Aaarrrgghhh
I am not well. I could have built the pyramids with the effort it takes me to cling on to life and reason—Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice.
It’s nine days after my 38th surgery (it may be 37th or 39th; I’ve lost count) and I am not happy. I’ve just learned that a best friend broke his hip and the news both shocks and dismays me. Aging is at best unkind, and sometimes simply cruel.
My surgery went well, I was told. Immediately post-op, I was given a cocktail of fentanyl, Demerol, Dilaudid and Vicodin to deal with the discomfort. I should be used to the aftermath of these multiple attempts to excise the cancer in my bladder, but I’m not. Is it possible for my bladder to hurt? Yes. The surgeon removed what he told me was “a high-grade tumor” that, depending on the results of tests, may necessitate more chemo. The problem is that past chemo sessions may very well have caused a new condition, something called peripheral neuropathy. This disorder makes my feet and lower legs feel tingly, almost as if they were shrink-wrapped. It’s apparently incurable. At its worst, it causes people to lose all sensations in their appendages and not notice that they have harmed themselves, so they walk around unaware of bleeding wounds, abrasions or burns. Lovely.
This is all beginning to have a psychological impact. I’ve never been half-blind, largely deaf, cancerous, insomniac, obese, balding, frail, and generally unattractive before. I don’t mind entering my Keith Richards years but I’d like to do so with a modicum of pride, and right now pride is hard to find. I’m also going through a period of akrasia, a Greek word describing the lack of will that prevents us from doing what we know is good for us. Peachy.
Recently, I’ve observed that I no longer notice beauty. I’m sure it’s still there, both minuscule and majestic, but lately I unerringly veer towards the ugly, the quotidian, the unimaginative. The new buildings that replace modest stores and homes, for example are hideous. My once small Northern Virginia town has become a series of glass and concrete canyons that have all the charms and distinction of a sanitary napkin box. The new structures have added to the traffic congestion, which in turn tries the patience of already testy commuters.
Luckily, I have a refuge from all the ugliness. Just a couple of miles from where I live is Lazy Mike’s Deli, not so much a deli as a diner where I eat breakfast two or three times a week. I know the wait-staff by name, and they know what I want to order. My meals are generally served piping hot within minutes of my arrival.
Yesterday, for a few minutes, I was the diner’s only customer until four US marshals and two state troopers came in. They were big, beefy men with shaven heads, and they pulled three small tables together to make a single large one.
I’ve been wary of law enforcement people ever since the antiwar demonstrations I helped cover fifty years ago for the Washington Post. During one of these, a deranged DC cop stuck his gun in my mouth and screamed that he was going to “kill your long hair ass.” A reporter friend pulled the cop away and, I sincerely believe, saved my life.
What does this have to do with cancer, surgery, life, and ugliness? Nothing. I’m rambling.
I worry about my broken friend and this is not my best blog. I’ll do better next time.
It’s nine days after my 38th surgery (it may be 37th or 39th; I’ve lost count) and I am not happy. I’ve just learned that a best friend broke his hip and the news both shocks and dismays me. Aging is at best unkind, and sometimes simply cruel.
My surgery went well, I was told. Immediately post-op, I was given a cocktail of fentanyl, Demerol, Dilaudid and Vicodin to deal with the discomfort. I should be used to the aftermath of these multiple attempts to excise the cancer in my bladder, but I’m not. Is it possible for my bladder to hurt? Yes. The surgeon removed what he told me was “a high-grade tumor” that, depending on the results of tests, may necessitate more chemo. The problem is that past chemo sessions may very well have caused a new condition, something called peripheral neuropathy. This disorder makes my feet and lower legs feel tingly, almost as if they were shrink-wrapped. It’s apparently incurable. At its worst, it causes people to lose all sensations in their appendages and not notice that they have harmed themselves, so they walk around unaware of bleeding wounds, abrasions or burns. Lovely.
This is all beginning to have a psychological impact. I’ve never been half-blind, largely deaf, cancerous, insomniac, obese, balding, frail, and generally unattractive before. I don’t mind entering my Keith Richards years but I’d like to do so with a modicum of pride, and right now pride is hard to find. I’m also going through a period of akrasia, a Greek word describing the lack of will that prevents us from doing what we know is good for us. Peachy.
Recently, I’ve observed that I no longer notice beauty. I’m sure it’s still there, both minuscule and majestic, but lately I unerringly veer towards the ugly, the quotidian, the unimaginative. The new buildings that replace modest stores and homes, for example are hideous. My once small Northern Virginia town has become a series of glass and concrete canyons that have all the charms and distinction of a sanitary napkin box. The new structures have added to the traffic congestion, which in turn tries the patience of already testy commuters.
Luckily, I have a refuge from all the ugliness. Just a couple of miles from where I live is Lazy Mike’s Deli, not so much a deli as a diner where I eat breakfast two or three times a week. I know the wait-staff by name, and they know what I want to order. My meals are generally served piping hot within minutes of my arrival.
Yesterday, for a few minutes, I was the diner’s only customer until four US marshals and two state troopers came in. They were big, beefy men with shaven heads, and they pulled three small tables together to make a single large one.
I’ve been wary of law enforcement people ever since the antiwar demonstrations I helped cover fifty years ago for the Washington Post. During one of these, a deranged DC cop stuck his gun in my mouth and screamed that he was going to “kill your long hair ass.” A reporter friend pulled the cop away and, I sincerely believe, saved my life.
What does this have to do with cancer, surgery, life, and ugliness? Nothing. I’m rambling.
I worry about my broken friend and this is not my best blog. I’ll do better next time.
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