Morgan Bolt's Blog, page 2

August 8th, 2018

By the time I paid attention to blogging, most of the really popular, successful bloggers I started following posted only once every month or two. These were long, usually a few-thousand-word posts that could easily be sermons or TED talks or chapters of a book. I missed the phase of blogging that started it all, when people posted regularly and often about their lives, about what they were doing, what they were thinking, even and especially if they didn't have answers to the questions they pondered.
I felt like my blog needed to meet the standards I thought was required of all blogs. I tried to write long posts weighted far more to the reflection and insight side of things, rather than the journaling and recording side. I've always wanted the theme of my blog to be cancer and faith and how those topics together intersect with other areas of my life. So that's what I've done. The problem is I only had so many grand insights that felt blogworthy, and I've since compiled these ideas into a book I'm trying to get published, so at this point I don't feel like trying to maintain a blog like that is sustainable.
But that doesn't necessarily mean I don't have any interesting thoughts or an interesting life, or at least, some things going on that might be worth writing about. So, after some time off with a bunch of complications from treatment(?) and who knows why else going on, I’m ready to get back into blogging. I've spent a lot of time rethinking what I want to do in this space, and I've decided to try to post much more often, with much lower standards for myself. I'm not going to worry about having a point at all, much less some sweeping new insight. I'm just going to record bits of what life with cancer looks like.
So today, I write this in my phone as I'm hooked up to an IV for hydration. I had a biopsy sample Monday, part of the protocol for the immunotherapy clinical trial I'm on. That biopsy involved heavy sedation, since they had to stick a big, hollow needle into my back to grab a piece of tumor tissue. Sedation meant nothing to eat or drink from midnight Sunday night until about 4:30 Monday afternoon. Which meant I got fairly under-hydrated. Perhaps as a result of that, some of my pancreatic and liver function numbers were off yesterday and I couldn't get treatment. Nobody really knows why these numbers have been fluctuating so much lately, but that seems to be my new normal.
I've had a bunch of IV fluids the last 24 hours yet somehow also lost around 2 or 3 kilograms (about 5-7lbs) since yesterday, again mystifying the doctors. It might be as simple as a broken scale yesterday, and while that's not especially likely it is more probable than me actually losing a bunch of weight overnight. But the important thing is my pancreas and liver numbers have dropped enough following hydration that I can get more of the clinical trial drug, which they're mixing up now and will infuse shortly.
It takes half an hour for the first drug, which hopefully boosts immune system activity, then a half hour break, then the actual immunotherapy drug, then a couple hours of monitoring and further hydration. It'll be a long day here at the hospital. I'll go back to The Ronald McDonald House tonight with a hydration backpack, which hopefully helps me avoid some of the complications I had during the first round of this experimental treatment. We'll see!

Feature in Notre Dame Magazine

I realized just now that I haven't ever shared here an excerpt from my book on cancer and Christianity that ran in the summer issue of Notre Dame Magazine. You can find it here!

Use the Bible Carefully

The US Attorney General and the White House Press Secretary both recently cited the Bible in defense of a new US policy to tear children from their parents at the southern border, so I can't really help but write something about that, and I encourage everyone reading this to speak out in some way against this as well, wether publicly or privately. (And my apologies for the formatting here; I'm doing this from my phone.)

All I really have to say is that just because something happens in the Bible doesn't mean it's a prescription for how we should act today. You can pick passages that support genocide against neighboring people groups, obeying the law whatever it may be because government is from God, and even dashing the infants of your enemies upon rocks, if you want to take Psalms literally. But you shouldn't.

That's missing the big picture and the overall message of scripture, and it's just blatant picking and choosing the bits and pieces you want.

And I will concede that we all are guilty of this at times. Everyone who takes Christianity seriously will inevitably misuse, misread, and misinterpret the Bible to bolster whatever view they already hold. We're separated by language, culture, and context, after all. It can be tricky to know how to apply the range of sometimes-contradictory teachings within the Bible. In the end, we all have to "pick and choose," and while there are better and worse ways to do that, none are perfect. But there's a serious and significant difference between doing so to help make the world a more inclusive and loving place--in the spirit of what Jesus said was the summation of scripture and the most important commmand--and doing so to justify the separation of families at a border or any other form of injustice and oppression.

This Is Who We Are

“This is not us. We are better than this. This is not who we are.”
I encounter these kinds of phrases just about every single day, and every time I do I get a little more irritated. Because actually, this *is* us. We aren’t better than this. This is who we are. It may not be who you thought we were. You may wish we were better than this. But that doesn’t change the truth.
We have to be honest about who we are, collectively. We can’t keep willfully ignoring what we’re doing, or at least what we’re all complicit in. We can’t continue to absolve ourselves with our self-righteous “we’re better than this” mentalities. When we see institutions we’re a part of doing harm, we can’t afford to pretend the problem is somehow not ours to deal with, act like we’re better than it, and move on. After all, I can hardly cure my cancer by saying “I’m healthier than this; this is not what my body is.” I have to be honest about it and do every kind of treatment imaginable to try for a chance at being cancer-free some day.
When churches harbor white supremacy, homophobia, sexism, and abuse, we who are Christians can’t just turn away and say “well, that’s not who we are.” It is in fact who and what The Church as a whole is, and we have to deal with that. When the United States adopts a foreign policy of “We’re America, Bitch!” and closes its borders to asylum-seekers fleeing domestic abuse, we who are Americans cannot pretend we’re better than this. We need to acknowledge that we’re all part of the problem, that this is in fact who and what we are right now, like it or not.
So let’s all stop saying “we’re better than this.” We’re not. Instead, let’s work to make it so that someday, we actually are better than this.

The Longer I Live, the Less I Remember I’m Dying

When I was diagnosed with DSRCT back in 2014, I did not expect to reach my second wedding anniversary. Now Christina and I have been married just over 5 years. In 2016 when some friends and I decided to plan for an annual Cedar Point trip, I thought “have fun; I won’t be there.” But next week I’ll make the third such visit to my favorite amusement park. My last three birthdays have all been pleasant surprises I did not expect to reach, and while I realistically shouldn’t give myself more than 50/50 odds of reaching my next one, it’s starting to feel more likely than not that I’ll actually make it to 27. Every time I pass a milestone I never thought I’d live to see, it gets a little easier to believe I’ll get to the next one and a little harder to remember that I am in fact dying.
And that raises some tough questions I can’t really answer. How much should I be mindful of my mortality? How much should I ignore that and just enjoy life while I still can? How much should I live every day like it’s my last, and how much should I plan for the future? I’ve been living with cancer for well over three years now. I can’t live a thousand days in a row like each is the last I’ll have. At some point I need to allow myself to think and plan at least a little more long-term than that. But I can’t pretend I have a normal lifespan ahead of me either. I don’t know how to balance that.
So sometimes I write furiously—hoping to get every book I’ve ever thought of out of my brain and into a word document—knowing full-well that the geologic pace of the literary industry means there’s little chance I’ll live to see any of my books get published. Sometimes I stop writing for a month or two, thinking it a waste of my limited time and energy to spend countless hours on something that’ll never go anywhere. I invariably wish I’d knocked out another book in that time though, and I always come back to my writing eventually. A few times over the last three years I’ve started searching and applying for real, steady jobs. Inevitably, before anything gets going I get a less-than-wonderful PET scan and change treatments. I only feel well-enough to be able to hold a conventional job when I don’t have many side-effects, and so far I only have minimal side-effects when my treatment isn’t really having any effects at all.
But maybe this is the right balance, if there even is a right balance. Maybe the best I can hope to do is whatever seems right at the time, knowing my circumstances and approach to how I spend my time will change in a week or a month or a year—if I live that long.

To Bake or Not to Bake? That Shouldn’t Be a Question.

Today’s Supreme Court decision regarding a Colorado bakery rekindled the national discussion surrounding the intersection of religious freedom and protection from discrimination. I know a lot of headlines simply said things like “SCOTUS sides with bakery,” but as I understand it the ruling had more to do with whether or not the bakers in question received a fair hearing from the Colorado Civil Rights Commission than if they have the right to discriminate against prospective clients. The decision even left room to say that a new impartial hearing could very possibly rule against the Masterpiece Cakeshop when all is said and done. Any final answer on this case could be years away yet. But I’m not exactly a lawyer and I’m not really here to talk about the legal angle anyways.
Instead, I want to discuss the idea of Christians who want to discriminate.
The proprietors of Masterpiece Cakeshop claim that their religion—Christianity—compels them to not make a cake for a same-sex couple. It's strange to me because my religion—also Christianity—compels me to denounce such behavior. I’d really like to ask them if they also believe their faith requires them to deny their services to anyone who is on their second or third marriage, or didn’t marry their late brother’s widow, or didn’t marry their rapist, or violated any other rule about marriage and sex found in the Bible, but that’s also not the main point I want to make here.
I mostly just want to point out how truly bizarre it is that people can claim to love a teacher who declared that loving other people is the second-most important imperative—preempted only by loving God—yet feel a need to discriminate and deny people access to their business. The teachings of Christ tend towards radical love that encompasses everyone and stands contrary to those who would draw lines of exclusion. Championing discrimination against LGBTQIA people is quite simply antithetical to Christ’s message of inclusive love. Whatever the eventual court ruling determines, it really shouldn’t change the Christian response to a gay couple who wants to buy a wedding cake. Christians should be at the forefront of inclusion, not the front lines of discrimination.

On Disability

      I plan to return to blogging on this site regularly again in the very near future, but for now I just wanted to share a piece I wrote on disability that was published here.

Good Friday

There is no Easter without today, Good Friday. Without the death and pain and isolation of the cross, there is no triumphant resurrection. And too often, we like to gloss over today. We like to skip ahead to the good part. As a kid I always thought it weird that Good Friday was celebrated on Friday evening, and then a Saturday evening Easter Vigil service just 24 hours later kicked off the celebrations of Eastertide. Wasn’t Jesus supposed to rise on the third day, not the very next day? It felt too rushed to me twenty years ago, and it does even more now.
Too often, I think we just aren’t comfortable sitting with tragedy, with death. We’d prefer to skip ahead to when things get good again. So we heap well-meaning platitudes on those who need to wallow for a little, and we force-feed encouragements to those who need to fast for a day or two. Sometimes there are no appropriate words though, and the most helpful thing we can do is to just sit with and be company to those who mourn, like Job’s friends did, before they opened their mouths and made everything worse. Many times, when tragedy strikes, words of encouragement or attempts to find meaning aren’t half as useful as simply being present, whether that’s physically visiting someone or letting them know you’re there for them, you’re thinking of them, and you’re available to talk when the time comes for that.
Now, Good Friday is not fun. It’s deeply uncomfortable, in fact. I get why we like to rush ahead and celebrate Easter as soon as possible. But I also caution against this. Life doesn’t fast-forward to the good parts. Sometimes we go through years of Good Fridays at a time, with no clear Easter in sight. We need to make space for that too, and not expect everything to be bright sunrises, blooming lilies, and bare, empty tombs by the next day. So this weekend, take a moment to sit with the realities of Good Friday before rushing ahead to Easter.

Warning: This Post has No Conclusion

I know conventional wisdom says to know your audience and say what they want to hear and have an intro, three points, and always, always a conclusion. But I just don’t feel like following that right now. I’ve started six or seven blog posts in the last month and I haven’t been able to finish any of them. They’re not assembling themselves into anything coherent and I just can’t seem to find a conclusion or a main point to any of them. They’re all rambling and disorganized.
I thought perhaps that might be useful though, or at least mildly interesting. Perhaps people might want to read thoughts that don’t have a tidy answer and might not even be asking a question. So here goes:
Too often, theological and secular responses to suffering focus on the periphery. Too often, when we ask why a loved one had to die, we’re more concerned with why we had to lose them, rather than why they had to lose everything. As we practice theology, as we seek answers for the hard questions in life, we find meaning that suits the people who are still alive. That makes sense, as the living tend to be the ones having all the conversations in much the same way as the winners write the history books, but the answers of the living invariably fail the dying, just as history books fail to accurately tell the stories of the people who lose.
Because of this bias, we get platitudinous answers that just don’t work if you’re dying, however slowly. They’re usually vague and unhelpful, something about growing through hardship, a door closing and a window opening, or what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Sometimes though, what doesn’t kill just leaves you weaker, a little closer to death. Sometimes, what doesn’t kill you simply hasn’t killed you yet.
But it will. Give it time, and it will.
There aren't a lot of warm, fuzzy sayings for that. There aren’t a lot of comforting theologies that acknowledge this reality. That’s probably because dying isn’t particularly warm, fuzzy, or comfortable. But if we’re going to talk about suffering and death in ways that don’t fail people experiencing pain and hardships and wondering if they’ll live through the next day or week or month or year, we’re going to have to get over that. We have to do better than saying “well, I’m sure your impending death sucks, but at least you’re becoming a better person through it, right? Every cloud has a silver lining!”
Fortunately, I think people are realizing this more and more. There’s a growing focus on actually letting people tell their own stories, and it thankfully includes letting those who are themselves dying have a greater platform to speak on death than people who have thought about it from a distance instead of experiencing it firsthand. It’s still annoying to see books on suffering written by people with incredibly privileged lives who haven't really experienced anything especially tragic or difficult, especially as I’ve been pitching my book on—among other things—why suffering exists for over a year now, but it’s OK, I guess. We're trending towards more Own Voices in literature and public discourse, and that's all I can really ask for.
See, I really don’t have a conclusion here. Maybe I’m just whining. I’ll let you judge that for yourself.

Where, O Death, is thy Sting?

We’re all going to die. This gets covered in detail on Ash Wednesday, and we The Church tend to think about it more than usual throughout the season of Lent, so I thought it an appropriate subject for today. Death is the inevitable result of life, and eventually it claims us all. But that’s not the real tragedy. What’s sad to me is that so many people fear dying, rather than look forward to it at least a little.
And I get it. Nobody knows for sure what happens when we die. Every religion (and lack thereof) is a faith, after all, not a set of certain, verifiable knowledge. There’s something undeniably scary about that. Death is unfamiliar and unknowable, and all too often death comes too soon, too preventably, and so senselessly that we are right to lament it.
I also don’t mean to suggest that I can’t wait to die. I love life. I will never have enough time with my wife, and there are dozens of things I hope to accomplish yet in this world. That’s why I’m putting myself through just about every kind of cancer treatment ever invented and trying experimental therapies still in testing in an attempt to buy just a bit more time. So it’s utterly and thoroughly untrue that I want to die, and the sooner the better.
Yet dying means an end to suffering. For me, it will bring relief from the grueling slog of cancer treatments I’ve endured for over three years. So it’ll be fine, though much more for me than for those I leave behind. I thought I was dying a few months ago when I triggered a Code Blue during an immunotherapy infusion, and my only thought in that moment was “they should probably just let me go at this point, rather than continue working to keep me around.” Not in so many words, perhaps, but that was the gist of it. I’m glad that was my reaction. I’m glad I’ve made my peace with the inevitable, should it come tomorrow or in twenty years.
Too often, Christians are absurdly fearful of death. It makes about as much sense to me as those who simultaneously fear “signs of the End Times” while hoping for a sudden deliverance from this world and all its troubles. Those of us who believe an eternal life with God awaits us after death should look forward to that. Sure, saying ‘see you later’ to those who go before us—or those we leave behind when we go ourselves—isn’t exactly fun. But they’re only temporary partings, and life eternal that’s free from sin and suffering sounds pretty great.