well-intentioned Israeli wine.  I set the reading aside after dark to take in the stars and salt air -- and anyway, who can read by those little deck lights -- and found that the Israeli wine does eventually grow on you. In the morning we arrived at Limassol -- which is in Cyprus -- and I took a taxi across the southern coast of the island to Larnaka, where I caught a hovercraft to Beirut. Beirut had its problems then, somewhat less so now, but it has always been beautiful in the right light, none better than an approach from the water, skyline in the sun, mountains on the horizon.

So we always look for an excuse to find ferries, and in Split we found not only an ambitious ferry schedule to nearby islands and on to Italy, but also an apartment above the port where we could watch them all come and go.  One afternoon we took a trip across a short channel to the village of Supetar -- we can see the red roofs from our apartment -- and another day a day-trip to the once-beseiged, ever-touristed, Medieval walled city of Dubrovnik. En route to Dubrovnik we made quick stops in Brac, Hvar, Mljet, and some other captivating little port I've never heard of and can't pronounce. (While it's good to know what country you're in, inadvertently finding yourself in a place you've never heard of and can't pronounce is a true vacation success.)

The ferries well met our high expectations, but we did not expect the seaplanes. I associated such things with Alaska, or Indiana Jones, or perhaps Catalina Island, but I did not expect to see one buzzing through the harbor amid the big ferries, little cabin cruisers and sailboats beneath our balcony. Compared to a sailboat, I suppose it looked a little ungainly -- two big spinning props, two floats churning up a lot of wake -- and it is ironic that the boats appear more aerodynamic than the planes. But hey, I will attest, they fly. They take off and whirl away while the ferries I love are still trying to squeeze in another Toyota. I had assumed the first plane was an anomaly, property of some Russian oligarch with more of a sense of style than most, but then I saw one in the air, and then another about to land. It seems there is regularly scheduled seaplane service up and down the Dalmatian coast.

We did look into the scheduled service, but it didn't match our travel plans, and anyway I think it's good to leave a few mysteries in life outstanding, and to not worry too much about things undone. If required to have a bucket list, mine would have only a phrase or two.  It would have something to do with love and faith and the goodness of humanity, but honestly I don't have the words for it. Getting that one right is just the kind of thing that's worth pondering as I sit watching the seaplanes pull away from the blue-green water and wobble their way into the sky.

Doing time

My weeks are now divided into a unique calendar of cycles and days, the tempo of the clinical trial that determines when I take experimental drugs (every day), when I have blood tests (every week, for now at least), and when I have assorted other tests (eye exams, skin biopsies, EKGs).  Today is Cycle 1, Day 25.  On Cycle 3, Day 1 -- August 29, if the schedule holds -- I'll have a CT scan to see if any of this has done any good.

That's eight weeks between scans, 56 days.  My oncologist advises patients to live their lives in such two-month intervals. Personally I'm a little more ambitious -- and a little more focused on seven or so months of baseball, followed by that dark, cold season until the next Opening Day. Regardless of the interval, his point is to make the most of now, if not quite Live for Today, then perhaps Live for the Next Two Cycles, Then We'll See, or alternately, Just Hang On until Pitchers and Catchers Report.

However, such short-term thinking can be dangerous when you're 16. Tuesday I met, sort of, a young man whose failure to think long-term -- or at least, his failure to consider the proliferation of security cameras in the commercial area near our home -- earned him a 98-day interval in juvenile detention. Last spring, Emma was walking home from school after an afternoon meeting with her math teacher when a kid walked up to her and demanded her mobile phone. She said no, two more kids surrounded her, one flashed a knife and demanded her phone again. They robbed her of her phone and wallet while making the kind of threats that bring out all the crazy worst instincts in a father (although she handled it all with calm assurance and resolute courage.)

To the credit of Washington police, they quickly arrested the kid with the knife -- the young man, actually, at 16 -- and put together enough evidence to charge him with adult felonies in Emma's case as well as two other robberies that afternoon. While he was certainly menacing to his victims, he seems to have been new to all of this. He soon confessed and agreed to plead guilty in Emma's case if the other charges were dropped.

I discussed all this with the Assistant U.S. Attorney assigned to the case as he was considering what sentence to recommend to the judge. The charge had a maximum sentence of five years in prison, he said. I told him that no one would want to send this kid to prison for five years, but that this crime merited at least some jail time. He agreed.

Sentencing was set for Tuesday, one of a dozen various cases on the D.C. Superior Court docket that morning.  When I arrived, the prosecutor pulled me aside to say that he had reached an agreement with the defense lawyer on a sentence to recommend to the judge. He noted that the defendant had now served 98 days in juvenile detention and earned high marks, apparently for his academic work, leadership in defusing conflicts, and remorse for his crimes. Considering that, and his age, they agreed to recommend probation -- closely supervised, the prosecutor stressed. They also agreed to allow the kid to eventually expunge the conviction from his record if he stayed out of trouble so that the felony conviction would not follow him the rest of his life -- if he stayed out of trouble, the prosecutor stressed again.

I did not know how to respond. I could understand how all this sounded reasonable, while on the other hand, it could easily amount to a slap on the wrist for a violent felon in training. But I was in no position to be objective -- my dad instincts to demand Medieval justice overwhelmed any dispassionate evaluation. Emma, at least, was handling the whole thing calmly. At the prosecutor’s recommendation, she had written a clear-eyed and eloquent letter to the court describing the impact of the crime. I stuck around to read it to the judge.

The judge entered the courtroom, everyone stood, and the morning of justice began with much shuffling of paper and discussions of scheduling.  The judge was a grandmotherly type, if there were a stern grandmotherly type who sends people to prison. The clerk called each case and the defendants passed through for quick procedures such as arraignments – the formal reading of charges, most involving guns. The defendants were all in their 20s, all but two of a dozen were men, and half of those were coming from prison. Those entered the courtroom shackled at the wrist and wearing orange jumpsuits that mostly covered their tattoos.

When the clerk called our case, a U.S. Marshall walked in with a boy who looked about 12, discordantly shackled and wearing institutional gray. Standing at the defense table, he seemed to disappear beside his lawyer. My first impulse was to give him a hug and then maybe have a catch on the courthouse lawn. And then I remembered the circumstances and angry Dad returned.

The prosecutor called me up, I thanked the judge, and I read Emma’s statement, which noted the anxiety she continues to feel about the robbery but emphasized the loss of trust that such crimes cause the whole community.  When I turned to sit down, the judge asked me to wait and then asked the kid if he had anything to say in response. He looked back to me and said, very politely, something along the lines of “I'm sorry I scared your daughter.”  His defense lawyer then started to read a letter of apology from him, but the judge stopped her and said he should read it, so he did. It was a nice letter and he read it well. It seemed to be responding to Emma's statement, which the defense had apparently seen in advance, apologizing for the harm he had done to the community.

The judge then grilled him for 10 minutes about what he'd done and how he would destroy the rest of his life if he failed to live up to the requirements of his probation.  He was not particularly responsive, but he at least acknowledged her warnings, and she agreed to probation for two years.  If he does manage to stay out of trouble, his punishment will end up being those two years of someone looking over his shoulder, and those 98 days in detention. (And he may face a few consequences at home as well – he had a half-dozen relatives at the hearing looking severely concerned and displeased; I exchanged a quick and pleasant “good morning” with them on my way out of the court.)

On the medical calendar, his 98 days are a little less than two cycles, a significant chunk of time in my world. And if I remember right, that feels like a lot of time for a 16-year-old as well. Whether that time – and whatever guidance he gets at home, school and church – is enough to convince an impulsive kid to think ahead of the years to come and stay away from daily temptation, I have no idea, and at this point I’m not interested in consulting the statistics. A little uncertainty leaves open the door for a little hope, not to mention faith and trust – for him and his family, for me and my family, and for all of our friends and neighbors who just want to walk home in peace.

Acne

After a week of family time in Kansas, I was back up in Boston on Thursday for Cycle 1, Day 8 of a clinical trial of a new combination of drugs that will target, I hope, a particular genetic vulnerability in my cancer cells. That's the hope. All that the good people at Dana-Farber can promise is that my participation in the trial will expand the boundaries of scientific knowledge and perhaps help future generations of patients. And the downside? For fans of TV drug commercials, a few of the potential side effects:

Fatigue; Increased risk of infection, which may be serious or life threatening; Bleeding and bruising, which may be serious or life threatening and may require a blood transfusion; Tiredness and shortness of breath, which may require a blood transfusion; Abnormal heart rhythm or irregular heartbeat; Nausea; Vomiting; Diarrhea; Constipation; Joint pains; Fever; Dizziness; Hot flashes; Blurry vision; Hair loss; Headache; Bloody nose; Muscle spasm; Dry mouth; Abdominal discomfort; Indigestion; Flatulence; Pain; Chills; Shortness of breath; Cough; Runny nose; Mouth/throat pain; Back pain; Muscle weakness; Muscle pain; Itchy skin; Night sweats; Taste changes which may affect the way foods normally taste; Decreased sense of touch or sensation; Decreased weight; Difficulty sleeping; Heart palpitations; Jaundice; Acne; Confusion; Bowel perforation that could result in a serious, life-threatening infection and may require surgery.

The only change I've noted so far is acne, way down the list and fortunately above that bowel perforation. I don't know how one realizes that one has a perforated bowel, although I suspect that it's no mystery when it happens and that it's best it not happen far from an ambulance. But if I spend too much time dwelling on the potential side effects, I'd have less time to fret about the real one.

This is not of course my first bout with acne. I had it two years ago in another clinical trial, and before that, decades ago in the trial of 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18... It is different this time. The anti-acne drugs are better, and I do not need to worry about getting a prom date; my loving wife will accept my invitation for dinner and say nice things regardless of my complexion. Even so, acne is ugly, uncomfortable, and somehow manages to make me look both juvenile and old at the same time. I do have other disfigurements, most notably an array of scars and a hernia as a souvenir of two abdominal surgeries. But for those, at least. I can wear a shirt. Facial acne is kind of out there.

However, I shall not obsess about any of this. It is too easy to get caught up in worrying about all the things that might go wrong, or the superficial things that certainly will, and forget the big picture, what really matters in life now: the Nationals are 19 games over .500, 6 games up in the National League East, and playing some baseball that at its best looks like last year's Royals. And here let us spare a moment for the beat-up and scuffling Royals, who shined in the All Star Game and still have half a season to overcome the pretenders in the American League Central. It's the middle of the best season of the year, the Dodgers are coming to town, and my bowel is not perforated. Life is just fine.

The crew in Kansas.

Law school

While I'm glad to now be enrolled in the clinical trial in Boston, the periodic travel there and side effects from the new medication will derail, for now, my longtime goal to go to law school. I had been planning to join the incoming class at Georgetown Law School in the fall in a part-time program that I hoped would be compatible with continued medical treatment, but I have now requested deferment of my enrollment to Fall 2017.

I realize this all seems a bit unrealistic. Given my medical reality, it’s fair to ask how I could expect to embark on a four-year academic program that leads, one would hope, to at least a few lawyer years afterward. A clear-eyed evaluation of my odds of doing all that would be grim.

But there's always the chance that things will turn around.  For instance, there's the one-in-a-million case: a cancer patient catches an unusual infection and has an extremely unusual immune response that tackles the cancer as well as the infection. That kind of thing requires an Act of God, when the good Lord looks down on His creation and selects from among His humble servants one who is worthy of such extraordinary grace. Clearly I’ll never make that cut.  But perhaps, as He surveys the state of His creation, He will figure that the humble servant may one day need a good lawyer and bring me along as well.

It is somewhat more likely that one of the great minds behind my clinical trials and cutting-edge treatments will strike on a particular combination of drugs that accomplish the same thing, or that a novel application of existing therapies will keep me going long enough until something else comes along. Or maybe, for whatever reason, I'll just keep going.

So just as it's prudent to get the estate plans in order and make clear my views on what's politely called final arrangements, it's also OK to dream a little. It's now July. I shall spend the next three months watching the Nats and Royals march on to the World Series, and after Game 7 is decided in an extra-inning walk-off, I shall turn my attention to preparatory reading about the law -- lawyers defending the downtrodden, bad lawyers going to jail, good lawyers redeeming the reputation of the profession so that it is once again a respected way to make a living. Well, as noted, it's OK to dream.

Expectations, biopsies and blood draws

Louis Giolito had much to distract him when he walked up to the mound yesterday to begin his major league career.  He was baseball's top prospect, the Nats ace-in-waiting, the focus of press speculation and fan obsession about when he would make the jump to the majors. And then there was June 8, 2010, Stephen Strasburg's major league debut, 14 strikeouts in seven dominant innings against the Pirates. Strasburg raised unreasonable expectations on that day that he has only just begun to meet and set a crazy high bar of success for the next new ace to come along.

Giolito had extra time to think about all that last night, waiting out an hour-long delay for a thunderstorm to pass. But none of it seemed to bother him. He came out throwing heaters, the Mets came up swinging, and while Giolito gave up a single to his first major league batter, most of the rest went quietly. At least from our perch behind third base, he looked like a veteran. Another passing storm ended his debut prematurely in the 4th: no runs, 1 hit, 1 strikeout, 2 walks. That storm also ended our night. Emma and I had a soggy but giddy walk back to the car and watched the rest of the game in a dry family room, a 5-0 win thanks to shutout work by the bullpen and a solid offensive performance against diminished Mets pitchers.  The Mets starter was Matt Harvey, who has been crushed this year by last year's stellar expectations.

I imagine Harvey will get his game back together, just as Strasburg did after a series of setbacks. But I really don't know how they do it. I understand how only a rarefied few are born with the physical gifts necessary to play professional sports. And I understand how only a few of those few have the competitive drive and work ethic necessary to make the most of their talents. But I have always been baffled by how they manage the last piece of it all, the mental strength required to tune out all the distractions, the chatter, the expectations of perfect performance and eternal success. Were I facing all that, I would be devastated by the inevitable failures.

So I manage expectations differently -- I generally expect to fail and am pleasantly surprised when I don't. Otherwise I could never get myself together enough to, for instance, fly up to Boston to enroll in a clinical trial that promises little but required the following on a breezy summer Monday:

• 10:45am Blood draw
• 11:30am CT prep
• 12:30pm CT scan
• 1:30pm EKG
• 2:00pm Consultation and consent with doctor
• 2:30pm Second blood draw
• 3:00pm Skin biopsy
• 4:00pm Retina scans and vision screening

I do not mean to whine; it was not that bad. The nurses were real pros, the doctors were exceedingly nice, the Dana-Farber Cancer Center is top-notch, the CT scan was far easier than that MRI, and the biopsy required only a tiny chunk of flesh and a single stitch that I may just pull out when it gets irritating. It is true that I emerged from the vision screening with watery eyes and blurry vision, barely able to see enough to summon an Uber to the airport, but no matter. I passed the initial screening tests, and I return to start treatment, if all goes well, late next week.

Of course I do not expect all to go well. Further screening tests could delay treatment, and even if I stay on schedule, I will not be surprised if the trial doesn't help much in the end. But there's always hope, and that is I suppose the difference with a professional athlete confident in his abilities (or perhaps just too young to know how quickly things can go south, although Giolito's Tommy John surgery surely demonstrated a little of that.)

Giolito does not have to rely on hope to get through a major league debut. In contrast, hope (and the loving support of family and friends) is pretty much what I've got left. And I actually find that liberating. The nice thing about low expectations is that even small victories are cause for celebration, and there's still always hope for a big win.

Falluja and Tikrit

Baseball is a nice distraction from medical adventures, and when it's time for a distraction from baseball -- for instance, during a five-game losing streak -- the Middle East is a reliable reminder of what actual bad news is.

I've been watching the recent news from Falluja, and actually it's about as good as news from Falluja gets.  The Iraqi army with U.S. air support has re-re-liberated the heart of the city, it's more intact (or at least less of a pile of rubble) than Ramadi after its re-re-liberation. and Iranian-backed militias are taking a lower-profile role than they did during the re-re-liberation of Tikrit. After all those liberations, and that time living under the lunatics of ISIL, and the return of a fragmented government swayed by Iran, the residents of Falluja, Ramadi and Tikrit can be forgiven if they do not celebrate the latest liberation with wild enthusiasm. Good news is all relative.

During my first assignment to Iraq (words that send my daughters looking for something interesting on their phones) I arrived in Tikrit in January 2004 on detail from the State Department to DoD's Coalition Provisional Authority. Security was dicey, but there was reason to believe the situation would get better. We had recently captured Saddam, we were meeting regularly with local sheikhs and politicians to talk about elections and economic development, and we were rebuilding schools, power plants and bridges. We helped organize a town hall meeting where Tikritis had a lively discussion about democracy and human rights -- in the middle of Saddam's hometown.  We traveled throughout Salah ad-Din province, including a memorable outing to Samarra to visit the archaeological sites and join local notables for an al-fresco banquet of grilled fish along the banks of the Tigris.

Dinner in Samarra, when such things were possible.

By May of 2004, the Mahdi Army was on the rampage in Sadr City and points south, U.S. Marines were slogging into Falluja to do battle with the insurgents who killed and mutilated four Blackwater contractors, and Abu Ghraib photos were everywhere on the internet. Samarra was no longer safe for a picnic.

But things in Tikrit weren't all that bad. I remember a particular conversation with a Tikriti politician who noted that Tikritis had mostly chosen to work with the U.S. occupation, or at least stay out of the way, while Falluja residents had supported the insurgency. He pointed to the result -- Falluja was in a constant state of warfare, Tikrit was on the way back to normal. Even then, there was reason to believe things would get better.

He's now dead, killed from what I heard at a roadblock a few years later. Others we worked with are still around and still working to get to normal. And perhaps they will. I read that Tikrit University has reopened, although I also read that ISIL recently blew up power transmission towers near Tikrit, and the long shadow of Iran remains. Sectarian tension continues to rise.

If that is the best we can hope for now for Falluja, and eventually Mosul and other ISIL-controlled areas in Iraq, it is at least better than life under psychopathic slavers. I do not know what lessons to draw from that for life in less catastrophic parts of the world, other than what seems hard, tragic and unfair in one place is just another day elsewhere. And a relative bit of good news is cause for at least a relative bit of hope.

Saddam's hidey hole, during happier(?) times in Iraq.

Kayaking

Kayaking can be a white-water, white-knuckle, exhausting, exhilarating, Type A extreme sport thrill. But if done correctly, it is the ultimate lazy man's endeavor. You sit. You float. You paddle, or not. If the wind or the current begin to carry you to a point far enough from the dock that undue exertion would be required to return, you can nudge the kayak over to shore, look at the birds, pull out a book, or just sit and practice the manly tone of voice you will use when someone asks "What did you do for Father's Day?" and you respond "Went kayaking."

Today we went kayaking for Father's Day. It's a day early, but Sally and Emma are off to New York tomorrow morning, so on actual Father's Day, Meg and I will be recovering from today's exertions, watching the Nats wrap up their series against the Padres, and if we get ambitious, going out to eat. Today's kayaking was really enough sport for the weekend. (Of course I speak for myself -- Meg is already out on a bike ride and will be tearing it up again tomorrow.)

How much sport was it? Really, a little paddling up the Potomac on a sunny morning, light breeze, low humidity, tide receding down river along with a barely perceptible current,  just enough to say "Eh, that's far enough." The girls of course zipped up and down the river, while Sally joined me out of the channel by the shade trees along the shore. But not too close to shore -- if you've recently celebrated your 27th anniversary, and you're hoping for 28, it is advisable when kayaking to rent two singles rather than a double and completely avoid conversations such as:

"Don't go under the trees, snakes will drop in the kayak."

"That's crazy, there are no snakes in the trees and they don't drop in kayaks, and even if they did, they're not poisonous, are they?"

We had separate kayaks and no such conversations (this time), and we look forward to a warm and loving celebration of the 28th.

Emma pulled up while doing a little bird watching and pointed out a lanky, graceful bird skimming the water. I told her it's a heron, took out my phone and, after a quick Google search, read Wendell Berry's "The Peace of Wild Things:"

When despair for the world grows in me 

and I wake in the night at the least sound 

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, 

I go and lie down where the wood drake 

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. 

I come into the peace of wild things 

who do not tax their lives with forethought 

of grief. I come into the presence of still water. 

And I feel above me the day-blind stars 

waiting with their light. For a time 

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

It's the poem we read when we scattered Anne's ashes just downriver at the Three Sisters rocks (the point above the Key Bridge in the background of this very blog.) While it did not precisely match the mood of a sunny morning celebration, I'd say it's more contemplative than somber. Contemplating, we drifted back to Fletcher's Cove, and per a request from the back seat, stopped on the way home for ice cream. No better Father's Day.

The frivolous and the deadly

Anyone who writes a blog about watching baseball and fighting cancer has to acknowledge that the juxtaposition of the frivolous and the deadly can be a little odd.  That was evident Sunday at Nats Park, where they lowered the flags to half staff, observed a moment of silence, and noted periodically throughout the TV broadcast that it was a tragic day for America before turning back with enthusiasm to a terrific baseball game.

We didn't make it out to the park on Sunday. I've been lethargic to the point that extracting myself from the couch is a minor project, and I was still having a few shooting pains from the procedure last week when the docs stuck a tube down my throat and cleaned out the bile ducts. (The procedure went well, they tell me; in any event my appetite is better, at least regarding the mint chocolate chip ice cream we make with mint from Sally's garden.)

So we watched the game on TV. Nats go up by 3, Phillies come back to tie it in the 6th, Jonathan Papelbon -- the Nats closer who is either unnerved by his former Philly teammates or just getting old -- comes on in the 9th and gives up a go-ahead home run. Then, bottom of the 9th: Nats get some good at-bats, some hustle by Harper, and Jayson Werth strides to the plate with the bases loaded, two outs, any swing could determine the game. It was, he said later, the moment every kid imagines when playing Wiffle ball in the back yard. Werth -- who is not unnerved by his former team and in fact draws energy from the charming comments of his former fans -- singled up the middle. 5-4 walk-off. Nats mob Werth after he rounds first. He looks fabulously, marvelously, little-boy happy.

Then back to the news from Orlando. It is horrifying, maddening, but I still find myself following it with a bit of distance. That is perhaps a learned habit. During our time in Saudi, I remember coming out of the mall after doing some shopping and checking the car for bombs before strapping the girls into their car seats. (Actually, statistically, traffic is a far greater hazard than terrorism anywhere in the world.)  And a few years later, when we were returning home from Cairo, telling the girls that we would no longer be buying groceries at the commissary so no one would need to sweep the car for explosives before we drove into the Safeway parking lot. My way of staying sane while raising kids in such environments was to take a hard look at the statistics, which show that the actual risk of terrorism is insignificant compared to all the more mundane hazards in the world.

That does not lessen the grief and horror of Orlando. But I do believe that a clear-eyed risk assessment can help make sense of it all. And in matters of the frivolous and the deadly, there may be some value in the psychological disconnect that comes from a fine baseball game on an otherwise grim afternoon.

MRI

Wednesday evening I went in to Georgetown hospital for an MRI, which the liver doc needs to get a good look at my plumbing in advance of a procedure next week to clear out my bile ducts (and no doubt improve the editorial disposition of this very blog). When I made the MRI appointment, I didn't give it much thought -- I've had dozens of CT and PET scans, which are a little tedious but not uncomfortable. And I frequently read about ball players with injuries getting MRIs, particularly guys who play hard and bang into stuff like Bryce Harper, although he does not get the scan every time he gets plunked. In any event I wasn't worried -- what's one more test?

A nurse showed me to the dressing room and the hospital gowns -- oh for my leopard-print State Department robe -- and then stuck an IV into my left arm. He brought me to the MRI room, a vault with a big freaky machine built around a tube that looked just barely large enough to fit an adult of respectable size. I lay on my back on a conveyor in front of the tube. An MRI tech strapped a contraption to my chest designed to guide the scanner, put an emergency call button in my right hand, and put headphones on my ears so I could hear his instructions about when to hold my breath. Also, in theory, I could listen to the radio. (They could not get the Nats game; I settled for NPR.)

None of this was yet awful, even when the tech retreated to safety behind a thick window, closed the vault and fired up the big freaky machine. The conveyor slid me into that tube, which was I suppose big enough to accommodate an adult who was not suddenly seized with thoughts of premature burial. But then the guidance contraption on my chest started to weigh heavy, the headphones squeezed my ears, the machine banged and whirred, and the tech told me to hold my breath, which was not really what I was inclined to do at that point, particularly considering my limited lung capacity. I was more inclined to claw my way out of the tube, tear off all the hospital stuff and dash from the vault in my fetching gown, dripping IV trailing behind me. Freedom has its price.

I decided against that, barely. I closed my eyes and held my breath and started to sweat, counting the rhythmic metallic bangs of the machine, abandoning all interest in the narrative of This American Life playing through my headphones, and remembering urgently that oxygen is actually quite important to one's ability to get up and go home after such torture. I gasped just as the tech said pleasantly that it is now OK to breathe.

OK, it wasn't more than 20 seconds, but we were just getting started. For the next 40 minutes, the machine raged, I held my breath on command, I squirmed and sweated, and when I tried to talk through the intercom to the tech -- a new person after 20 minutes, apparently I had lasted through a shift change -- I got no answer. I fingered the emergency button but did not use it because, I decided, being miserable is not an emergency. And anyway, I imagined the button launching me from the tube like a torpedo.

At last the machine spun down and the tech said I was done. She pointed me back to the dressing room, where I recovered most of my dignity and left behind at least a little anxiety. And when I got home, I played it all up, noting that the trauma of the experience had somehow hindered my ability to do the dishes. Sally and the girls lovingly obliged while I sat on the couch, watched the end of the game and murmured woefully every time they came within hearing about that tube and that thing on my chest.

Yes, I know I should not whine. In fact I am lucky to be in the care of top-notch health care professionals with access to such extraordinary technology, freaky as it is. I shall blame my bad MRI attitude on that backup of bile and look forward to arising next Wednesday with a rosy disposition after they clean out the pipes.

27 years

Sally and I celebrate our 27th tonight. I shall dress appropriately -- something festive and summery, I think -- and I shall struggle as always to express my thanks and my love to a companion of a lifetime of adventures. And when I fail at that, I shall order the fish, which is generally quite nice at Matisse. (Sally had offered to go to a game. "Not for our anniversary," I said gallantly, "we must do something special." But it is the Cardinals -- maybe tomorrow?)

Meanwhile, dinner.  There will be roasted veggies to go with that fish, maybe polenta or some such thing, a nice salad, and for dessert, mango sorbet? But can it compete with the mango sorbet at the ballpark? (A question I imagine that is not often asked at Matisse.) Or maybe I'll just get a steak. In any event, it will all taste about the same.

The thing is that I'm losing my interest in food. I'm now down 50 pounds from a weight that the weight fascists had called obese. I have hesitated to consult an oncology nutritionist because I expect that he or she would advise that ice cream and hot dogs are not the optimum solution to cancer-related weight loss, while I actively fear the stuff that the nutritionist would recommend -- protein shakes... easily digestible vegetables... I have even lost my appetite for most ballpark staples.  Beer, tragically, has lost much of its appeal, and nachos aren’t what they once were. But I can still put away the hot dogs and ice cream, and OK, maybe a beer or two on a sunny afternoon. As for the possibilities at Matisse? Anything will be fine, and certainly predictable. I don't think the menu has changed since our lovely celebration of our 10th.

So, what to wear, something festive and summery. That actually defines my vintage Kansas City Monarchs Negro Leagues baseball jersey. The Monarchs were the best baseball team ever. Jim Crow laws shielded the Yankees of Ruth and Gehrig from the humiliation of facing the Monarchs, although I do imagine them playing somewhere in a field of dreams, Ruth calling his shot, Satchel Page calling the seven players behind him into the dugout while he delivers three pitches of swing-and-miss justice.

I have not covered my Monarchs jersey in any such glory, but it did have a moment off the field. During my first tour in the Foreign Service, in Saudi Arabia, the boss thought it would be good for the junior officers to host a diplomatic reception, usually a stiff occasion lubricated by an open bar for local contacts and diplomatic colleagues. We needed a theme, and I recalled the advice of a friend to concede the fancy to the Europeans and go casual. Americans always win at casual. So we welcomed our guests to a celebration of Opening Day -- hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, and a VHS tape of an actual baseball game, which baffled our guests as they paused briefly to watch before dashing on to the bar. I am sure that no one understood the significance of my Monarchs jersey, and I recall that my explanations fell a little flat, regardless I was most proud to wear it overseas as a representative of the United States, and Kansas City, and the greatest game ever.  Everyone else just liked the grub and the excuse to dress down at the Ambassador's house.

Alas, a nice anniversary dinner is not the right time for the jersey, I suppose. Festive and summery, festive and summery... the Hawaiian shirt! It pairs very nicely with cargo shorts and Keens. After 27 years, I have mostly lost the ability to surprise my dear wife, and when it comes to the wardrobe, that is no doubt a good thing.

Miami

Washington has been rainy and gloomy, we had airline credits, and the Nats were heading south for a series with the Marlins, so the only sensible course of action was a weekend trip to Miami.

Emma, Meg and I landed late Friday afternoon, leaving us enough time to check into our Miami Beach hotel, dip toes into the Atlantic, and head to Marlins Park, which is not the average baseball stadium. I was listening to an audio book of Joan Didion's Miami, a bleak portrait of crime and extremist political violence in the Cuban community in the '80s, and she noted that the city's Anglo establishment had still been giving a stiff arm to the Cubans a generation after the revolution.

There is no stiff arm at Marlins park. While Friday was Cuban Heritage Night, every night the park throbs with Latin music, Latin dancers between innings, and everywhere a Desi Arnaz vibe. Others can say whether all that is condescending or inclusive, but regardless the explosion of pastels and goofy fish sculptures around the park were all great fun for weekend migrants from the dreary mid-Atlantic. And there was a baseball game. Tanner Roark recovered his footing after a few rough outings against the Marlins and held them to 1 run; the Nats' 4-run fourth was more than enough. But honestly the most memorable part of the evening was after the game, when the Marlins rolled back the roof of the stadium and launched fireworks into the steamy Miami sky, all back-lit by a full, tropical moon.

The girls were happy to go to the game but really joined the trip to go the beach, where we headed Saturday morning. Our beach outings have changed significantly in recent years -- I do much more umbrella sitting and much less tossing kids in waves -- but anyway we all made the most of a lovely morning on the sand. Afterward we walked down Ocean Ave to take in South Beach, and when a storm rolled in, we retreated inside an Art Deco museum after spending a bit too long trying to wait out the weather under the semi-cover of trees. The forecast had predicted rain, but this became much more, like Bogie and Bacall riding out a Key Largo hurricane -- rain blowing sideways, palm fronds flying, water rising on Ocean Avenue, beach refugees raising their arms to embrace the downpour, at least until the lightning and thunder started to synchronize. We took the opportunity to learn about pre-war beach architecture and also became experts on the thermal properties of wet clothes in air conditioning. (They are cold.)

Undeterred, the girls opted to continue on to dinner in Little Havana - black beans, fried plantains, the yummy standards -- and another baseball game, which became another pitching duel. Joe Ross kept up with Nats' nemesis Jose Fernandez but the offense wasn't much help, and we are glad to have left just before the Nats' ninth-inning rally petered out. Marlins 3-2.

On return Sunday, Washington was rainy and gloomy. But the Nats, finishing the rubber match in Miami just as we walked in the door home, came away with a series win. As we unpacked, I snuck a glance at the schedule to see whether they would be heading south again in September.

This is not Miami Beach, but it does bracket one end of our beach experiences. Tunisia, February 2003.

Miami Beach, the other end of the bracket (at least for now.)

Top right is the home run sculpture, which Marlins fans have apparently adjusted to. Everything lights up and spins when the Marlins go deep.  It is not the kind of thing you would have found in Ebbets Field, but it does say Miami.

KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

Faith is a large part of our lives lately -- not necessarily in the traditional sense (although we did make it to church for Christmas Eve, lovely service) but certainly as we navigate my medical adventures along with the harrowing dramas of teenagers growing up in the city and a Washington bureau chief in a particularly colorful election year. You might say that our household dials up faith by the truckload -- like, say, a truckload of fertilizer for the garden out back.

Harper Bobblehead Night.

That leaves us with enough residual for moments that are somewhat less than life-and-death, such as a cold and rainy evening when Meg and I were considering whether to fight rush-hour traffic and Bryce Harper Bobblehead Night crowds to head to Nats park and catch a few innings of baseball between rain delays. I was all ready to cancel -- the game was on TV, the couch was warm and dry. But Meg, faith bolstered by a favorable weather report, said she was good to go.

The rain stopped en route to the stadium. We survived the traffic, collected our bobbleheads, dried off our seats and watched Nats ace Max Scherzer begin to decimate his former teammates on the Tigers, even as Tigers ace Jordan Zimmermann began to decimate his former teammates on the Nats. Zimmermann got a welcome-back standing ovation when he stepped up to bat in the third, and I was surprised to see him tip his helmet to the crowd, acknowledging the attention in a way a reticent Wisconsin farm boy does not naturally do.

But it was all Scherzer (who
looks nothing like this.)

It was a much-deserved moment for Zimmermann. But as happened often during his time as a National, his sterling performance was overshadowed. Scherzer was manic. He stalked the mound, stared down the Tigers, blew fastballs past Miguel Cabrera and other fine hitters. With one out in the top of the fourth, Meg noted that Scherzer had nine strikeouts.

My faith in my daughter faltered, or at least my faith in her attention to the game.

"No, that's impossible," I said. "He's doing great, maybe five or six, but not nine." But then I thought back, first inning, second inning, third inning -- I got out my phone to check. Nine strikeouts through 10 outs. There was also that home run he gave up in the third, but even so, amazing. Too bad that no human could keep up that pace.

Scherzer was no human last night. Two strikeouts each in the fifth, sixth, seventh, and three in the eighth, setting a new Nats record. Nats ahead 3-1. Meg noticed that Jonathan Papelbon was warming up in the bullpen in advance of the ninth, but we had faith that Scherzer would come out to finish it. Surely Papelbon was just getting ready in case Scherzer got in a jam? Surely?

Scherzer came out in the ninth, 35,000 fans howled their approval, and then J.D. Martinez hit Scherzer's first pitch over the center-field wall. Nats lead down to 1. Scherzer's pitch count was up, and Papelbon was ready to go.

Did we lose faith? Well, it is fair to say we were tense. But Dusty Baker did not lose faith. He stuck with Scherzer, even after Scherzer gave up a single, through two more strikeouts and a ground-out to finish the game. 20 Ks, tying a major league record. Faith wins.

Medical marijuana guy

The scraggly, emaciated guy looked at me intently, with something to ask, like any encounter on a city street ultimately involving my spare change. But we were at Georgetown hospital, and I was waiting to check in for chemotherapy.

"How long you been doing this?" he asked. That's a typical chemo-patient ice-breaker, the equivalent of "Heading home?" to the person next to you on on a flight. The typical answer is along the lines of "Four weeks," or "Five months," maybe "Coming up on a year."

"Five years, on and off," I said. He didn't seem to understand, or for that matter, to care that much about the answer. But he did have more questions.

"Where do you live?"

"The District," I said. "Just up the street."

That made him happy.

"You know about medical marijuana?"

Medical marijuana has been legal in the District since 2010, and District voters approved recreational use in 2014. But it's still not the kind of thing you chat about casually in the chemo check-in line, at least not at Georgetown.

"I haven't had any problems with side-effects," I said. In years past, some chemo patients used marijuana to alleviate nausea, although new anti-nausea drugs such as Zofran have worked just fine for me.

"Yeah, side effects, but it will cure you," he said, getting excited, starting to grin. "My tumors are down 20 percent."

"Hey, that's great," I said. Good news is cause for celebration, although I imagine his oncologist would attribute his success more to the chemo he was waiting in line for than to marijuana, medical or otherwise -- not to mention baking soda.

"Baking soda," he said. "You know about baking soda?"

I do know about baking soda -- I bake a very well received banana bread, all credit to the good people at Cooks Illustrated -- but I do not know about baking soda in this particular context.

"Baking soda?"

"Yeah," he said. "it's a base, it balances the acid in the chemo." Or something like that.

He knows this to be true because he read it on the internet, although the claims for baking soda apparently exceed balancing the acid in whatever. "Dr." Tullio Simoncini says baking soda will attack tumors, but don't try to e-mail him about it, because he may be in jail or otherwise prohibited by Italian authorities from communicating with patients. Yes, I discovered all this thanks to Google, which also points helpfully to this reality check for anyone swayed by the stoner in line. Still, such things remain good business and good politics, at least in certain districts in Nevada.

At risk of appearing judgmental, these people are clearly crazy. However, as I've acknowledged, I can't always claim to rely on rational expectations myself.  So I did not argue with medical marijuana guy about baking soda or anything else. I said with all sincerity what everyone always says in the chemo waiting room, in the hope that something, FDA-approved or otherwise, will work: "Good luck."

Batman v. Superman

Sally had a hard time understanding why Batman would fight Superman. I have no answer, other than it sells tickets. (Although, apparently, not many.)  And I have an even harder time wrapping my head around this:

I didn't grow up cheering for the Kansas City Royals; I grew up living the Kansas City Royals. I dressed up as Steve Busby for Halloween, I trembled when George Brett strode to the plate, and when I shouted "Hit a homer, Mayberry!" I knew John (Sr.) could hear. I learned about grief in the bottom of the 9th, game five, 1976 American League Championship Series. Chris Chambliss hit a walk-off home-run against Royals closer Mark Littell, and as I sobbed in bed that night, useless tickets at hand for a Royals World Series game that would never be played, I discovered a new level of hate for the Yankees. Years later the bat and ball from that injustice came up for auction. I considered buying them and burning them in the fireplace to exorcise my demons, and I just might have done so if I had had any expectation that it would work.

Washington is now home. We saw the Nats struggle during the early days at RFK stadium and continue to struggle through the early years at Nats park. We watched their glorious rise in 2012, right up until the 9th inning of game five of the National League Division Series against the Cardinals, when, well, see grief, Chambliss et al. While the Nats have not brought a parade to Washington, they have more wins since 2011 than any team in baseball except those Cardinals. It would be churlish at this point to not support the Nats heart and soul.

We have in our household fantasized about a Nats-Royals World Series, about the party we would throw to celebrate wild, improbable success, although it's not as improbable as it used to be. Perhaps this is the year we will be able to put up a tent in the yard, invite everyone we know for Ben's chili dogs and Kansas City barbecue, and cheer every play as two recently awful teams compete at the highest level for the championship.

Meanwhile, however, we have a problem. The Nats are in Kansas City tonight for a routine series -- routine in that it's inter-league play early in the season, but even so, both teams will have to fight hard to stay in contention for the playoffs, both teams need these wins, and someone has to lose.

Batman and Superman cannot fight to a draw this time. And personally, I just can't watch. So I have declared a baseball moratorium in the household for the next three nights. We shall read, talk, or most likely, bury our heads in our phones, but we shall not watch baseball. Or at least I won't. Sally and the girls are also Nats and Royals fans, but I am apparently the only one who is neurotic about it, and my household declarations about this-or-that tend to be a little ephemeral anyway. I look forward to the resumption of summer on Thursday.

Oxygen

So the home health care company delivered this today:

But I will not be dragging it behind me into the local casino, shuffling toward the slots, cigarette dangling from my lip, for the following reasons: I don't smoke, I don't go to the local casino, and most on point, I plan to never be seen with this, life sustaining though oxygen is. (Also, the home health care guy did say something about oxygen and open flames). 

Actually I hope never to use this. It's an emergency back-up to a less industrial looking model that is now parked by the bed. The bedside model, also delivered today, relies on electricity to compress oxygen from the air.  Since the power can go out at inopportune times, I am glad to have this scuba tank on hand to use if necessary (and by on hand, I mean in a dark and distant corner of the basement where no one will have to look at it.) With luck, I'll never crack the seal.

The bedside model is built like a roller suitcase, but I also don't intend to drag it around behind me, although I suppose that time may come. Two years ago I was backpacking, and last summer we took long hikes in Yellowstone, but lately, as tumors in my lungs have squeezed out oxygen capacity, taking the dog for a walk around the block has felt a bit like mountain climbing. 

My main problem has been sleep, however -- I am hoping that an oxygen boost overnight will make the nights a little more restful. I am likewise hoping that Sally will not be unnerved by a Darth Vader breathing device in the bedroom or oxygen tubes stuck in my nose. Fortunately, after 26 years of marriage, she's seen worse.