YOU can help Paul beat cancer!

For: Paul E. Jamison
Organizer: The Paul Jamison Recovery Team
YOU can help Paul beat cancer! (Paul E. Jamison)
of $37,215 goal
33% Complete
Raised by 250 donors

The Story

From my friend, Susan Barrows:


"Paul Jamison is a modest man. He’s never been one to bang his own drum, and I know he’s far too humble to bother anyone with his problems—but that will only get in his way here. I’m Paul’s friend Susie, and I’m writing this to tell you about Paul in ways that he can’t. This isn’t the time for him to be too proud to speak up. This is about his very survival.

"Because Paul just got the diagnosis that all of us dread: He has cancer.

"He’d thought the biggest thing on his plate was facing a brutal Kansas winter with a broken furnace… then he went to see the doctor about a problem with his neck, and his whole world came crashing down. The breaks that Paul’s had in life have mostly been tough ones, and this horrible news is following a long series of bad turns. He got laid off from Boeing last year, and like many of us, he’s been struggling through the economic crisis. Even with continuing unemployment, bleak job prospects, and worrying about that broken furnace, Paul’s stayed optimistic, hanging on by his fingernails and hoping life will turn out better for everyone soon. But with this news from his doctor, his own time is running out.

"For all his life, Paul’s been solid as an oak with a heart as big as the world. Blessed with a gracious and loving spirit, he has never met a stranger. He’s been a good Samaritan for anyone in need, providing the strong back to pitch in and the understanding shoulder to cry on. Now that it’s time for the wagons to be pulled around him, I know my friend Paul is simply too polite to say how much he really, desperately needs your help. So I’m saying it for him.

"Paul Jamison is a happy, vibrant, giving man who embraces life and everyone in it. You can tell that by reading the marvelous stories he writes. In every circle he moves in, he is loved and respected. And in this crucial time, he needs to find out just how much. If the world could return but a small degree of the love that Paul has given it, it will be enough to help him beat this crisis with the prompt medical care he desperately needs.

"Thanks so much for letting me tell you about this wonderful guy. I know my words are making him blush, but this is all stuff that needs to be said. The world is better for having Paul Jamison in it. And I think there are enough loving, feeling people out there to help keep it that way."

I'm lucky I have friends to speak for me here, because Susie is right. I'm too proud to bother people with my troubles, but this cancer diagnosis has put my back to the wall. The doctor told me I have basal cell carcinoma with squamous differentiation. Yeah, skin cancer. I've got two options: excision with possible reconstruction or chemotherapy. Probably best is a combination of both. Am I scared? Oh, yes!

Who am I? Why do I matter? Good questions. I matter because we all matter. I certainly matter to me.

I come from a long line of long-lifers - my Dad is in his upper 80s - and I want to keep up with that tradition.

I was an aircraft engineer for my working life, but I'm also a writer, mainly stories about ferrets. You can find them here:

I want to live. I want to enjoy life. We all do. I also want to write more stories. That's why this diagnosis scares me. That's why I'm asking for your help.

Help me. Please?

Fundraiser Updates

Posted on March 16, 2018

Posted on March 16, 2018

Ah, fundraiser update time it is and no mistake - Murphy! Sammy! Max! Front and center!

(Three ferrets - Murphy, in... well, a green serge uniform of the RCMP; Sammy, with a green yarmulke and a shillelagh; and Max, with his hind legs strapped in a wheelchair device, wearing a green woolen cap and holding an odd-looking device around his waist - come up and stand at attention.)

Murphy: And a fine day to you, sir, Faith and Begorrah!

Paul: And the same to ye, my lads! I see you've got the St. Paddy's Day spirit! Are you ready for the holiday, then?

Sammy (making a face and spitting): Not completely, sir. This thing about chewing shamrocks doesn't make very much sense. I've got a terrible taste in my mouth! What do the Irish get out of it?

Paul (puzzled): Sammy - the Irish don't chew shamrocks.

Sammy: They don't?

Paul: No - who told you that?

(Sammy glares at Murphy)

Murphy: Ah - Faith and Begorrah?

Sammy (in low, even tones): I've gone through five cups of shamrocks this week...

Murphy (backing up): Now, Sammy... think of it as a little Irish blarney -

Sammy (swinging shillelagh): *I'll "blarney" you!!* (Begins chasing Murphy around.)

Max: You know, I wondered why Sammy was eating that stuff. Didn't think it was any of my business.

Paul: Ah, right - Anyway. What in the world is that you've got around your waist?

Max: These are Uilleann pipes, sir! Kind of like bagpipes, but instead of blowing in a mouthpiece, you work these bellows here with your elbow. Like this, see? They're what Paddy Moloney plays with the Chieftains!

Paul: Ah, the Chieftains! My favorite Irish group! I'll be playing several of their albums this week, indeed! Does that mean you're going to play some Irish music yourself?

Max: Yessir! A bunch of us listened to their stuff and liked it so much that we decided to get a traditional Irish band together. Skippy is playing a harp, Skippy is on the tin whistle, Skippy and Skippy are playing fiddles, Skippy is on the flute, and Skippy and Skippy have got bodhrans. We'll be playing a traditional Irish ballad. Faith and Begorrah.

Paul (brushing a tear from his eye): Ah, nothing like a fine Irish ballad to make one's heart yearn for the Ould Sod. But don't forget that we've got an update on the fundraiser to present! I presume that the Skippys have taken care of that?

Max: Oh, I'm sure, sir. They told me not to worry, though I don't know where they out the charge. Things'll work out, no worry. And now, to the music!

(Max works his elbow, pumping the bellows until the pipes' bag is nice and full. Then, backed by whistle, flute, fiddles and bodhrans, he plays and begins to sing)

About a maid I'll sing a song,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid I'll sing a song,
Who didn't have her fam'ly long.
Not only did she do them wrong,
She did ev'ryone of them in, them in,
She did ev'ryone of them in.

One morning in a fit of pique,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One morning in a fit of pique,
She drowned her father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week,
And we had to make do with gin, with gin,
We had to make do with gin.

Her mother she could never stand,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she could never stand,
And so a cyanide soup she planned.
The mother died with a spoon in her hand,
And her face in a hideous grin, a grin,
Her face in a hideous grin.

She set her sister's hair on fire,
She set her sister's hair on fire,
And as the smoke and flame rose high'r,
Danced around the funeral pyre,
Playin' a violin, -olin,
Playin' a violin.

She weighted her brother down with stones,
She weighted her brother down with stones,
And sent him off to Davy Jones.
All they ever found were some bones,
And occasional pieces of skin, of skin,
Occasional pieces of skin.

One day when she had nothing to do,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One day when she had nothing to do,
She cut her baby brother in two,
And served him up as an Irish stew,
And invited the neighbors in, -bors in,
Invited the neighbors in.

And when at last the police came by,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at last the police came by,
Her little pranks she did not deny.
To do so she would have had to lie,
And lying, she knew, was a sin, a sin,
Lying, she knew, was a sin.

My tragic tale I won't prolong,
My tragic tale I won't prolong,
And if you do not enjoy my song,
You've yourselves to blame if it's too long,
You should never have let me begin, begin,
You should - never - have - let - me - begin…

(Max presses on the bellows one more time and tries to play a final note. All he gets is a weak little *poot*. Max frowns, peers into the horn or whatever it's called, and squeezes on the bag in frustration.)

Paul: What's wrong, Max? Got something stuck in there?

Max: Seems like it. I keep my lunch in there, but it's never done this before. (Max takes a deep breath and starts vigorously pumping the bellows with his elbow. The bag starts swelling up larger and larger, until it's distended like a retiree's bladder in the middle of a WalMart shopping spree.)

(Suddenly the pipe's blockage is expelled with a loud *SQUEEEE-ARK!!!* and begins to climb into the sky.)

Max: So *that's* where they had it!

(The birthday charge soars to altitude, where it explodes, showering CSI with bright green confetti, green streamers, green balloons, green M&Ms, a bag lunch (tuna sandwich, traditional Irish potato chips and a slice of raisin meringue pie) and a thermos of Ferretone. Two banners float down beneath parachutes: NOT MUCH TO REPORT FOR THIS UPDATE. PAUL IS FINE AND STILL LOOKING FORWARD TO PAYING OFF THE MEDICAL BILLS. WE’RE PRESENTING THIS UPDATE TO ASK FOR ANY HELP PEOPLE CAN GIVE. IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE MUCH - IT ADDS UP! CONTACT PAUL FOR AN EMAIL ADDRESS FOR DONATIONS DIRECTLY TO PAYPAL – AND PLEASE SHARE!! – it’s a long banner - and HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE EARLY CELEBRATION!! Max, Skippy, Skippy, Skippy, Skippy, Skippy, Skippy and Skippy begin playing "Drowsy Maggie" while Skippy, Skippy and Skippy come out and do a rousing Irish jig.)

Sammy was going to give you folks an Irish toast (Watches Sammy chase Murphy.) but he's busy right at the mo'. So I'll fill in for him:

May the wind always be at your back;
May the road rise up to your feet;
May you be in Heaven a half-hour before the Devil knows you're dead;
And may God always hold you in the hollow of His hand.

Any help would be appreciated. Thanks.

The Irish Ballad (1953) – Tom Lehrer (who else?)

Posted on March 5, 2018

Posted on March 5, 2018

Oops, it's been almost two weeks since the last update. Not that there's very much to share. The local weather can't decide if it's winter or spring. I've got the sniffles but I'm feeling better today. And I'm on my way to paying off the bill for the radiation treatment from two years ago. Oh, yes, and I'm trying to figure out Medicare. That last has little to do with my current health. For now, at least.

Until I pay off the medical bill for the rad treatment, this fundraiser is still going. Once that's paid, I'll shut this down. But I''m still putting this out there to ask for donations. So - please donate and I'll pay the bill off sooner. It doesn't have to be much. If you want to go directly through Paypal, contact me about an email address.

Please share and please comment. That always helps. Thank you.

Posted on February 20, 2018

Posted on February 20, 2018

A Sable ferret in a wheelchair: Hello, folks, this is Max, of Paul's band of imaginary ferrets! It's update time again for the fundraiser! Now the last update was received quite well, and we want to thank Petri Holopainen and Jan Uzzell for the donations. So here we are, Constable Murphy and I, to do a followup!

Murphy (another sable ferret): Hello, everybody! Stands straight, pulls in stomach to strike heroic pose. Effect is ruined when trousers fall down.

Max: You know, Murph, this needs a proper announcer of the BBC variety to properly announce this. Someone like Wallace Greenslade.

Murphy: True enough, but, alas, Mr. Greenslade was deaded a long time ago. Come to think of it, just about everyone involved with the Goon Show – Peter Sellers, Spike Millligan, Harry Secombe, Michael Bentine, Valentine Dyall – are all deaded.

Max: That's very sad. (Murphy takes off campaign hat and covers his heart. Max places paw over his heart. Both bow their heads in tribute.)

Murphy (places hat back on head): So, what Goonish thing are we gonna do?

Max: Well, I thought we’d do a particular song, and -

Murphy: A SONG? Oh, goodie, goodie! I can sing quite nicely! Ohhhhhh, my loooooove, my darrrrrling, I've hungered for your toooooouch, a long, lonely TIIIIIIIMMMME... (Voice cracks and Murphy begins coughing and hacking)

Max: … You silly, twisted boy. No, I was thinking of a specific, Christmas-themed song. You know the one.

Murphy: Oh, *that* one. But it's not Christmas! Not relevant for the season at all!

Max: Murphy... these are the Goons.

Murphy: Oh, right, I forgot. A Christmas song this time of year makes perfect Goon sense. I suppose that has something to do with why our Rabbi Sammy isn't here.

Max: I called Sammy about it and he said we should get back to him when we sing “I'm Walking Backwards for Hanukkah”.

Murphy: That wouldn't make sense, either, so, yes. Pity we don't have an orchestra to back us up, like Ray Ellington did for the Goon Show. We could even use Max Geldray's harmonica.

Max: Alas, both deaded as well, sad to say. (Murphy takes off campaign hat and covers his heart. Max places paw over his heart. Both bow their heads in tribute.)

Murphy (replacing hat): Well, then, it's up to us.

(Murphy clears throat and Max begins playing on the piano.)

Max and Murphy:
I'm walking backwards for Christmas,
Across the Irish Sea,
I'm walking backwards for Christmas,
It's the only thing for me.

I've tried walking sideways,
And walking to the front,
But people just look at me,
And say it's a publicity stunt.

Murphy: … Wait a moments, friend! We're here for a reason, after all. We really need to mention the fundraiser. In a way this *is* a publicity stunt!

Max: Excellent point! Indeed, we should! Folks, as you likely know by now, this fundraiser is to help Paul pay his medical bills from his fight against the nasty cancer. He's fine, but that one bill lingers on. Paul is on track to pay it off by the First of June, but he’ll settle for earlier.

Murphy: So, please help with a donation! It doesn't have to be much – it adds up. You can donate through the Youcaring website, or directly via Paypal. Contact him privately about an email address for Paypal.

Max: Or you can email him to get the email address! Just send him an email, look at the email you just sent it to – and there's his email address!

Murphy: But, whatever you do, please donate. (Removes hat, turns it upside down and holds it out.)

Max: Murph, how are they supposed to put anything in your hat? They're there and we're here.

Murphy: It's a metaphorical gesture.

Max: And we're metaphorical ferrets. So... um... maybe we better get back to singing.

Max and Murphy:
I'm walking backwards for Christmas,
To prove that I love you.

An imigrantal lad, loved an Irish colleen
From Dublin Galway Bay.
He longed for her arms,
But she spurned his charms,
And sailed o'er the foam away

(Murphy begins to dance back and forth)

She left the lad by himself, on his own
All alone, a-sorrowing
And sadly he dreamed, or at least that's the way it seemed, buddy,
That an angel choir for him, an angel choir did sing.

Murphy: I played the ukulele as the ship went down!

I'm walking backwards for Christmas,
Across the Irish Sea.
I'm walking backwards for Christmas,
It's the finest thing for me.

And so I've tried walking sideways,
And walking to the front.
But people just laughed, and said,
"It's a publicity stunt".

(Murphy dances back and falls off stage – we forgot again to mention that this was taking place on a stage, didn't we? We're bad about that. Lots of crashing, breaking of glass, bicycle horn, cat howling, bells tinkling and whistles – um – whistling.)

Max: Murphy! Are you okay?

Murphy (crawling back on stage): I'm fine. I'm not deaded. The garden trellis is a hopeless case, though.

Max: Mrs. Trellis won't be happy.

Murphy: Okay, we're mixing up the Goon Show with I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue. We better finish this.

Max: Good idea.

Max and Murphy:
So I'm walking backwards for Christmas
To prove that I love you.

Murphy: Waits for applause, not a sausinge.

Max: Waiting for donations, too! Please help, folks!

Murphy: You think this will work?

Max: Let's hope so.

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