Gentle breezes cause the wind chimes hanging from the deck’s cover to make soft, metallic tones. Strong winds and powerful gusts over the last few days accelerated and amplified those sounds, turning soothing notes into constant, jarring “clangs,” loud and assertively disruptive. Two sets of chimes, each of which makes its own unique sounds, respond with anger to disturbing blasts of fast-moving air. My brain reacts badly to the noise, placing shared blame on the weather, my ears, and the furious pieces of frenetic metal. I seek silence, knowing full-well that silence is an unachievable fantasy. Frustration with the world around me replaces the quiet appreciation that accompanies sleep. Finally, though, I surrender to the irrepressible noise; I hear the sound, but I seem no longer to be aware of it. Only when an especially fierce gust causes the chimes to scream loudly do I realize the clamor remains. I simply have gotten used to the constant disorder.
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Tomorrow, I will visit my local oncologist to discuss the possibility that I will participate in a clinical trial for a drug that has been tested, so far, on just two or three people. Normally, I would spend several hours at the cancer clinic, receiving chemotherapy. But, because commencement of the trial would require that I have gone one month without treatment, I will not get treated tomorrow. Instead, I will discuss the proposed trial and ask my oncologist questions about when—and whether—I could resume chemotherapy after the conclusion of the trial. And I will ask several other questions related to whether I should continue taking some of the ancillary prescription drugs she prescribed. So many questions…so many that cannot yet be answered. I strongly am leaning toward participating in the trial…assuming I am accepted. On the other hand, the idea of simply ending treatment has considerable appeal; but I would want to hear an educated estimate of how long I would survive without it. Yet I do not know how that estimate might influence my decision; this part of the cancer experience is new to me.
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The time is fast-approaching when I will have lived in Hot Springs Village for eleven years. It’s hard to believe I have been here so long. September, only a few months from now, will mark the tenth year since buying the Subaru Outback I drive (occasionally) today. My eleventh year anniversary of moving to the Village coincides with another anniversary…the last time I had Ethiopian food. Dallas had several excellent Ethiopian restaurants when I lived there; the entire state of Arkansas has none. Arkansas and Texas are alike in that the governors of both states are, in my opinion, right-wing lunatics. The majority of voters in both states voted for Trump in the last presidential election. I do not need, or even want, to live in a place where the vast majority of voters share my social and political and economic philosophies. But I would prefer an environment in which rational discussions, based on verifiable facts and defensible opinions, prevail over irrational screaming matches. How long has it been since political discussions were reliably civil? We allow time to slide by without capturing its most precious moments—moments of civility and kindness and caring and respect. As usual, this morning’s post is wandering in unpredictable ways in every direction, as if the writer had been TUI—thinking under the influence—or TWI—thinking while intoxicated. Neither is the case, but I can understand why a reader might think so.
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We watched Conclave last night, a fictional story that follows the selection of a new pope after the pope’s death. I was unconvinced, when I started watching the film, that I would find it interesting. It did not take long before I was convinced. The ending took me completely by surprise. Whether viewers are Catholic—or religious or not—I think most people would find the film intriguing. Assuming the processes and protocols reflect reality in the Catholic church, learning about them from the film was an absorbing experience.
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The results of the brain MRI that was performed on me while in Houston yielded nothing of substance. No cancer, no other obvious abnormalities. Fortunately, the MRI did not reveal the thoughts that pulse through my head. Even if it had, I would not document them here. Some thoughts are meant to remain hidden forever in the thinker’s mind.
Bev, thanks for sharing your experience and your encouragement. I’ve been thinking about the possibility of staying in Houston, especially during the first month. I seem to remember seeing something from M.D. Anderson about the availability of nearby patient temporary housing…I will explore it. Again, Bev, thanks for your ongoing encouragement; it means a great deal.
That’s good news about the MRI. When I was looking for info on clinical trials, many trials will not accept candidates who have any brain metastases. So, that’s a good hurdle to have out of the way if you’re being considered for a trial. ”
I read your post from a day or so ago about having to spend more time in Houston if you are entered into a trial. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if you could find somewhere to stay for at least part of each week. I don’t know if they have such things there, but here, there are sometimes accommodations that are associated with treatment centers where people can stay. A few weeks can go by pretty quickly. My neighbour stayed at one such place where there were others undergoing treatment. He stayed during the week and came home on weekends. The drive to the treatment center was about 3 hours each way, so would have meant a lot of time on the road, which he would have found too exhausting. As it was, he actually seemed to find staying at the patient accommodation center to be rather a positive experience – talking to others, etc..
Anyhow, I’m sure you’ll get things figured out.