Presenting - The Homeless Oncologist!

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

-from "Ode to the West Wind", by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The St. Louis area was hit by the worst ice storm in 30 years Thursday night. According to this local website, 389,657 people in the electrical company's service area are still without power.

I just happen to be one of the unlucky ones; in fact, if one takes into consideration that I got hit with gastroenteritis that same night, the only thing keeping me from applying as a stand-in for Job himself is the fact that my family and I can move in with my mother-in-law. (No, that doesn't qualify as a hardship, you comedians out there). My house is a delightful 54 degrees right now, which makes it perfect for a spelunking adventure, especially after sunset when it becomes an inspiration for Edgar Allen Poe, should he ever wish to write a sequel to "The Fall of the House of Usher." I might also mention that certain makes of cars have a tendency to get stuck in snow, ice and even a half an inch of slush - I am speaking from recent experience, you know. How embarrassing to have to ask my wife, "Could I have a push in ze snow?"

It is amazing what ice does to tree limbs. As I drive around my neighborhood I see twisted and mangled trunks, arms and legs lying in the snow, or leaning against fellow trees like wounded soldiers. Power crews are working around the clock to replace the scores of downed lines. Dozens of warming shelters have been set up for those who have no place to go. Holiday shopping has dropped noticeably. The afternoon air is laced with the scent burning wood and the sound of generators rattling. I drive back to my house once a day to check and see that it is still standing. The water is shut off and the rooms echo with unhappy silence.

The worst thing of all is that now both the dog and I leave our calling card behind whenever we step outside. How mortifying! Where's my copy of that poem by Shelley? Here, take it and read me that last line again, but fast!