H.L. Goodall Jr.'s Blog, page 3

A Change in Plans, Dammit

One of the hardest parts of me being a human being has been accepting my limitations. From the childhood little boy who protested against bedtime because he wasn’t finished with the story yet; the same little boy who had to eat the liver and onions, (which, even smothered in catsup still tasted like urine); and the same kid who blamed the bike for him falling off of it despite the obvious fact that he was going way too fast down that hill and couldn’t turn fast enough to avoid crashing into the Roman fountain and had to be rescued from the water by astonished nuns to the adult who, with Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer still stubbornly clings to the fiction that he can still do what he used to do … well, it has been my hubris, my stubborn insistence to – as my pal Steve Linstead put it in a note to me this week – “keep on keepin’ on,” that no doubt amuses God as much as it frustrates me.

So it was with great reluctance to accept, finally, the overwhelming and persuasive physical evidence that a six-week trip to the UK would be foolish if not downright foolhardy. The fact is I lack the energy.

The fact is I can’t do a whole day of fun activities – from small ones such as taking the tube to the War Museum and back, then again venturing out to a play that evening, to the larger ones such as attending the thousand-boat and million people Regatta in honor of the Queen’s Jubilee – and there is no way I would want to be a drag on the Summer Abroad students or fellow faculty.

The fact is my sleep is not what it used to be, even in a bed I know, nor are the results of this latest aggressive chemo treatment yet known, nor nor nor a bunch of other groans, moans, and maladies real and imagined I won’t bore you with but I’m sure you can figure out. The facts are what they are. My human body – the carbon-based casing of my ever-watchful soul – is fighting the good if vain fight against a disease that will not sleep, will not cease its assault on my internal organs, and will not be put on hold just so I can do what I want to do. 

That little boy who didn’t accept his limitations has become the man who now must.

As one of my writer heroes, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., famously put it: So it goes.

*** 

San was the one who broached the topic and who, as always, has the best argument. “We have fond memories of our trips to the UK,” she said, patiently, “let’s not tarnish them with what we can’t do on this one.” She wanted to go at least as much as I did, so her willingness to forgo the trips on top of the physical evidence of my decline in energy, when added to Dr. Robin’s treatment schedule that would have delayed our departure anyway and more so if the scans showed bad things, well, as I said, the evidence was and is overwhelming.

Plus, honestly, I am worried about the toll all of this has taken on my Rabbit. She is a strong and singular woman, but having lived day and night with me, gotten the diagnosis and worried with me; cried with me; made me laugh to stop that slow slide from obvious worry to just feeling sorry for myself; dealt with my aches and pains and chemo brain and uncertainties; scheduled my appointments and kept up with prescriptions and then on top of that deep, constant, unrelenting emotional labor also made sure our everyday family needs are met, I know she is bone and brain tired. My interrupted sleep is her interrupted sleep. Our interrupted life together, our interrupted dreams, these are the storylines we no longer entertain. The fact of those absences in our talk, too, takes an ineffable toll.

Realism, pragmatism, call it what you will. I only know that I will do whatever I can to make her life, and Nic’s life, less stressful. Canceling the UK trip accomplishes that. When I agreed with that change in plans, both of them were relieved. And, truthfully, as much as it hurts me to accept that limitation – that prideful little boy still lives inside – so too was I.

*** 

Here’s a cheery thought, and it’s a fact that San and Nic remind me of lately: I have beat the long odds. I am still alive.

Next month it will be one year since I got sick and found out why. For a person in Stage 4 with Pancreatic Cancer that fact moves me into a new statistical category. According to everyone including my doctor and the veteran oncology team, I still “look good.” All of us are hoping, praying, urging on all of the positive forces we can muster against this disease. All of us are aligned in our belief that this new round of the old aggressive treatment that worked before will work again.

Yes, there has been a change in our plans. I won’t pretend that participating in the UK program wasn’t a goal that set for ourselves early on, or that meeting that goal wasn’t a prime motivator for us these past eleven, nearly twelve, months. Yes, we are disappointed. But goals and plans can change – must change – if and when they become untenable or threaten to interfere with other goals that are more important.

Right now the most important goal is to make the most of each and every day in an environment that is conducive to it, has the support we need, and won’t bring on undue stress or needless worry. Right now, that place is here. In June we move back into our own home after two years of rentals and all of us are looking forward to that.

Friends are already planning to visit. It’s summer and our pool is shaded by palm trees. It’s all good.

That little boy inside me still wants to burst into the sunshine and go for a swim …

***

The "Not Bad" News: Returning to "What Worked" in the Hope it Works Again

“The scans show some new dark spot on your liver … and your marker is up to 1900.” Dr. Robin delivers the news in a clear and compassionate voice. The good news is there is no growth in the pancreas tumor, my lungs are clear and my heart is good. There are some questionable areas near my spine, but nothing active. And my newly found back pain may just be a muscle pull.

It’s the back pain that had San and me worried. For the past two nights I couldn’t sleep and despite taking one of those magical oxy painkillers, I still couldn’t lie on my back. So, at two a.m. I moved to the recliner. At four, to the couch. Which means that San also moved, didn’t sleep, and whereas I worried about what might be causing the pain and what might be done to alleviate it, San worried about all of it. She had done some reading. It could be that the mass on my pancreas was growing again, pressing against a group of nerves, radiating throughout my left side.

But it was not that, apparently.

Dr. Robin said she woke up at 3 a.m. and knew I was in pain. She had been considering possible new plans before she fell asleep. “So I think what we need to do is go back to what works for you,” she said after sharing the results. “We’re ready to start today,” she offered.

I nodded. I had kind of been expecting it. San and I had talked about it. San asked some questions about the possibility that a return to such an aggressive protocol might damage my heart, etc.

“No,” replied Dr. Robin. “These are not the chemo drugs or dosages that pose those risks.” She explained that for persons suffering from some kinds of leukemia or other cancers that may be the case because of the size of the dosage required to fight the bad cells.

“Okay, then, let’s get started.” The plan is to “zap” the rogue cells and the new lesions in the liver with four rounds of the same stuff we used last year to get the marker down and kill off the growth of the tumor and previous liver lesions. Unlike the “lightweight maintenance chemo” that I really don’t like due to the longer recovery cycle, the old protocol only requires 6-7 hours once every two weeks. Recovery time should be relatively short, although it does come with the old sensitivities to cold, chemo brain, the need for three days of fluids, and wearing the dreaded fanny pack “pump” for 46 hours following the initial treatments. Robin believes this total zapping is our best hope to be not only reduce the blood marker and turn the lesions into scar tissue, but also for being able to go the UK with only a chemo pill for maintenance.

We shared hugs. It was time to begin again.

*** 

The Room of Orange Chairs – actually two rooms separated by the chemo prep and lab area – was packed with patients, but my old trusty seat was waiting for me, and one smaller non-reclining seat for San. The oncology nurses and Jan are busy, busy. But never to busy to share a smile and welcome us back.

Today is “Happy Dance” day for Felicia and Don, a couple about our age whom we have known since their first day, and for Patricia/Patty, who we have met once before. Felicia is doing much better now and looks good; she and Don are more than ready to resume normal lives. Patty also looks good and, having just turned 20 and beaten a large cell cancer that grew a tumor throughout her chest that tried seriously to kill her, has maturity and strength far greater than her age. Today she is done with chemo and next week she begins a follow-up radiation protocol. She is cheerful and full of the hope and laughter and making plans (“I just want to use what I’ve been through to help others”) to become an ultrasound tech. Her spirit exudes positive energy. She says she might YouTube her Happy Dance.

There are others in the room who are new to us, but not new to treatment. One fellow with some bold rock n roll tats is nodding his head in time to what I learn is Radiohead. There is a sad fellow next to me who is older, has hearing problems, and is worried because even though the nurses have explained to him how the day will unfold, arranged for his doctor visit, and otherwise catered to his every whim, he can’t remember any of it. Fortunately, his wife is there to help soothe his anxieties, but she, too, either can’t recall or needs clarification on most things. My heart goes out to them and to the busy nurses. It’s that kind of morning. How they manage it, and manage to keep their own good spirits and high level of professionalism, is amazing.

*** 

I flash back to our meeting with Robin, to a funny interlude in an otherwise serious conversation. As some readers of this blog know, until I got this cancer diagnosis I had led a relatively healthy and pain-free life. So my experience with ordinary, over-the-counter drugs has been minimal. One of the by-products of dealing with the aches and pains associated with this disease has been a new and rather intimate relationship with Advil.

I am, however, reluctant to take the full allowable measure of it. I explain this reticence to Dr. Robin and she agrees that taking pills is something she resists as well, but that I could up my intake of Advil to three at a time (600 mg, with a max of 2400 mg per day), particularly if it rids me of back pain.

“It’s kind of like being in a twisted Monty Python film,” I say.  “What did he die of?” (I use by best British accent). “Oh, he had terminal cancer but it was the Advil that killed him.”

“That takes me back to college,” Robin says, smiling.

We’ve gotten to know Robin during the past three months. We have learned that in addition to her rightful billing as an award-winning compassionate physician with a strong and loyal patient following, she is at heart a Southern girl, a product of William & Mary as well as Vanderbilt University, and herself a cancer survivor. She has been where her patients “are” when they get the diagnosis. She understands the various challenges that come with it, the side effects of treatments, and the uncertainties of all of it. She is a petite woman, a lovely person with a large heart and this work is her life.

*** 

We completed the first treatment and I put on the fanny pack. Or tried to. Monica realized that the pack delivered to me had a belt intended for a much smaller person, so I ended up wearing the pack over my shoulder. Later, at home, Nic would find a substitute belt from his gym bag.

It had been a full day. The fine oncology team was once again a true to their rare ability to make that six or seven hours in an orange chair a pleasant experience, fun with friends, with only the chirp of the chemo delivery systems, the occasional totally bald woman or man, and the common topic of cancer in our talk a reminder that we are here for a reason. The team offers hope against all odds. They work for miracles that occasionally happen. They are saddened when things don’t work out. They deal with patients who present them with a wide range of human vulnerabilities and weaknesses, pains that can be managed and fears that cannot always be denied and so must be handled honestly with the care and compassion of true professionals.

On the drive home, San and I are relieved that the news we got was not so bad and that we continue to be in the hands of a team, and surrounded by the love and support of a community and family that help make our journey through Cancerland a rewarding lesson in the best of what humans can be.

Probably you know, as we know, that this is a terminal disease. That fact won’t change. At some point in the future – we hope not too soon – the scans will come back with truly bad news and when that happens, we will deal with it. I am blessed to have San and Nic always by my side. We are blessed by the love of our family and extended families, our close friends, colleagues, caregivers, and all of you who join us on these pages, on Facebook, and elsewhere. We know you will continue to be there for us.

But we are not there yet. We are still here, beneath what the poet T. S. Eliot once described as “under the twinkle of a fading star.”

So tonight, and every day and night, let’s celebrate that twinkle, let's celebrate life. For it is in our celebrations that life itself is justly rewarded, our connection to each other honored, and our miraculous lives become truly blessed.

***

The Saturday Before Easter

The Saturday before Easter is not like the night before Christmas. Not is it like the day before a birthday, and certainly it has nothing in common with New Year’s Eve. No.

The Saturday before Easter is a liminal zone – a place “betwixt and between” – Good Friday and Easter Sunday, part of a three-day observance in the Christian faith of the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ, a time that often corresponds to the Jewish tradition of celebrating Passover. Saturday is remembered, and, among some sects is commemorated, as “Holy Saturday,” the day Jesus lay in his tomb. As such, Holy Saturday is a good day to reflect on what it all means. What does the story of Easter provide us? What does it mean to me?

***

First, the date for the celebration itself. Easter is a “moveable feast” in that the date for its observance depends on the date of the last full moon and how that date is calculated. From a convenient wiki you can Google using nothing more than the word “Easter” (and a wiki with other useful links included, such as the excerpt that follows): 

The First Council of Nicaea (325) established the date of Easter as the first Sunday after the full moon (the Paschal Full Moon) following the northern hemisphere's vernal equinox. Ecclesiastically, the equinox is reckoned to be on March 21 (even though the equinox occurs, astronomically speaking, on March 20 in most years), and the "Full Moon" is not necessarily the astronomically correct date. The date of Easter therefore varies between March 22 and April 25. Eastern Christianity bases its calculations on the Julian calendar whose March 21 corresponds, during the 21st century, to April 3 in the Gregorian calendar, in which the celebration of Easter therefore varies between April 4 and May 8.

The “correct” date is still in dispute. As late as 1997 the World Council of Churches proposed a global change making use of scientific calculations that would finally provide one universal date for Easter. While the WCC approved that proposal, it has yet to be implemented.

***

Easter is considered a Christian celebration, but not all Christians celebrate Easter. The Puritans, for example, saw it as a “Popish” invention and refused to recognize it. They and other Christian literalists – Congregationalists, Anabaptists, Quakers, etc. – have also (and rightly) equated the celebration of Easter with pagan rituals of fertility/Spring. Some of the Founding Fathers, including Thomas Jefferson, didn’t believe in what he called the “magic and superstition” surrounding the Easter story. In Jefferson’s case, he created his own Bible solely made from the teachings of Jesus.

For those Christians who do celebrate Easter, the key ideas summarized from the relevant scriptures are: Jesus foresaw and foretold his own death during the Last Supper; he was crucified, betrayed, and buried; the tomb where he was buried was the next day found empty; and for the next 40 days he appeared as the risen Lord before various men and women. For example: 

John 20:19-25

19Then the same day at evening, being the first day of the week, when the doors were shut where the disciples were assembled for fear of the Jews, came Jesus and stood in the midst, and saith unto them, Peace be unto you.

20And when he had so said, he shewed unto them his hands and his side. Then were the disciples glad, when they saw the LORD.

21Then said Jesus to them again, Peace be unto you: as my Father hath sent me, even so send I you.

22And when he had said this, he breathed on them, and saith unto them, Receive ye the Holy Ghost:

23Whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them; and whose soever sins ye retain, they are retained.

24But Thomas, one of the twelve, called Didymus, was not with them when Jesus came.

25The other disciples therefore said unto him, We have seen the LORD. But he said unto them, Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe.

Another favorite passage, called “The Great Commission” reads: 

Matthew 28:16-20

16 Then the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. 17 When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. 18 Then Jesus came to them and said, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. 19 Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”

Scholars have long disagreed about the meaning and contested these accounts, as they were written a long time after the historical Jesus walked the Earth and may reflect the interests and goals of early church leaders. But for the faithful these disagreements or doubts about the resurrection are beside the point; you either accept on faith the truth of a risen Christ who sits on the right hand of God and his promise of eternal life, or you don’t.

***

The Easter Bunny and colored Easter eggs may seem to have little to do with the risen Christ, but in fact they are symbolically related. Bunnies are symbols of fertility, of Springtime, of a “rebirth” of all that gives us life. The eggs of Easter are colored red (the blood of Christ) or green (fertility/Springtime).

Why eggs? Two reasons. For Catholics, the 40 days preceding Easter known as Lent were traditionally a time when the eating of eggs was forbidden. So, given that hens don’t stop laying eggs for religious holidays, there were a lot of eggs available for the Easter celebration. Second, eggs symbolize new life. Hence, the seemingly odd combination of the Easter Bunny and a basket of colored eggs hidden for children to find provide a metaphor parallel to Santa Claus and gifts for children under the tree at Christmas. 

Full disclosure: I favor bunnies of all kinds, real, symbolic, and especially chocolate. I also like stories with rabbits in them, from Alice in Wonderland to the recent film Hop. So it is that I don’t mind an Easter Bunny component in an otherwise sober tale of death and rebirth. If anything, a big happy rabbit distributing colored eggs to enchanted children places the story’s emphasis on joy in life, and that just makes me smile.

*** 

These are some of the relevant facts, symbols, and speculation to inform a contemporary understanding of Easter. But you can fully appreciate the facts, know about the symbols, and have read through reams of scholarly speculation and still not “know” the meaning of Easter. That knowledge is the mystery of faith and it transcends the secular stuff. I’m not even sure that you have to believe all of the supposed facts (I don’t), or buy into the symbols, or have read various interpretations to arrive at an acceptance of what the Easter story gives to us or inspires within us.

The stories that make up the life of Jesus provide Christians with a Master Narrative. They teach us by example and by parable how we may choose to live, how we should treat and be of service to others, how to accept and atone for our inevitable failures, and why we should believe that there is a purpose and meaning to the awe and all of it that we, too, are part of. But it is the singular Easter story of the death and rebirth of Jesus, the transformation of a human life into an immortal story that inspires me and confirms my faith.

Why? Because for me, the Easter story is the ultimate story of hope, of redemption against all odds, not “a life everlasting” so much as an eternal peace born of finally knowing our narrative place, the storied place God makes for us, out here among the stars. There is no greater story than that.

Riddle Me This ...

"Which creature walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon,

and three legs in the evening?"

The Riddle of the Sphinx

When you get a cancer diagnosis it is very much like being exposed to a riddle. You want to know the answer but you have to live with the riddle to find it. Maybe the answer is obvious when you finally arrive at it, but getting to it never is. For a really challenging riddle is never solved by logic alone. And cancer is certainly a challenging riddle.

When I think back over the past 10 months since I got the diagnosis the riddle I’ve been given to solve has been very much a community project. I’ve had the help of family, friends, colleagues, caregivers, and so many other people – many of whom I’ve never met – who send me prayers, hope, best wishes, music, poems, jokes, and heartfelt sympathy.

Part of my riddle has been learning to accept not only the reality of my disease but the gifts of love and friendship that are part of how I have learned – we have learned – to live with it. Another part of my riddle is written here in this blog, the part where I try to “show what it is like to” live this way, and in so doing to maybe help others.

I don’t have the answer to my cancer riddle completely worked out yet. But I’m getting there. I imagine that when I figure it out it will be a simple, elegant truth – like the answer to the Riddle of the Sphinx – and that my response to having achieved the insight will be nothing less than a smile and a “Yes!”

So, narrative/riddle detective that I am, I continue to search for clues. I continue to look for – and to find – connections between and among persons, places, words, and things. Out there is “The Big It” and just as the secret to solving any good riddle is patience enough to be open to pure insight, part of the quest I am on requires exactly the same openness. Every day offers new possibilities …

***

When we went in for my weekly “vampire draw” of blood, San and I were happy to see Jobbee getting her final round of chemo. Hurrah! Readers of this blog will recall that she was the first person I talked to about the treatment, back when I was still doing the aggressive protocol and she had just started it. Over time we became chemo buddies, got to know her daughter, and always rooted for each other. And this week she gets the “Happy Dance” and maybe a life free of chemo, maybe not forever, but at least for a while.

What you feel for someone who makes it through a challenging protocol – and they are all challenging, on way or another – is a shared sense of pride. It’s hard to explain. But not everyone makes it through all the treatments, and even for those of us who have completed it, there are times when we just don’t want to do this anymore. So sticking it out, making it through, arriving at that Happy Dance day carries with it a sense of accomplishment as well as relief. We are proud of ourselves and we are also proud of each other.

*** 

San and Nic spent part of Tuesday evening and most of Wednesday morning making Poppy Seed Chicken, roasted broccoli, rice, and an Angel Food cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream for the Four Winds Cancer Clinic team. This task required chopping into bite-size pieces about seven pounds of chicken breast, and since I am no longer using knives Nic stepped up.

We delivered the feast just after eleven o’clock and I then dutifully took my seat in the orange chair, San by my side as always. Turns out that my blood work was good but my platelets are borderline. While it is fine with these lower numbers to proceed with the treatment, Doctor Robin reduced the Gemzar dosage by 20%. Probably this means I’ll have less negative side effects and a reduced recovery time, so I am thankful for that. For some reason, this “lightweight maintenance chemo” drug kicks my ass. 

But I digress. That negative thought was but a moment that quickly passed, replaced by the aroma of warm Poppy Seed Chicken …

Should I say the obvious? Like Hemingway’s famous perfect sentence: “The beer was cold.” Except in this case: The food was good. When the reviews from the team members came in, it was clear that San and Nic spread a lot of Poppy Seed happiness today!

***

The oncology team was in their usual fine spirits even though the clinic was packed with patients and the machines that deliver the magic potions were particularly finicky. Mercury must be in retrograde. By “finicky” I mean that the machines “beep-beep-beep,” which is a minor thing admittedly, but when three of them are beeping at the same time but not in sync, well, it’s aurally disconcerting. Usually these machines require nothing more than a reset, which doesn’t take long to accomplish. Still it keeps the nurses and Jan and Donna hopping back and forth between the two rooms to hit the stop/reset buttons in addition to their usual chores.

We were reunited with our Connecticut pal and were pleased to hear that his treatment is going exceedingly well. “Doctor Robin says she didn’t expect to see results like these so soon,” he grins. That news is cause for a genuine “hurrah” and we give him one. So, too are we happy for the couple that we share a longer history with and for whom this treatment has been rough. But the good news is that they have only one more treatment after this one, and you can tell they are more than ready to be done with it. 

Across the room is a new fellow – or I should say new to us, as he has been a patient here for a few months, just not on the days we’ve been here. His name is Mike and he, like me, is a jokester and a talker. We exchange a few details of our disease and treatment – his is a blood problem that has rendered him nearly diabetic and that threatens his kidneys. I don’t know what triggered the problem but I get the sense it was a negative side effect of something else – maybe chemo, maybe radiation. He tells a couple of “eye” jokes – I gather he’s an optometrist – and I counter with my new favorite riddle:

What is greater than God, worse than the Devil; the rich need it, the poor have it; and if you eat it you will die?

(Answer at the bottom of this post).

This riddle stumped the room and I finally gave them the one-word answer. “Ahhhh …” the chorus replied. Makes perfect sense.

Have you figured it out yet?  Logic may not get you there, even though once you know the answer the logic is impeccable. Instead, open yourself to insight …

*** 

As the magic potions flow into me Jan tells us that she can sense a change in the tone of my blog. “You are less upbeat” seems to sum it and I can tell she is concerned. I tell her not to worry. I think if there is a change in my tone maybe it’s because I write the blog on the two down days following this new chemo drug that, as I said earlier, kicks my ass. “But I’m still the same optimistic fellow I’ve always been,” I assure her.

Which is true. I still wake up each morning filled with gratitude for another blue and apricot Arizona sunrise, for my family and friends, for another day to search out God’s handiwork in the intricate beauty of this world and the wonder of the skies. I have been able to block out a lot of potentially negative emotions by simply accepting life as it is, knowing that there are things I cannot change but aware also that I can still do some good. That doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally “wallow” (San’s term) in a little self-pity or shed a few tears, but San and Nic don’t tolerate much of that. They find ways to jolly me back to a more positive frame of mind. 

But today Jan is a cheerleader for me and I appreciate her efforts. As a person living with cancer herself she is acutely aware of the importance of living each day as fully and as richly as we can. She had a much rougher time of it in her old chemo days, back when she had to work regardless of how badly she felt or how weak she was. She never missed a day. Now she works here at the clinic, helping all of us by sharing her strength, her sense of humor, and her compassion. Plus those painted fingernails! Each week it seems they are colored to a new theme, sometimes representing holidays, sometimes just something whimsical. She also dresses the part, so there is a certain thematic elegance to her fun. Jan always makes me smile.

*** 

So, some good news! The decrease in my dosage made a huge difference in my energy level and today, a day I would normally spend dozing and feeling fluish, I am instead pretty much normal. I slept well (San “pilled me like a dog” with Benedryl) and only took one short nap.

Next week is an “off” week so with any luck the making of new platelets and white blood cells will continue apace. Then, before I see the Doc again I go in for more scans and blood work to see if Gemzar is doing what it was designed to do.

Best outcome? That my blood marker is reduced back down into the normal zone and I don’t require further chemo. Monica is hopeful and so are we. But in the meantime, I’m just fine taking one day at a time. And Anna Brown has promised to deliver some more of her delicious cookies on Sunday …

***

Answer to the riddle: Nothing.

A Cool Metal Moose

The cool metal Moose arrived in a large shipping box from Florida, a gift from our pal Harvey. He and I had visited an art shop in St. Petersburg last December – back when I was in remission – and the one they had at that time was too large to justify a purchase. Where would we put it? But Harvey knew how much I admired it and true to his Harvey-spirit, he returned to the shop later to inquire about a smaller version. Hence, the cool metal Moose that now adorns our living room, hopeful green eyes always on me, a smile on his lips and no doubt a little mischief in his heart.

Receiving this gift was an unexpected pleasure. It brightened an otherwise ordinary week, a week complete with a second round of chemo in the second cycle of a prescribed treatment designed to lower my CA-19/9 marker, and the predictable resulting steroid-generated 24-hour high that then quickly descends into a two-day “mild flu” with backaches and a pervasive accompanying tiredness, a tiredness that this morning as I write this blog I am still partially suffering from.

But just looking over the table beyond my chair to that happy metal Moose puts a smile on my chemo face, reminds me of Harvey and the good times we’ve shared, offers the hope there will be more of them, and pulls me out of the doldrums.

***

Chemo day at the Clinic this week was quick and relatively painless, although the infusions that I now receive on a weekly basis have bruised my port. No biggie. The needle only hurts going in and if that’s the worst thing I have to deal with, hey, I’ll suffer it gladly. The Room of Orange Chairs was packed this week anyway, and the oncology nurses and staff were plenty busy with a host of chores. San and I spoke with Monica about her great news – her daughter Lainie won’t need any more venous malformation treatments – and Lauren and I laughed at Bette Midler’s Sophie Tucker jokes, although I have no idea how that topic came up! Jan and I talked a bit about sodium in our diets and the other patients joined in with this and that. Then we were through. This 1 ½ hour poisoning goes by quickly.

So from that point of departure San and I know I have about 24 hours of “good Bud” to live and enjoy before the crash brings me back down and the “mild flu” sets in. It will be a time to get some grocery shopping completed, watch a movie or two, enjoy conversation (well, “enjoy” might be a stretch for those around me as I tend to talk nonstop while the steroids are in charge of my system), and not sleep very much. 

But it is also leaves enough time for San and I to have lunch with Angela at Paradise Bakery, which is always fun. Our conversation cuts across a variety of subjects, from school stuff to summer plans to “The Hunger Games,” which San and I plan to see on Sunday. Angela hasn’t read the books, but her daughter Anna and her husband Jeff have read them, which then becomes a longer conversation about what books teens should read, particularly teenagers like Anna, who is older and more mature and incredibly well read for her age.

We part company just as my full-on steroid high is descending into an empty steroid low, and I spend the rest of the day in a recliner more or less watching “Sweet 16” NCAA basketball. And more or less sleeping.

Each time I awoke there was this very cool metal Moose staring at me. [image error] 

*** 

On Monday I return to teaching and Spring Break – such as it was – is over. There are only four more full weeks of classes, plus another half week, then exams. I am very much looking forward to completing the term – I have had such good classes – but also I am very much looking forward to what comes after that. Assuming that my health holds steady – and so far it has – San and I are off to the UK for six glorious weeks beginning May 18th.

I will be teaching in our Summer Abroad program and, along with two other faculty members and 27 students, we will spend two weeks in London, ten days in Dublin, and another couple of weeks in Edinburgh. I cannot tell you how much San and I look forward to it! After all we have been through this year, well, it will be a grand time. With side trips to Cambridge to see Mark de Rond and York to see Steve Linstead, plus our always planned for trek to the Isle of Skye … ah, just thinking about it fills me with happy anticipation. 

One piece of good advice that docs give you when you get a cancer diagnosis like mine is that it I important to have goals. Short term goals and longer term goals. They give you something to look forward to, and on those down days when nothing much motivates you, keeping in mind a goal you very much want to accomplish can bring you back to life. This planned trip to the UK has done a lot of that work for San and me. Fingers crossed for continuing good health reports! 

The cool metal Moose is smiling at me again. I read it as a hopeful smile. And I take that smile as a very good sign.

***

Family Communication and Cancer: Chapters and Choices

It was not so hard believing in the end
as long as it remained abstraction,
shadow the wind dragged through
waist-high grass, a passage like the wave
some philosophers say our lives are,
a body stirred from nothing
to brief crescendo, then dropped
into nothing once more. Each one of us
will take our turn crossing that field,
far from the lights of cities, nameless
under nameless stars. Alone
in that emptiness, the small gears
of civilization dither and lock,
and the older, larger gears, the ones
ever-turning and ever-silent, let themselves
be heard for a moment, long enough
to let us know the shadow
on the edge of the field is no mirage.
But we are not the wind. We have
a choice which direction we take.

--From Al Maginnes, “The Edge of the Field”

I was asked by our friend and my newest ASU colleague, Dr. Kathy Miller, to discuss “cancer and the family” in her graduate seminar last Monday night. I was happy to do it. Her students have been reading my blog and their questions were informed and polite, plus I had the advantage of having talked through some of what I might say with San, who gave me the theme I ended up using: “That when you receive a cancer diagnosis everything changes and, at the same time, life goes on.”

That sentence captures the weird balance we live with, each and every day. The message for us has been one in which we choose hope, and, for our little family, that hope has been translated into a new chapter of our life story with as much joy, gratitude, and happiness in it as we can manage. “Why hope?” I read on the students’ faces.  How can there be hope when you are given a death sentence?

Because despite the known outcome of this disease, we are not “there” yet. There is still a lot of living to do.

I discussed this idea with the students in multiple ways. My point is that cancer makes what is important in your life and what choices you have crystal clear. I heard myself saying it this way: “Every morning you get up and really you have to make a choice. Either you are dying from cancer, in which case you go back to bed. Or you are living with cancer, in which case you do the things you’ve always done that make you happy.”

Isn’t this gift of clarity about that fundamental choice a life lesson for us all? 

***

On Tuesday last we visited the Four Winds Cancer Clinic for the vampire bloodletting that determines how my system is responding to the new chemo and whether it is ready and able to accept more of it. The good news is that when the results came back on Wednesday my white cells and platelets were back to normal and everything else looked normal, save that pesky CA-19/9 marker, which, for some reason, continues to rise.

“We don’t have enough data yet to know what it means,” said Dr. Robin. She explained that since I wasn’t getting blood work done in the time I was in remission, we don’t know for sure when the marker began to rise. Nor do we know how it might respond to this new round of chemo, since we are only one round into it and this drug – Gemszar – often takes longer to affect the marker, but when it does, it does so dramatically. “So we want to see how you do after the second cycle.”

Robin continued with my exam and pronounced me “in good shape.” She tells me that I “look good and feel good” – two very important indices – and that my heart and lungs are fine. “Honestly, I wouldn’t worry,” she concludes. So I decide not to. Because here again the same principle of living with/dying from cancer applies: either I choose to “worry about it” or I don’t. Not much gray area in between those choices. Besides, Dr. Robin will tell me when we need to worry. But that time has not yet come.

*** 

Chemo day in the Room of Orange Chairs was filled with the usual spirited conversation and general good time. We saw our pal Deb (huge Cubs fan) getting her last treatment and Lauren and I did our own little “happy dance” for her. San and I met Renee, who was diagnosed last November with the same Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer that I have, although her tumor is located on a blood vessel in her pancreas and so her treatment has been different from mine. We saw Matt get his last treatment and met he and Aimee’s new baby, all pretty in pink. And of course we were all happy for Monica, who received the unexpected good news that her lovely daughter, Lainie, won’t need any more treatments for her venous malformation! Hurrah!

One of the recurring thoughts I have about why we celebrate “the last treatment” is because it marks the completion of one more chapter in our cancer narrative. We are ready to turn the page and get on with our lives unencumbered by chemo. For some of us – our pal Gabbee, for instance, who had her “port” removed this week – there is good reason to believe that we won’t be back, that our cancer story is, in fact, over. For others of us “the last treatment” is more of a vacation (hopefully a long one) from the clinic, as we know that at some point we will return for additional treatments, or, as is the case with me, “lightweight maintenance chemo.” For us, it is not the end of the story, but it is the end of that chapter as well as cause enough to celebrate the beginning a new one. 

It is another chance to make that choice about how we want to live.

***

For two days following treatment I am high on steroids. It’s not all good. I can become suddenly animated or aggressive and/or my voice can become raw, edgy. I have learned to warn people that if any of these changes to my usual demeanor occur, it’s the steroids and not that I am angry or upset. The good news is that during the steroid glow I have more energy and can do amazing feats of magic.

Just kidding about the magic. Wish it were true, though!

I particularly wish it were true when I crash. Because the lows that complement the steroid high are truly devoid of energy or magic. For two days (or more) I am little more than a dozing lump of mostly-useless humanoid in a chair, or on the couch, a passive observer of whatever is on television. I used to try to read, or to write, but I have learned that either one of those tasks is unlikely to be fulfilling. I forget what I just read and I fall asleep writing.

Sigh.

San, Nic, and Alyssa all come to my rescue and find interesting shows to watch and treats to eat. This week it’s been the first two seasons of “The Walking Dead,” a surprisingly dark, violent, and absorbing tale of a thrown-together community of characters warding off attacks of marauding zombies and the weirdness of each other in rural Georgia. The zombies are the moral equivalent of goose-stepping Nazis in the old war movies I usually watch after chemo, so despite the gore and sad absurdity of zombies, I like it. Dr. Robin put us onto this show and Nic was already a fan, so it’s all good. 

Did I mention that Alyssa’s newest baked sweet treat for us is a pretzel on top of which you heat a Hershey’s kiss and then plant an M&M in the middle of the kiss? Yum! No wonder I continue to gain weight … [image error]

***

The Ides of March … March Madness … this week reminds me of the dualities of life, as it was on a cold blustery March 15 that we buried my father and it is annually also the beginning of the much-anticipated  NCAA men’s basketball tournament that (usually) features my UNC-Chapel Hill in a starring role. This year I was proud to see that President Obama also picked the ‘Heels for the Final Four, so we’ll be rooting for them together. In the interest of being kind to our otherwise right-minded niece and her husband – Tori and JohnCarl Hastings – who are both in Duke Divinity School, I won’t even mention their team’s epic loss to Lehigh yesterday. Wouldn’t think of it.

Today is Saturday and I awoke feeling a little bit better. I am ready to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. I’m thinking corned beef and cabbage, some potatoes and carrots, the usual fare. But for me, and for us, there much happiness and shared joy in “the usual fare,” whatever it is, because we are alive, joking, talking, sharing food and merriment with each other. This is the gift of life we open each and every day! I am always thankful for another one of those splendid apricot-and-baby blue sunrises and the whole world of possibilities, conversations, and opportunities that it brings … Aren’t you?

It’s not so different, for you and I. It’s all about our choices and what we do with them. About old chapters and new ones. Beyond that moment there are no guarantees.

As the poet Al Maginnes puts it at the end of the poem I used to begin this blog post:

You have to stand in that field
long enough to realize there is
a choice. You can turn and run,
but the edge of the field grows wider,
claims more of your life's real estate.
You can walk into the shadow
early, singing a song whose words
you forget as they leave your tongue
and believe it is courage, not fear,
marching you forward. Or you can turn,
leave the field deliberately,
the great notes of the gears you heard
still grinding, song you will keep yourself
from swaying to as you turn
from the dark to find a place
that sells coffee paled with milk,
where you can sit in soft light and read
the day's temporary news, small matters
made important by their power to suspend
the soft insistence of the wind
that urges you to the edge
of the field and the silence
waiting there, deeper than music.

 

***

An "Off Week" Isn't What I Thought It Would Be, Until I Remembered My Sinatra

“To do is to be” – Nietzsche

“To be is to do” – Kant

“Do be do be do” - Sinatra

This week is my “off week” from chemo treatments, but it has not been that sweet little bit of respite I had hoped for. Eight days ago I exited the Four Winds Cancer Clinic and expected a little tiredness for a couple, maybe three days, followed by a gradual upswing in my energy level and general overall “feeling.” In fact, I have not had either of those positive outcomes until yesterday. In between I have learned that the new chemo drug negatively impacts both white blood cells and platelets, the result of which is like having a mild flu, complete with bodily aches and a deep tiredness, accompanied by a small daily fever. Mine comes at 4 p.m., regular as clockwork, or did until yesterday when thankfully there was no fever at all. Nor is there one today. Hurrah!

I also learned that for whatever reason the third round caused some blood corpuscles in my lower left leg to burst, giving me what appears to be an angry dark red rash from my ankle to mid-calf.  The right leg has a few small bursts of color, but nothing like the left leg. The good news is twofold: (1) at least it doesn’t itch, and (2) it isn’t a sign of something much worse, which is a blood clot. To make sure, Dr. Robin and the team at Four Winds ordered up an ultrasound from my pelvis to my feet, a task performed by an excellent and informative specialist named Norm and a trainee named Amy over at Chandler Regional Hospital. Norm also shared with me the fact that my blood vessels appear to be in great shape overall, which is a good sign for not developing blood clots in the future.

Insert Big Sigh of Relief here. 

*** 

I know it sounds like I was consumed by health concerns since last I wrote, but the truth is I have not been. Instead, I have been consumed by work and family life, as I want to be, and in between visits to the Clinic for blood work, tests, and talk with Monica, Gerri, Lauren, and Jan about how best to deal with my latest “developments,” I also managed to teach my three-hour grad seminar, grade a set of midterm exams from my undergrads, attend meetings, meet with students, and otherwise get on with life. I even found the three hours needed to properly do a Tuscan pork roast for the family (marinade for an hour, then high heat for 20 minutes, then low heat for 2 ½ hours), watch some war movies and a surprisingly good John Travolta espionage film called “From Paris With Love,” hang out with Nic, Mac, Alyssa, and San, and – just this morning – to share in Alyssa’ good news about getting into both San Diego State and the University of Arizona grad programs in Communication as well as Monica’s wonderful news about Lainie’s not needing any further treatments in Denver! Hurrah!

I guess that all adds up to this: As unpleasant as the third round of chemo was in the aftermath, we are – all of us – getting used to dealing with whatever comes up. With the love and support of my family and our friends and caregivers, we are moving forward despite my having this weird disease. I say “weird” because not only is the experience of living with cancer different for every person we’ve known despite some similarities in side effects, but how the body deals with it can just plain make you feel strange. How’s that for a proper scientific description? Yet I can think of no better way to describe the everydayness of it, this “strange” feeling when cancer is somewhere inside of you.

In my case, it is strange to walk without really feeling most of my feet and part of my lower legs. It is strange to try to type with limited feeling in my fingers. It is strange to get a mild fever at precisely the same time every day, and – ironically – it is even stranger when it doesn’t arrive on time. It is strange to feel like you have the flu day in and day out, but know that (a) you don’t really have the flu, and (b) there really are only two choices: go back to bed and waste the day(s) – some of that precious time you have – or  just get up and go on about your business. It’s not like cancer is contagious. I won’t be infecting anyone. That is strange too. For as bad as I may feel on the inside, that feeling really doesn’t show on the outside yet very much at all. My hair is greying a bit, but maybe that would have happened anyway. And of course there is this weird non-rash that looks nastier than it is.

If I “look good” when I’m in the low part of the week long recovery cycle, believe me, looks can be deceptive. Mostly, if the past week is any guide, I feel like shit.

Pardon me. 

*** 

But then again, maybe this first round of the new regime is just my body adjusting to the new chemo, that five-letter word that is really masks a four-letter profanity. Maybe. Gerri tells me that it’s entirely possible and I want to believe her. 

Maybe how I felt last week is just kind of like what happens when you emerge from a long period of relative inactivity and play a really hard game of tennis (or better given that it is “March Madness” and I am a big Carolina fan), basketball. The next day you feel it. Your muscles ache. You can’t move properly. You moan because you hurt. Yet it is always the second day that is worse, particularly if you don’t exercise at least a little bit and stretch those aching muscles on the first day. The worst thing you can do to your body how you feel is to stay in bed or wrap up in a couch blanket and stare at the tube.

So yes, I could just go back to bed. I know no one would fault me. But I don’t think it’s best. There will be plenty of time for that somewhere down the road, when I take “The Big Leave” (ever read Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep?), wherein my tired old body will finally, completely, come to rest. In the meantime, there’s too much to do.

Or to be. 

Or “do be do be do …”

***

What We Can Do For Each Other: Chemo, Comfort Food, Conversations, & Lainie's Smile

So I am on my third round of the “lightweight maintenance chemo” and so far, so good. There is some tiredness but no chemo brain and although I know I have been poisoned – hard to describe, as it is more of existential mood that invades the body (more on this below) than it is physical suffering – I manage to keep a positive spirit and do pretty much everything I want to do. Part of that is finding ways to help others, offering and receiving comfort food, and – here’s the news – creating a space for others to help too.

On the basic side of the “helping others” formula for living I’m pretty much doing what I like to do: I am teaching two classes, finished a new article on the future of higher education, and last night I made chicken Tikka Masala for the family. Due to the neuropathy in my fingers I have to be very careful around knives and there is some clumsiness associated with the lack of feeling in my fingertips and feet, but as long as I can do simple daily tasks and still take some joy from being of service to others as a teacher, a scholar, a friend, and a family member, I’m good.

But we can do better. I can do better.

***

Yesterday Nic took me to the Clinic for blood work, or what I jokingly refer to as “the Zombie procedure.” Go ahead, take my blood if it means I can live forever! Dr. Robin admitted she enjoys “The Walking Dead” so I might be on to something … [image error]

Anyway, kidding aside, the Room of Orange Chairs was as welcoming as ever and I got to spend a little quality time sharing conversation with Jobbee (who is now down to two more treatments!) and exchange some fun banter with Jan, Monica, Ashley, and Lauren. As Nic and I were leaving was when it occurred to me that visiting that room with these good people and enjoying the talk is a lot like giving and getting comfort food – say James Beard’s version of homemade mac and cheese – on a mid-winter’s day when comfort food is just what the doctor ordered. Just being there helping others is oddly reassuring. 

*** 

Returned to the clinic for the actual chemo treatment today and even though my platelets were a little low I was allowed to undergo it. Next week I have “off” chemo so that extra time should give me enough of a rest from the toxins to more fully recover. Hurrah! And so it is with chemo, always a biochemical balancing act wherein the forces of good (in the form of really bad poisons) fight the good fight against the forces of evil (the rogue cells/mutant ninja proteins) and the best result is not total victory (despite the Zombie procedure we cannot live forever) but a kind of glasnost “trust, but verify” chronic drama – trust the chemo, but verify the results with blood work and markers and scans – that will continue until … well, let’s just leave it at that. For now. 

As I was explaining to Monica, Jan, and Lauren, if coming here feels like comfort food, then this “lightweight maintenance chemo” plan feels strangely like a security blanket. I know it seems like I’m mixing my metaphors, but often when we are sick we wrap ourselves up in a security blanket and enjoy our comfort food from a mostly prone position. So the metaphors are not entirely mixed if you understand the context, if you visit the Room of the Orange Chairs. It is in this ironic sense – if not obscene sense – of security through poisoning that my new relationship to chemo is forged. Will I miss the chemo next week? Not at all. But when I return to it the following week, perhaps it will be with a curious sense of relief. I suppose that is at least part of what a drug habit feels like, sans the fine high. Which leads me to another crazy thought: Why can’t they lace this badass chemo stuff with, I dunno, cocaine?

Just kidding. Kids, as we all know, cocaine is very, very bad for you. So it’s not that one. But as Huey Lewis once put it:

I want a new drug 
One that won't make me sick 
One that won't make me crash my car 
Or make me feel three feet thick 

I want a new drug 
One that won't hurt my head 
One that won't make my mouth too dry 
Or make my eyes too red 

Sigh.

I guess shared talk, laughter, and a good attitude will have to suffice. Those things and what we can do for others. It’s a natural high. And it is sustainable. If nothing else, it wards off what the Beatles’ once brilliantly labeled “the blue meanies.” That doesn’t mean that good deeds and a positive attitude prevents us from having those inevitable, maybe even necessary thoughts about cancer, about our treatments and our bodies and how long we have left and the rest of the messiness that comes with it, but it does mean that we build reserves for helping us – and helping others – deal with it. 

***

When I do think about it, which is fortunately not that often or for that long, it does seem odd to me to crave this comfort food, to want this toxic security blanket, both of which are signs not of a blip on my screen and a eventual return to rosy good health so much as it is a sign of a “new normal” defined by a steady reliance on drugs of mass destruction and my relationship to them and to my own body.

This is what I mean when my answer to the question people ask me these days about how I feel: “Not bad, but I know I’m not that good either.” I say it with a smile. I am still happy to be here, grateful for every day of life. Happy to be useful, and to be of service.

The difference between bad and good in relation to how I feel that matters to me is one more of an existential nature rather than strictly a physical one. I know ‘something” is going on inside of me. I know that when the chemo flows and for a few days afterward that “something” is more fully engaged and that some parts of my bodily system is being violently disrupted. The fight against the mutant Ninja proteins is on and the good guys are attacking the beachhead at bodypoint everywhere there is one. 

I can feel it. Or at least I imagine that I can. It is not painful. It is not awful. It is not making me sicker or even particularly weaker. But “something” is evident in my felt relationship to my body and in the ways I think about it. Also to the ways I think about comfort food and security blankets. And how we can think about our relationship to others. 

It is in this spirit that San, Nic, and I joined forces with Angela Trethewey, Anna Brown, and Alyssa Patmos to create a new foundation, Lainie's Smile, for information, outreach, and help for children with Venous Malformations. Why? Because we want to give back to our caregivers, and one of them you’ve gotten to know through my blog posts, Monica, has a beautiful smart delightful child – Lainie – who suffers from this disease. If you have a minute, take a look at the link above to learn more. The official “launch” is still a few weeks away, but we wanted to give a pre-announcement to share our news of its formation.

In the end it really all comes down to people and what we can do for each other. No matter what disease we have or suffer from, that always makes us feel better. I don’t need a new drug. Not when we have this …

*** 

Back to the clinic.

Today we were introduced to Matt and his wife Annie, Matt undergoing treatment for testicular cancer and Annie 2 weeks away from giving birth to their third child. Nice people. People you don’t want this damned disease to be happening to. We chat about the usual stuff – treatments, food, cravings, neuropathy, and this wonderful clinic – and I am reminded once again of how truly lucky we are. Lucky to be here. Lucky that Nic is grown up. Lucky that these truly nice people are getting the care they need.

On the other side of my chair are Shirley and Sherry, Shirley in for treatment for advanced lung cancer and yet still dreaming of a trip to Ireland. More nice people. More talk about the usual subjects. More gratitude in my heart for the caregivers, who, despite being busy busy busy find time for each of us, find time to cheer us, find time to serve us comfort food while we are each connected to our toxic security blankets. 

A new woman takes a chair on the other side of the room but I do not catch her name. She is a young woman, African-American, and she has a port like me. The oncology nurses set to work for her and I can see that just being able to tell someone who truly cares what she is going through matters a great deal to her. The chemo drip begins and she is eased into our larger conversation as naturally as she can be. Sometimes just sharing a little honest conversation helps.

We all share the same fears, doubts, and uncertainties. We also share in the comfort food. We all help out where we can.

And our story continues … 

***

A Happy Dance for Gabbee!

“dance the last atom cutting a knot
just dance and dance until you cannot”
--Miroslava Odalovic

Yesterday we arrived at Four Winds Cancer Clinic a little later than usual but just in time to hear that our pal Gabbee Padula Bagby was undergoing her final chemo treatment and would be the happy recipient of “The Happy Dance.” Hurrah! Gabbee had 60 treatments for breast cancer but is now cancer free and returned to normal life with her wonderful husband and their two lovely children. We couldn’t be happier for all of them!

***

It was, all things considered, a happy day all around. We were in the Room of Orange Chairs with other treatment pals – Gloria and Deb – and the staff and nurses were their usual positive, joyful professional selves. There was a little concern over my high blood pressure readings on both arms, but Jan and Co. agreed that the culprits were probably my continuing relationship with salt and just being back on treatment, the anxiety/stress of which can affect it.

Lauren told me that my unfortunate encounter with chest-shaving last week had healed nicely and then poked me with her needle and began a relatively short 1 ½ drip of various magic potions an poisons. It went well. The time was filled with our usual fun banter and spirited conversations, including one about neuropathy and Epsom salts and B-12 and ALA which, unless you suffer neuropathy won’t mean much to you. Suffice it to say that those of us who do suffer from it share our experiences so we can help each other. For while every cancer is somewhat unique, the negative side effects can be remarkably similar. Knowing what works for others – and what doesn’t work – can be very useful indeed. So the verdict at the end of this discussion was yes to Epsom salts in warm water for the feet, yes to B-12 and ALA, and a little more hope for the return of feeling to our fingers and feet. 

For those of you on Facebook who know that my chemo wife, Monica, just adopted a new basset hound named Otis, you will also be pleased to hear that she likes my idea of printing teeshirts with Otis’s face on them and the words “Otis Fan Club.” He is truly a soulful addition to their family and to our conversations. And a very lucky dog  

*** 

San and I left the Clinic and grabbed some Mexican take-out on the way home. Ramiro’s babacoa tacos, some cheese enchiladas, rice and beans. Hard to beat! But by the time we finished our feast I was experiencing that “down” slide that often accompanies a good poisoning. I had planned to go to campus and meet my pal and editor Erika, who was visiting her authors in Phoenix, but I just couldn’t manage it. Plus, when I am like this, San refuses to let me drive. Probably a good call. I slept and dozed through a couple of episodes of Herman Wouck’s “The Winds of War,” (1983) which may have some of the bad casting, worst wooden acting, and bad soap-opera plotting in it of any television mini-series. How it became described as a “smashing television success, and a US national television event as never seen before,” probably says more about the popularity of the book and the identification of the audience with Wouck than it says about the series, but hey, it was the early 1980s and not a particularly memorable time for television. 

Nic and San make constant negative comments about Ali MacGraw and Polly Bergen, and of course Jan-Michael Vincent, who, at 39 in real life is complete failure at trying to appear to be 21 or 22 in this film, but hey he’s courting Ali, who at 43 is truly an “older woman” regardless of how young Jan-Michael is supposed to be trying to be. So we watch it anyway. It’s all in good fun. Besides, Nic and I like any movie that depicts that tumultuous era, and of course, both of us are big Robert Mitchum fans.

*** 

The steroids kicked in later, and late enough to prevent me from getting to bed or to sleep before midnight. Given that my usual bedtime is 10 with a little “pre-sleep” time in the blue chair prior to it, this is late for me. Oh well. It means only that Thursday I should have a decent level of energy and I am looking forward to attending the launch of our new Center for Strategic Communication. But tomorrow, well, tomorrow will be a low day. The steroids are out of my system by then but the after-effects of the chemo produce a predictable deep tiredness. It will be a good day to finish the “Winds of War.”

So, the second treatment in the “lightweight maintenance chemo” regimen is over and I am not feeling too shabby. Can’t complain. Instead, I focus on the gift of another day and all of the good will of everyone who helps us to navigate the uncertainties inherent to this path. And – here’s the big smile – who joins us in wishing the newest member of “The Happy Dance Club,” Gabbee Padula Bagby (pic courtesy of Donna), much happiness and ease of mind as she enters this new phase of her cancer-free life!