10 posts tagged “death”
How is it that I can't steal a few minutes to post each day? I really ought to. Things get away from you when you wait too long---
The cancer situation:
After the July 16 scan showed new nodules in my right lung, I was referred to UC Davis for a consult and possible participation in a clinical trial. They took FOREVER (over a month) to review my records and give me an appointment. When they finally called, my appointment was the next day. And after all that, I got a "Fellow" who did the entire work-up, and got the main oncologist, who answered questions for 10 minutes. All they really want is to recruit - no interest at all in what's going on with you. He said, "You should be the poster child for lung cancer", as he was leaving the room. He seemed surprised I was so chipper, and the trial coordinator asked if I wanted a job! Problem is, with the Fellow and trial coordinator also in the room, I don't see how the doc could ever say something like, "This isn't very promising - don't do it." In not so many words he suggested returning to Tarceva as a single agent if I hadn't progressed.
I went on Tarceva (one of the cancer drugs I was on the past 2 years) as a single agent six weeks after my scan. It's Day 17 and still no rash, whose appearance and severity supposedly indicates its effectiveness. I'm getting worried that it no longer works, but overall pain has diminished, which I don't think is purely subjective. The accompanying fatigue is something I don't recall from last time, but maybe I felt so crappy I was just happy to breathe. If I have to move on, the next plan is a clinical trial (which can be scary, especially since I was in the "placebo arm" last time). The doc thinks the Halichondrin B trial at Davis, but I have other ideas. I'd rather do a targeted therapy (another inhibitor of some kind, like XL-184 or BIBW 2992, which isn't being tested anywhere near), and save the systemic chemos for last. It's difficult, trying to come up with a treatment sequence that balances quality of life with extension of overall survival. Research measures significance in increments, like 2 months. In real life one measures significance more in terms of quality of time, rather than length.
Recent brain MRI is clean, which is a relief for now. I was getting some crushing headaches for awhile. Also, three cheers for Naomi and Carolyn, whose continued strength, survival, and amazing characters keep me sane and inspired.
Househunting:
Still trying, though it's even more difficult now that my focus is on treatment and hubster's is on the string of non-stop, month-long work events that occurs each fall. Neither the hubs nor I care that much that we lost on offer #8 (large, half acre, end of the road). Maybe we're not really serious...It's just hard to do this when one person's perpetually gone and the other doesn't have alot of energy. Anyway nothing even approaches the disappointment of losing the house with the pool and outdoor kitchen. I bucked the idea of a pool for awhile, but I've reconsidered. These days I don't like to swim in open water because I can't rely on my lungs. Perhaps I don't trust others to save me, either, because most people are too busy enjoying themselves in the water with you to realize you've cramped or whatever and are going down. I suppose I could wear a lifejacket and fins, just to aid the confidence level, but building endurance is a priority regardless. So I'm all for a pool, now.
What else? The gardener pruned my sister's lemon tree and rather than waste so much fruit, I've been making (Morroccan) preserved lemons, lemon marmalade, lemon curd, lemon chutney, lemon ice cubes...I'll get to the Limoncello eventually...
It's a huge time-sucker, canning stuff. It's also therapeutic in a strange way. However, I now need a bomb shelter to store all this stuff.
The hubster's constant travels have a strange effect on my daily living. When he's home, I can't seem to relax---I'm in constant motion, and I'm tired. Is it the cooking, cleaning, laundry, running errands? True, I don't cook or do much laundry when he's gone, but somehow I find time to sit out on the deck, blog, read, watch a movie, and still accomplish the hundred other things I'm supposed to do. The tv is OFF, which is relaxing.
Inspite of this, I miss him terribly when he's gone. After a couple of days on my own, I'm usually rested or more exhausted by some random activity, and I'd rather have him around. While he sits around playing Guitar Hero or Wii, he asks why I won't join him. The response is usually, You want dinner (lunch, clean clothes, etc.), or you want me to play games?
Finally, it's been a tough month all around. My heart goes out to those who have lost loved ones.
I don't need reminders of my own mortality, but it makes me reflect on the changes I've made since getting cancer. I hope I'm a better person, more compassionate and sensitive. I recall vividly my inability to empathize (or maybe comprehend) when I'd hear of someone's diagnosis, death, or even the death or suffering of a relative when I was well. I took the death of a stray cat harder than most events. Lately I mourn friends' losses and suffering, and I have an overwhelming need to try to alleviate the suffering of those who can't seem to on their own (my brother, parents). Sometimes that's the hardest, as it's usually bourne of a problem with no solution. Death is that paradox, conferring relief and suffering simultaneously--to the departed and the survived. I suppose my death will be a relief, but I've got a bit of fight left. I probably need to reconsider how best to spend this time, though...
The days are waning, the rain has come, there's christmas stuff out on the costco floor...sigh.
Oh yeah, I did enjoy the Sausalito Art Festival, which really is about art (no doodads here). I usually go south on Labor Day weekend--it's my Dad's birthday, but I thought I'd be in full rash by then. See what happens when you try to plan for side effects? (Did I mention I cut my hair in anticipation of hair loss?)
It's cold and dark in the mornings now. I opened my eyes briefly in the wee hours and was momentarily startled by a dark figure floating above and slightly away from me. It only had an upper body, and it wore a hat. It looked like the Grim Reaper, actually.
If I were superstitious, I might come to the conclusion it was an "Aswang", a disembodied vampire of Filipino legend, which leaves its lower body on unsalted coconut tree stumps while it flies about in the night in search of food. Food could be small animals, lost children, or in another legend, the unborned fetus within a pregnant woman (I won't go into details). Or, I could just believe it's Death come to see if I'm doubting myself and ready for the "next emanation" (a Star Trek thing).
Alas, it was my black sweatshirt hanging beneath my Bahamas hat. Our four-poster bed has turned into a wardrobe due to the lack of closet space.
Anyway I've got two cats sleeping with and thereby protecting me, Egyptian religion-style. I've touched Death, and been close, I think, a few times. I don't need to see dark figures to feel its presence hovering about at any given moment. I respect it, and still don't quite know if my neural energy will just leave my body to be part of the collective unconcious or what (ok, a bit of transcendentalism hanging on from high school and some Star Trek mixed in), maybe reincarnate or go to join a large, divine (I subliminally spelled "diving" until I caught the error) deity. That's right, 2.5 years of pondering this and I just don't know. I don't think I'll be going up to meet a bearded blond guy with blue eyes wearing white robes, and St. Peter at the pearly gates, but I could be wrong there too.
Maybe I'll just hover about all the people I want to haunt...that would be the most fun.
Oh crap, I just lost a long post, but I'll try to recreate it.
I've been trying to get a grip on my situation---the idea of moving elsewhere, whether or not to stay with Kaiser or go with a PPO (which would financially drain us but allow me to explore other treatments/facilities), trying to research new treatments/clinical trials, as my pain is increasing and it seems inevitable I'll be moving to third-line treatment soon. I've spent hours on the computer, reading scientific abstracts about drugs that may be years before approval or turn out to be complete duds. It's not just exhausting, it's depressing. Then the clinical trial nurse called and told me to stop taking my chemo drug (Tarceva). I thought it had to do with the CT scan I had on Monday, but it was the two-year anniversary of my enrollment in the Genentech study, and there was a question as to whether the study would continue to provide the drug or if it now reverted to a paid prescription. Tarceva is expensive. It's about $3300/month's supply, and I don't know how much of that I'd have to pay, but I'm guessing it's not $10. I'm guessing it's ALOT. The whole day passed without a call and my anxiety was intense. I'd had this discussion with the previous clinical trial nurse and she said Genentech would continue to provide the drug *free of charge* as long as I did well/my physician kept me on it. Apparently that wasn't in writing anywhere, or it didn't matter. Relief, the study was going to continue with the freebie, but WTF, even if it became prescription, Kaiser can't afford to give me a couple of pills until I can get to the freakin' pharmacy? Now I was depressed and irritated. Luckily I had to harvest zillions of ripe tomatoes, which distracted me.
This morning I watched a video on PBS.org called The Truth About Cancer. Excellent, if not actually optimistic. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, thinking I should just accept that cancer's going to kill me in a matter of months and I need to make those "final" arrangements. I thought I'd go over to Leroy Siever's (newsman and friend of Ted Koppel) blog to see how he was doing. He's fought the most agressive and protracted battle on metastatic colon cancer that I've read about for almost three years. He's had all sorts of procedures---radio-frequency ablation, cryoablation, vertebrae replacement, chemo, radiation, conventional surgery, brain surgery...I saw the decline, but I was waiting for the post that signaled an upswing. I still had hope, because he soldiered on. Well, he died. On August 12. At least he read the last Harry Potter book, even if he won't see the last three films. Rest in peace, Leroy.
It's been a tearful morning. I began reading Leroy's blog soon after I was diagnosed, even before I started this blog (two years ago). I knew nothing about fighting "the war" or even how to express myself regarding the topic of "life during wartime". I know intellectually that no one lives forever, yet I can't help continue in my daily life as if I'll be around at Thanksgiving, and I don't know that I will. I can hope, but like many people in my life, I've become complacent and lax about time, simply because urgency is difficult to sustain over two years. I haven't been living as if each day, or week, might be my last. The hubby's definitely not focusing on that---his travels have increased and taken him farther away. He could be in Tierra del Fuego or the Canadian oil fields when I go to the next front (which is why we're supposed to move closer to family, but maybe he doesn't want to watch me go down). Communication is spotty in both areas. I worry that not only will he not be around when I need him most, but that he'll be beyond reach, and a whole day's flight away even if he is reached. I apologize for bitching about this constantly, but it's becoming an acute worry.
Wyoming made me want to marshall all my strength and resources for the fight ahead. I feel I need to train for it, because the medical team constantly mentions that I'm "not as strong as when (I) started". Although I feel better than when I started, chemo batters your body, and the stresses of living here (San Leandro) probably hasn't helped my frame of mind. So maybe moving to San Diego will be a healing experience, the way living in Alameda (when we still had two incomes) was during my first treatment. I'd be 85 miles from friends and family, but that's at least commuting distance. 20 miles would be more practical, but I can't think of anywhere in the area (San Bernardino-Riverside), except at elevations where I can't live, that nurtures my will to live. Is that all in my head? Travel is increasingly difficult, so the option of driving to get away isn't really an option (and hasn't been for about 10 years), especially not on a daily or even weekly basis. I can't afford to be depressed about where I'm living---I need to be uplifted by it. I doubt I'd be throwing pottery, because I wouldn't have a kiln. Anyway, we've been over this before. I just need to scope it out when I get down there, I guess. It certainly begs the question of how I managed to live there between 1994 and 1998. In 1998 I got a job in the mountains, which saved me from daily living in the pit, and I met the hubby, so I commuted on weekends to San Diego. All told, I survived 4 years with the help of a job in the mountains, air conditioning, Bruno, trips to Portland, OR in the summer, and commuting to Oceanside on weekends. Remove everything but the air conditioning, add in two cats, seeing friends and parents on weekends, pool, possibly dealing with familial stress....Hmmm. Doesn't sound uplifting.
Maybe we should consider a vacation house in Minnesota, where Mike's friends are. He wants to move there, and I wonder if he'd be home more if he felt like he had buddies to hang out with? Maybe I could go there for half the year.
Somehow I missed this on Friday.
Sigh.
"The Last Lecture" video on Randy's site is here. He'd had quite a few chemo combos, among them gemcitabine + Tarceva, which I've had separately, not together. He also tried Avastin, which sounds like it didn't work.
I've been looking at new clinical trials as well, and "the second generation of VEGF and EGF agents" are spoken of, as are vaccines. Problem with these trials is one usually can't qualify if they've had other tyrosine-kinase inhibitors...
Anyway, I haven't watched the entire "Last Lecture", nor have I read the book, nor have I written a will...Damn. I better get on it.
Recent scorecard, not including my breast cancer survivor friends, of whom there are at least 8:
Life 2
Death 4 (not to mention the ones I don't know about)
Undecided 3 (Naomi, jp, and I)
Maybe "Undecided" isn't the right category. Maybe it should be "In Battle", or "Waging War", or "Fighting Like Hell"...
Edit: FIGHTING LIKE HELL 3
The hubby's begun to travel again, thus the crack-of-dawn airport jaunts. I actually tried to go back to sleep after dropping him off. It was a lovely idea. Alas, the brain was already grinding away, despite the lack of coffee. Now I'm listening to KCRW (techno-I don't know why but it sounds good), listening to the construction drone from the next street, drinking coffee on the back deck. There's a crazy breeze, the sky's blue, another warm day. The garden is on steroids, lots of corn and an heirloom yellow pear tomato plant that's taller than me. I can't wait for the eggplants to mature! I've been using the herbs, but they should've gone into a long pot on their own.
My friend Betsy's death occupies my mind. I feel an onslaught of feelings I can't define----feelings not fully formed, flashes of memories, a sense of urgency to make my final instructions, and at the same time, a renewed feeling of wanting to be mindful. It's like Elizabeth Perkins says in the movie The Doctor---"I don't want to just rush through things anymore. I don't have the time." But now my house is a giant mess, turned upside down by my desire to organize and clean up before guests come, before we move, before I die...
I'm not being cynical. I need to be realistic. I've enjoyed a quality of life that's been amazing, by all accounts, and not one enjoyed by many late stage cancer survivors (I still don't know the right word, not wanting to use "patient", "victim", etc). It's more difficult now, to imagine a decline that could happen any day. It's harder to hold on to hope in the face of death. I don't have many options if/when I progress---I'm allergic to many available treatments. Then there's just the prospect of exhausting all possibilities. I wring my hands for my friend Naomi. I'm a worrywart, I can't help it. Our futures are bound by this hateful disease. (She has to put up with, "Would you like to donate to Breast/Prostate Cancer?" at the grocery store too)
Financial reality curtails my impulse to travel. I didn't attend Betsy's Celebration of Life service because I couldn't afford to go. I haven't felt like this since college years, when I had to decide between laundry or splurging on a burrito. But then, what am I saving for? How much longer am I going to live? Why should I bother ? So we can buy a house...and it better happen soon, because I feel that familiar twinge in my hip (the one that says maybe things are moving around in my bones and there's not a damn thing I can do about it).
I'm remembering Betsy with a luminaria at the ACS Relay for Life. She made such a difference in my life and outlook. The important thing was what we shared when she was alive. Which really is the crux of the matter. Yeah, you feel rushed to do stuff with everyone, to do all the meaningful things, big and small. At the end of each day, that's all you can do. I suppose I could utilize my days better than cleaning the house, but I do get to survey the territory of my life. I see the things I've collected (that I should put on Ebay now or figure out what to do with), the books I've read (Friends of the Library), the clothes I loved (hard to part with the vintage stuff), but truly, my favorite things are reminders of specific times of my life. And, some of the most potent times have no relics.
Since we're on about clothing...the past two years have been spent in sweats, t-shirts and jeans, otherwise unattractive clothes. I've gained lots of weight, my hair's a mess, my skin's a drag, and in many ways, I can't see spending money on clothes (more like, I just want to be comfortable and not self-conscious). Which is the antithesis of my previous attitude. Perhaps I need to try to look better, fat or not. At least for my husband's sake (but psychologists would tell me I need to do it for myself, even if I die tomorrow). Maybe I can also find something to make the nausea go away (it's been happening after treatment lately).
Last night I had a full-blown dream about Bruno. I actually think and dream of him quite often. I could joke that he's my daemon, that's how close we were.
As regards my health status: CT scan of 6/02 is stable (or at least, they can't tell what's going on in my bones). It's confusing---sometimes they say I have 2 tumors in my left lung, other times they mention one. This time it was one, and it was 4.1cm in April, and now 3.7cm. Watch, next time there'll be two. I had my 19th cycle of Alimta on the 4th, with Aredia (biphosphonate), which was changed to every six weeks instead of three. Apparently my kidneys are not happy. My chest feels sort of congested, and my bones do hurt, which is worrisome. And there's nausea, which makes me think toxicity is increasing rapidly. Sigh. But I'm still here, and planning to post more cheerful fare at some point.
I feel slightly confused, a bit like the weather, which is cloudy and muggy and warmish. I laugh at Anthony Bourdain, who could eat Balinese roast suckling pig till he loses consciousness and proclaims it the best he's eaten (and he gives a rundown of all his pork place highlights). I can certainly relate to his feeling that it's time to stop the madness and stay in paradise. I'm suddenly drawn to Bali, feeling deeply the insight of his commentary. But I digress.
April has been a month of cancer deaths, of people I only know through friends. The circumstance of their death rings home. I feel a strange and paralyzing sorrow. I shed tears for their families, and hope that the passing was a soft and quiet relief for the departed. I project my own hopes and fears, of course, and in large part my own grief. My friends held off telling me the news, the details. But I need to hear it. It's still an abstraction, but with every wheeze and stab of pain I wonder, is my time come?
Though this life is fraught with pain, sadness, hard times, it is also full of immeasurable beauty and love, the source of my longing and resistance to death. I wish I'd kept rockclimbing, rafting, cycling, hiking. I wish I'd thrown caution to the wind when I first entered college and thrown myself full-force into a creative major (fine art/museum studies or maybe literature/publishing). I wish I'd continued traveling about. If I had more time, I'd maybe do those things again, run footloose through flower fields. But probably not, because modern living seems so against unmerited pleasure. There's such a drive to work, earn, be productive, own things. I suppose in the end, it's a good thing I got a job with benefits, or where would I be now? On the other hand...
What did they (the departed) want in their last hours? To see their kids grow up, perhaps, or to finish something? None of my goals are super noble. I want to see the last three Harry Potter movies. I'd like to make sure my brother can sort of get by. I'd like to spend some time with my husband doing something other than work or fishing (this may be impossible), like maybe exploring London, relaxing in Bali, diving the Great Barrier Reef...Again, the thoughts of someone for whom death is imminent; not of someone who may experience a miracle. I'd like to think I've learned something about being on the brink of death, but I'm not sure I have. It doesn't seem that hard, and I don't know why I should feel guilty, but the bottom line is, ENJOY LIFE. So when Death comes, you can go with him and know that you gave it all you had.
I want to be able to hold my husband and tell him it's alright, I've had a good run. In my heart I've already given him my blessings for the rest of his life to come. He's stood by me and he deserves all that life has to offer (I just wish I could enjoy it with him, as this illness seriously changed our lifestyle). I want to be at peace when I go, maybe that's why I feel sad. I wonder if people are bitter at the hand they were dealt. I know I used to be, but it's luck of the draw.
Anyway, this isn't solving the fuzziness I feel. Best to move on to some other activity. As a sidenote, I'm on the 17th cycle of the present chemotherapy regimen. One more cycle and it'll be a year since I started it. My last CT scan was stable. I've been experiencing nausea a few days after treatment, and the skin rashes haven't abated, but I'm still up and about. I've toyed with the idea of researching treatments again, but, eh. I haven't made any plans for a big trip this summer...there seems to be something happening every month until September. Maybe I'll do something last minute like last year--- I need to fly while I can, and remember that there are weeks in between the sprinkling of events. I don't have time to squander.
Oh, and I finally read the last HP:
Many of his loved ones die. I guess it's sort of fitting.
I've traveled a bit this year, though the idea is shadowed by the fact that it meant I was away from Bruno a great deal too, on his last year of life. Which constantly focuses the view of spending time with people I care for, doing things I want, rather than either returning to work (not "career") or holing up in comfortable but complacent solitude (so easy to do). I, or someone else I love, could be gone in no time---poof! Gone. No negotiating. I don't consider a long, drawn-out death the right time to spend time with someone, either. They won't have good memories of it, and the dying person's too delirious for it to be meaningful (well, maybe).
Anyway, we got to Houston on Christmas Day. It's the second day at the Crowne Plaza....I'm listening to KCRW world music, I've finally constructed the charm bracelet I've had the makings for since May, and I may actually make it to the museum district. We chose this hotel because they feature TempurPedic beds. They're pretty nice, although I mysteriously pulled my shoulder blade in the night. So far I'm convinced we need a king-sized bed.
I'm starting to feel a little more normal. December vaporized in the wake of Bruno's death and heating/electrical issues at the house. I've really only been aware of time since Mike got home. The fog is starting to lift. Bruno's ashes are on the mantle, with a portrait of him taken at the Belle St house on top of the carved wooden box. Sadness still plagues me daily, but now I wonder if he was giving me the opportunity to spend more time with Mike, who's always on the road.
A friend of mine believes that when a pet dies, they've taken on the burden of death or illness from someone. Did Bruno buy me more time? Or my mother? Certainly he didn't deserve that fate, but if that's true...it doesn't make me feel better but it does make me wonder about those odd superstitions. Perhaps they're not superstitions at all.
2008 looms before me. Cancer has changed the way I look and live, almost to the point where I don't recognize myself. But I recognize the character fighting through the layers of side effects, restrictions, and psychological confusion---and they're having a tough time sorting through the challenges. I can't complain---there are millions whose life during cancer hasn't been so nice. But the specter of death is always at my side, and it darkens even the brightest days.
This year's obituary is full of famous figures that filled the landscape of my youth. Many of the "great" people who shaped my generation are gone or fading away. But that's another post.
As I eat my way across the south, I'm thinking of y'all. I'll shoot for more cheeriness in the next posts ;)
Nightime is the hardest, when the husband is traveling. Bruno was my entertainment, kept me warm, gave me a feeling of protection, made me think of something and nothing at the same time, reminded me that somewhere in the world there were less fortunate cats and humans, and that I needed to be grateful for my blessings. He was pretty much everything to me, really---a child, a friend, a companion, a dinner partner, a constant presence that swept light into the dark corners of my life and soul. His death is haunting.
I recently saw The Golden Compass, where humans were bonded with their "demons", which manifested themselves in the form of an animal who was never away from their human (except for witches). Bruno would certainly be my "demon", or the free will it symbolized in the movie. The protection I felt with him was akin to that believed in by the Egyptians, that cats were the guardians of life. I feel the loss of his alert and watchful eye, his protectiveness, and also his faith that I would protect him. (Still feeling the failure there.)
Before his death, I was full of "the Christmas Spirit", wishing it was something that we all carried all year long. That feeling vaporized with his death, my sadness and loneliness snuffing out every motivation in my path. I'm trying to quell my grief with activity, but then nighttime comes, and I recall Bruno going out to sit on the front porch. I now wonder if, like old men on front porch rocking chairs, he tried to warn me and I was blind, so he simply waited it out. I see his silhouette in the darkness, and wonder why that image haunts me so. Perhaps subconsciously I can relate. I'm just waiting too.
My parents say Bruno could no longer take the stress of moving, and neither could I. His love couldn't overcome the stress, and perhaps that's where I've been the past few years. So many lessons, and still counting. I think a mini-biography is coming, but that will take time. He's been with me for almost a third of my life, and his death has affected me much more than others I've experienced. I know this has to do with my own impending mortality, and refocuses me on not just spending time with loved ones, but spending that time the best way possible. This could be just hanging out, but it could also mean talking about things previously off-limits, setting the record straight, getting stuff off everyone's chest about the past. Or not. Maybe these things are all petty and ridiculous now, not worth the thought, or better, totally worth forgiveness. Which is pretty much where I am.
I feel a deep emptiness. One wonders how this is possible, but my love for Bruno had already matured by the time I met my husband. No man was a match for Bruno, at the time. Lucky for the husband, Bruno approved. Lucky for me that the husband accepted the set, because we came as a non-negotiable set. And that's how important Bruno is to me, that I would choose him over a man. Stranger than fiction, I know.
Anyway, life goes on. Perhaps I'll rest easier once I receive his ashes. Maybe I'll feel less lonely, knowing there's something of him in the house.
Beautiful evening. I'm awash with emotions. I've just taken the first walk on the beach since returning from London, and suddenly I appreciate what it means to live near the ocean. This is why I can't move inland, this is why Minnesota will never work out for long. San Diego came rushing back to me, but mostly, the feeling that if you could be on the sand, in the water...you could be healthy. You could live. You could, maybe, parasail, and join the colorful orgy of kites over the blue-green water.
Taking big gulps of air, admiring the perfect shimmer of the grey-gold sand, I felt renewed, felt happy again. Gone was the feeling of blandness, of boredom with the uninteresting landscape. Here was a great and simple thing: sand and water, and people strenuously fighting the wind in their sails, trying to bring them onshore. I wanted to feel their health surge through me. I could almost remember the rapid beating of my heart and the feeling of my lungs expanding to hold more air. I've always loved that feeling, and could only get it outdoors. Stepping onto the sand was all I needed.
I used to be such a "nature freak", holding Aldo Leopold's Sand County Almanac and stories of the Round River as my bible. I loved hiking desolate places like Wyoming's Windriver Range. I considered moving to Colorado, Montana, Wyoming. Alas, all landlocked. I'm tied to the sea.
High altitudes are out, I'm told, because of my condition. This leaves out a few places I'd hoped to see, like Chimayo, New Mexico. But, maybe I'll defy that too. I'll have to make the best of it. There are plenty of rivers and low-altitude hikes, and shucks, Madame Ocean beckons. I'll content myself with snorkeling, and cover up from head to toe in an attempt to keep my dragon skin from worsening. It's silly to even discuss any of this. It's amazing I talk of future travels, like I have all the time in the world to plan.
Reading Roy Siever's NPR blog My Cancer reminds me that once you have cancer, there's an inability to forget. No matter how good you feel and perform, even in comparison to those without the disease, you carry the anxiety of not knowing how you'll feel the next day, the next week, the next month...the next trip. I'll make plans for Christmas, but I truly have no idea if I'll be here. As Roy so eloquently replied to Ann Romney (Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney's wife), who remarked in People Magazine, "Couldn't I just have cancer and die?", rather than MS, which she was suffering from:
Cancer does not bring a quick death. Cancer is painful and debilitating. Cancer wreaks havoc on the life of anyone who has it, and the lives of the people who care about them. Cancer twists the present and steals the future. Cancer hurts. It hurts so badly that sometimes you can barely stand it. Cancer is not something to be sought after. Cancer is not the lesser of evils. Cancer is the Beast, the Monster, the Murderer. I know there are diseases out there that are crueler than Cancer. I know there are those whose burdens are heavier than ours. But cancer is not an easy way out.
So although it seems like I'm just traipsing about, traveling without a care in the world, the truth is, I'm running from death. It's impossible, of course, but on bad days I find that all the books and movies and distractions all lead me back to my raison d'etre - Travel, Adventure, Art - to what mystery might await at the next stop. Surely an appeal of this earnestness could cause Death to reconsider for a few moments longer, and allow Faith and modern medicine to intervene with a remedy to extend my stay long enough for one more excursion into the world I've only read and dreamed of.
I love my friends.
What will I think, if anything, when I'm on my deathbed? Will I think of early morning drunken jaunts to Naugles with Julie, crazy Portland roadtripping with Tara, endless shows with Lisa, driving down a pitch black stretch of desert highway listening to Japanese country-western with Suzanne, wearing beautiful vintage clothes and Sorrels to walk to work in 25 below blizzards in Utah with Monica, canoeing Emerald Canyon with Robin, singing Moon River on a plateau overlooking the Green River with Liane.............camping with Michael?
Life is too short.
