Articles by Quenby Moone
With PSA numbers rising and the field of medical options narrowing, it’s tough to take a look at the situation. This writing thing isn’t for the faint of heart.
I’m sorry for the mass mailing. I’m a terrible correspondent, as I’ve explained in greater or lesser tones of contrition for most of my life. My parents always tried to encourage me to write thank …
If the devil is in the details, I have a close personal relationship with him these days. With all the hithering-and-thithering which has taken place, and the emotional tax that has been levied at the …
Hello, Visitors of Dad! There are so many of you!
I just wanted to remind everyone that the Calendar of Dad is being updated as accurately as I can with dates, and MAY IS FULL! You’ve …
For Christmas, Santa brought our six-year-old boy the classic tales of another six-year-old boy (plus a tiger): “Calvin and Hobbes.” And oddly, he was not enchanted, like, immediately.
Calvin and his tiger Hobbes moved around the …
It’s a beautiful April afternoon. My son is spraying the hose to make rainbows in the back yard, our new dog is finding proper zones for sunshine naps, Lars just put Marvin Gaye on his …
All’s well that pee’s well. So sayeth Dr. Pee, who told Dad that rather than getting the RotoRooter treatment, which sounds plum horrific, he’s going to get stents in his bladder which allow fluid to …
Dad and I are on a carnival ride in earnest now; at the very least we’re in the car a lot. His radiation treatments have begun and every night I whisk him away to OHSU …
By turns hilarious, frustrating and sad, drugs add one more layer in Dad’s ongoing saga: a dopey, forgetful layer full of steroids and naps.
As the results from Dad’s tests roll in, I’ll update as I can. I throw in gems of humor because I can’t help myself, but on the whole it’s totally not fun. Get yourself a nice cocktail.
Living within mere feet of each other doesn’t make our experiences necessarily shared. Strange days at sea in the Moone-Fox clan. Or strange days in several different seas.
A somewhat stark evaluation of recent medical shenanigans, which reveals that Dad might be best served by hanging upside down by gravity boots like a Prosciutto di Parma.
No-one wants to be reduced to a “Work in Progress,” but sometimes by documenting an event, one renders the title inadvertently. It appears I may have done so by writing about my father’s cancer.
The problem with theory is that it’s theoretical. I want the theory that will help me wash the dishes and pick up the slack during my Dad’s illness.
