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 …

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