First Chapter of Finding Solace

Here is, as promised, the first chapter of Finding Solace. Because this is a massive rewrite of a CaringBridge post from 2015, and because the goal of this month is to create a first draft, not an edited, finished product, please keep this in mind as you read it, and be kind! :-) It's a relatively short chapter, but it sets the stage and tone for the entire book. Indeed, I wanted it to be just a quick preview of my new life, especially since it is the first chapter of Part 1: My Previous Life.

Chapter 1 – The Stranger Who Changed my Life

On January 29, 2015, Dr. Andrew Chae Kim, M.D., Radiologist, a person I have never met and never even knew existed before seeing his name on a medical document, reviewed a series of images. He included the following sentence in his CT scan report: “In the left lower lobe there is a heterogeneously enhancing mass-like consolidation measuring 3.9 x 3.3 cm, which abuts branches of the pulmonary veins in the left lower lobe.”

I read this sentence in 15 heartbeats and in that short span of time, this stranger destroyed all my plans and aspirations.

Throughout my life, I have experienced several medical conditions—some minor nuisances, some serious—and aches ranging from mild to severe. In retrospect, none of these were worthy of complaint because I survived every one of them. They were merely manifestations of the human condition. That is, just to be human is to experience illness, disease, and pain. However, also, to be human is to die. Sometimes death is sudden; sometimes death is deferred, if not just briefly, as life clings on in desperation right up to the final breath. Sometimes death comes early in life; sometimes late. And sometimes you know that you are dying long before your last breath. This type of prognosis is my fate and where this story begins with somewhere between six months and three years remaining.

Regarding the current terminal illness alluded to but not specified above (and for which I will provide greater detail in time), I have yet to experience severe pain or even a feeling that a disease is on the offensive within my body. In fact, some days I must force myself, feeling so well, so immortal, to believe the reality that I am now dying. This kind of death is different from the end I had in mind for myself. I had imagined it as a fading away at the end of a very long life—the graying and shriveling of old age.

The kind of death that now seems to be my reality is one that I can see coming quickly—it’s at the end of the block running toward me. I have time, though, unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately), to think about how the disease will overtake my body and mind in the last few weeks, and especially in the last few moments. But I also have time, if I wish, to plan every moment, or just to live every moment unplanned, from this point forward, with the forethought of an imminent, premature death. I used to ask myself at the beginning of each day: “What do I need to complete today?” My kind of death shouldn’t allow me to think this way, and I especially shouldn’t schedule as I have been most of my life. I mean, much of my tedious planning up to this point in my life, I now realize, in the end, will have been pointless. And, then, even with a prognosis of six months to three years, a metastatic tumor may arise in a primary organ, such as the liver, brain, bone, heart, etc., and death may take me even sooner than expected, negating any plans. Remember the doctor’s note above about the growth in my lung: “a heterogeneously enhancing mass-like consolidation . . . which abuts branches of the pulmonary veins.” The growth, regardless of its location within the lungs, is going to abut pulmonary veins, providing cancer cells with an efficient mode of transportation.

Considering my new death, what do I do each day? If I don’t make plans (short-term or long-term) because the future now seems so uncertain and, yet, the end so concrete and imminent, what am I to do? If I could even define what “living in the moment” means, what immediate living should I embrace? How do I focus on each moment and not worry about the future? And what thoughts, actions, and passions are indeed worthy of each moment?

Consequently, because of this one stranger, my story begins with the knowledge of a terminal illness and an urgency to find a way of living that will make these last months or years worthwhile. And even more important, I now feel compelled to prove that I have deserved to be in this life; to show that I have contributed positively in some way to my family and community, and to demonstrate the worthiness of my entire existence.