John Swinburn

Yesterday’s chemo treatment went well until the infusion of carboplatin. Not long after the infusion started, I began to have difficulty breathing—not terrible, but noticeable. But with each passing minute, it seemed to get more difficult. I started coughing occasionally; the coughing got worse. A nurse noticed the cough and asked it I needed something to drink. I said I did. She brought me water. The difficult breathing continued to worsen. Finally, I decided I needed help. Just then, one of the nurses asked if something was wrong. “I’m having trouble breathing,” I managed to say between short breaths. Suddenly, a crowd of nurses and my oncologist were standing around me. A nurse put a blood pressure cuff around my upper arm; I do not remember the readings, but I think they were either quite low or quite high. (I know, I should have recorded all this, but I simply did not think to do it…and later I just zoned out.) Someone slipped a pulse oximeter on one of my fingers. It registered 88%, a full 10%+ drop from my usual reading. Someone else hung a new drip bag on the IV stand and connected it to the cannula. Suddenly, the area around the IV insertion point on my left hand began to burn like hell and my wrist and hand, especially my palm, turned red. As these things were happening, the nurses and doctor explained what was going on. The IV fluid was, if I remember correctly, an antihistamine. The burning sensation was normal and would quickly recede. The pulse oximeter reading began to climb. It quickly reached 97%. Before long, I felt normal…as normal as possible as I normally feel sitting in a chemo infusion room full of extremely sick people and highly-focused nurses and doctors. I asked one of the nurses (who I think was a senior level person) whether I would get IV carboplatin. “No,” she said, “you will never get carboplatin again. After an allergic reaction like this, you will never be given carboplatin.” I asked her what might be given in its place. She said it might be another chemo drug or it might be nothing at all. That would be up to my oncologist (who, by then, had left to tend to other patients). Inasmuch as that was the last infusion for the treatment, a nurse flushed the cannula, removed the tape, needle (or whatever), etc. and sent me on my way. From the time I arrived for my appointment (first, a blood draw, then a visit with my oncologist, then the chemo treatment), four hours had passed. It was a very long day. I then came home, had a sandwich mi novia bought for me at Newk’s, and took a nap…which lasted until almost 5 this morning, when I got up. Apparently, the events of the day took it out of me. Today, my only obligation is to go to the ancillary office for Genesis Cancer Center Hot Springs Village, where I’ll get a post-treatment shot to ward off infections, etc. Because I was given steroids as part of the chemo regimen, my blood sugar increased considerably. And because of that infusion, I’ll probably be energetic today and maybe tomorrow. And then I will be exhausted, fatigued, completely worn out for at least a week…unless the after-effects are different from the last infusion treatment. While I was in the examination room before the treatment, I asked the cancer-specialist APRN whether my post-chemo immunotherapy treatments would be by infusions and whether they would be schedule to take place every three weeks, like the chemo. The answers were yes and yes. So, for two years after the chemo, I’ll follow essentially the same routine. Except the chemo after-effects will not take place (cheers and happy faces). This all assumes the chemo does its intended job. And I am counting on it doing it and doing it well. The APRN said, and I believe her, a positive attitude really does dramatically improve the effects of chemo. I’m counting on it.

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I encountered a term this morning while reading an opinion piece on CNN.com. The term: bête noire. According to Oxford English Dictionary, the definition is: “A person or thing that is the bane of a person or his or her life; an insufferable person or thing; an object of aversion.” Not only did I come upon a new term, I found a term that describes something, if it happens, I find deeply offensive—but fundamentally right and legitimate. And I find that conundrum a bête noire itself.

The term was used by the author in the context of compromises crafted by the Supreme Court that kept the court in high esteem not only because it was necessarily right, but because the perception was that it was acting responsibility. The author referred to previous decisions of the court that, he believes, may serve as models of the court’s likely (in his view) decision in the case before it (whether the Colorado Supreme Court’s decision that Trump is ineligible to be on the ballot on the upcoming presidential primary).

According to the author, the lines of questioning presented by the justices strongly suggests that they will rule in favor of Trump, arguing that the Supreme Court reasons that it does not have to decide whether he engaged in insurrection. Instead, the author believes the justices appear to focus on whether the Colorado Supreme Court can or cannot make that decision; and it seems they believe it cannot. I will not attempt in any more detail to explain what the author believes is the court’s political rationale behind its likely (in his view) decision.

I want—deeply in my heart of hearts—the Supreme Court to rule against Trump. I want his name stricken from all future presidential ballots. But, despite that desire, and after far too much consideration of the matter, I think the Colorado Supreme Court is not the body to make that determination; I think the U.S. Supreme Court may be the correct body. But it is not being asked to make that call—yet. It is being asked only if a state court can do so. And I think a state court cannot make the final call on a U.S. constitutional issue.

The legitimacy of the court’s right to make the call was not my original disagreement with the Colorado Supreme Court’s ruling. My original disagreement was this: Trump has not yet been found guilty—conclusively, after all appeals—in court of engaging in insurrection. If I understand the Colorado court’s rationale for its decision, it was based on its assumption of his guilt, relying on a district court’s ruling. Apparently (from what I have read—and my reading of the very, very, very long series of legal ruling is admittedly incomplete), his guilt or innocence is not an issue with the Supreme Court. The justices’ questions suggest they find the matter of what body makes the call to invoke Section 3 of the 14^th Amendment of the Constitution to be a (maybe the) key issue.

Looking back at my initial reaction to the Colorado court’s decision, I both celebrated it and worried about it. My worry clung to an issue that may, in fact, be a non-issue; his guilt or innocence (his guilt is certain in my view, but not yet decided with any finality in court…which must ultimately be decided if we can legitimately have faith in our system of justice). Who makes the call? The 14^th Amendment, like so much of the Constitution, is insufficiently clear on so many issues. I wish, every time the Supreme Court clarifies something vague in the original document, the court had (and executed) the power to revise the document accordingly. But, of court, that would be a mess. And the “originalists” would scream bloody murder (unless, of course, the clarification supported their interpretation of the original meaning).

I sometimes hate being inclined to listen to arguments on both sides of and issue and to be swayed by arguments that oppose my desired interpretation of those issues. But that is a necessary element of democracy, I suppose. Democracy is monstrously messy. It clutters the mind. Even when the system of governance we call democracy is not really democracy.

This bothersome mess is another reason I want to live on a secluded—almost impossible to reach except for supply planes dropping well-packed boxes full of materials to meet my every demand—cabin (more like a very roomy, well-appointed, Frank Lloyd Wright-adherent-architect-designed house). Where do I really live? In a fantasy world.

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I expected to feel extremely energetic this morning. And I did. For a while. But it’s not yet 7 and I feel very sleepy. Even after around 12 hours of sleep, with only a few interruptions to get up to pee, I am ready for some more sleep. Even after yesterday’s steroid infusion.  I’m sure the energy will kick in before long. Soon enough to have breakfast? I hope.

This post will be brief. I do not feel well, but then again I do not feel especially ill; just a little bit on the uncomfortable side of “blah.” Perhaps I ate something that doesn’t agree with me; but if I recall correctly, the last thing I ate was a reuben sandwich…sometime around noon yesterday. But I may be wrong about that. I may have eaten something else after that meal; I just do not remember. So what? Is my memory about recent meals important? Probably not. Certainly not as important as ongoing wars, famine, poverty, crime, and thousands of other intrusions on peace and comfort and human decency. Yet the degree of importance one assigns to any experience depends on context. The pain caused by a bayonet plunged into a person’s neck takes precedence over powerful hunger. But that pain probably pales in comparison to the bayonet’s cut made many times worse by the introduction of acid into the wound. I cannot understand why I would have these topics on my mind. At least I do not feel the burn of acid or the searing pain of a bayonet. But I have felt better. In fact, I usually feel considerably better. Maybe I will feel better after my chemo treatment. Just over an hour from now, I will head into town to the oncology center. Three hours later, more or less, the unpleasantness I feel now may have disappeared. And, perhaps, I will be hungry for something that now might seem unappealing. All of these words are simply unnecessary.

One of the first things I do most mornings—after eating pills and recording my body’s behavior—is to skim various places on the internet. This morning, my skimming took me to a piece on the NPR website. Reading Linda Wertheimer’s goodbye note, announcing her retirement, brought tears to my eyes. I have enormous regard for her and for so many of her colleagues—some of whom have died—who have made the organization what it is…Cokie Roberts, Noah Adams, Bob Siegel, Susan Stamburg, Nina Totenberg, Scott Simon…the list could go on and on. All Things Considered has been one of my favorite programs, along with Morning Edition, Weekend Edition, and a host of lighthearted shows like A Way with Words; Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me; Car Talk; etc. But, regardless of my appreciation for so many of NPR’s programs, I have always held Linda Wertheimer in the very highest regard, above and beyond her context on the air. I will miss her. Maybe I should send her flowers to acknowledge her retirement and to express my deep appreciation for contributions to my understanding of so many things.

Don’t send me flowers when I’m dead. If you like me, send them while I’m alive.

~ Brian Clough ~

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Like so many nights of late, I went to bed quite early last night. When I got up at 4 this morning, I had slept with only a few brief interruptions (my bladder jars me awake from time to time) for about eight hours. Eight hours is said to be normal or what one’s body needs, but I have needed only six or seven hours for most of my adult life. Of course, last night’s eight hours followed on to several lengthy naps during the day. I will ask my oncologist, when I see her Thursday morning, why my need for excessive sleep has gone on almost non-stop since my first chemo treatment. I expected only seven to ten days of fatigue. She’ll probably say individuals’ responses to chemo vary; I think she may already have told me that, when I asked the same question a week ago. I do need to remember to ask her whether, after my chemo is completed, my immunotherapy treatments will require an hour or more every three weeks (for two years). I have so many questions. I wish I could spend an hour or two with my oncologist, when she is not pressured to tend to other patients, to ask those questions and the follow-up queries that arise when I hear the answers. Wish. Wish. Wish. Perhaps I should invite her to dinner. Her husband, a interventional radiologist, could come along. I suspect she wants nothing more than to spend even more time with a cancer patient after a grueling day treating so many patients, some of whom probably will die within weeks or months. That reality cannot be easy to live with.

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So many ideas are spinning through my head that capturing just one to explore is next to impossible. I want to write stories that integrate fact with fiction, something I enjoy, but a thousand other things clamor for my attention, as well. Grisly, unthinkable stuff competes with tender stories that cause tears to well up in my eyes just by thinking of them. Spy adventures vie for my fingers’ energy with as much power as do stories based on complex characters dealing with complex circumstances. And historical fiction, on occasion, intrigues me. But I so rarely finish writing, once I start. I lose interest. Or another idea overtakes the one in which I am enmeshed, causing me to set one aside for another…which I will set aside later. I could be a decent writer, I think, if I wrote better.

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I am scheduled for my annual physical in an hour and fifteen minutes. I should eat something first, because I am hungry. But I am hungry for a croissant, which I do not have, accompanied by another espresso, which I do. Perhaps espresso and a piece of rye toast with no-sugar-added peach preserves? That will do. Off I go.

Fuzzy scenes from a dream last night: I was conversing with Leonard Cohen and a woman I did not know while we walked toward what appeared to be a blighted neighborhood. Cohen handed me a saddle-stitched and folded sheath of paper; it contained some of his observations about humanity, he said, that mirrored mine. He then went off in another direction while the woman and I entered a school library building. I took a seat at a long table, where I found several pages that, for some reason, meant a great deal to me; I picked them up and left the building in the company of the woman. We walked back in the direction from which we came. She told me she played golf. I told her I did not. As we talked, I realized I was missing the papers Leonard Cohen had given me, as well as the pages I had found in the library. I assumed they must be on the long table in the school library building. I wanted to go back and get them, but the route we had taken to get there had disappeared. We were in an unfamiliar place.

If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.

~ Lao Tzu ~

That is all I remember of the dream. My memory of the dream is already fading; I feel certain the memory I recorded above is incomplete. My brain may have filled in missing pieces, too, so the recollection could be part real and part an attempt at reconstruction. My dreams never are complete. They have no beginning and no precise ending. Often, my memories of my dreams seem to contain only shredded segments of the dream experiences. I wonder whether the dreams, while I experienced them, were fully-formed events or were simply incomplete pieces that sprang into existence—no beginning and no end. The fact that I can never remember every moment of a dream—so that I could replay the experience, as if I were watching a video recording of that nocturnal illusion—frustrates me.

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I went to bed around 7 last night; I was not exhausted, just tired. People tell me it’s natural that I need so much sleep, but I wonder whether, so long after my chemo, I should still be subject to fatigue. Sleep will not hurt me, I suppose, so I try to just accept it; go with the flow. I woke for a while around midnight, then again a bit later. By 3, I was awake and knew I would be unable to get back to sleep, so I got up. Eight hours of sleep, give or take a bit. That schedule has given me an abundance of soubhiyé this morning; the whisper of dawn, when the house is still in slumber, allowing me to savor the stillness before the day begins. This morning’s solitude makes me feel an experience I have never had: gazing out the windows of a tiny room at the top of an secluded lighthouse on an isolated peninsula. I can hear the waves crash against the rocks below. I can feel the lighthouse tremble and shake when one of those monstrous waves slams against the building’s base. If I were writing a short story or a longer piece of fiction, I would write more detail about the experience. But this is just a short-lived fantasy.

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A few minutes ago, Phaedra just crept into my office and approached the cat tree house—the terrifying edifice she originally avoided as if it were the embodiment of a pack of vicious cat-hating canine killers. She sniffed at it gingerly, then clawed at the piece of rope that hangs from one side of it. Then she leapt to the top and sniffed all around. From there, she jumped down to the second-highest platform and sniffed some more. Apparently, that was all the excitement she needed for a while; she quietly jumped the floor and left my office. A moment later, I heard the familiar yowl of a cat that either wants food or playtime. I chose to give her food. She seemed satisfied with that. Where she went after enjoying a seafood medley from a can I do not know.

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It’s just after 6. Time for a nap after my first three hours of being “woke” this morning.  🙂

Two days ago, mi novia bought a new cat tree house—an artificial, carpet-covered structure designed for a cat to play, exercise, relax, and sleep on—for my study. It replaces a small painter’s ladder Phaedra (the cat) often uses to peer out my study windows at the outside world. The tree house is almost identical in appearance to one we keep in the breakfast nook. Despite its outward appearance, though, something about the new structure is, apparently, radically different. When mi novia carried the cat into my study to introduce her to her new viewing platform, Phaedra turned into a growling, yowling, screaming, scratching, biting, fiend. I decided to make the introduction, with the same result. Phaedra hissed, bared her teeth, and made menacing noises reminiscent of Regan in The Exorcist. We assume the problem has to do with the fact that the tree house was visited by kittens that roamed freely in the store from which mi novia bought the thing. Regardless of whether the cat tree house is awash in kitten odors, pheromones left by feline rapists, or fierce demonic spirits, Phaedra wants almost nothing to do with the thing. Once or twice, she has approached it and sniffed around, but soon she turns and leaves the room. If we attempt to carry her near it, her satanic persona erupts; full-throated guttural growls, claws at the ready, etc., etc. Attempting to ease her into a relationship with the tree house is unwise and quite dangerous. We have decided to let her take her sweet time. Eventually, whatever demon that took possession of the tree house will leave…or the odors that trigger Phaedra’s murderous impulses will fade away. If not, though, we will remove the problem from the house. Beforehand, though, we will have to come to a mutual understanding of whether the problem is the tree house or its intended resident.

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Once upon a time, I thought my scraggly moustache and beard improved my appearance. Lately, though, I have begun to question my earlier perceptions about the hair on my face. I wonder whether they add even a single scintilla of attractiveness. And I wonder whether the time devoted to their occasional upkeep (trimming, shaping, etc.) is worth the effort. The facial real estate they save me from shaving regularly is fairly modest. When I wake each morning and look in the mirror, I see an unkempt homeless vagabond. Only after I spend a few minutes with a comb can I corral my facial hair enough to make it more or less presentable. At least not deeply embarrassing. All that having been said, I am giving thought to becoming clean-shaven again. I spent roughly 69 years without the demands of a moustache and beard; maybe I should spend the next 69 years the same way. I don’t know, though. I am not quite sure whether to shave or to give myself a few days or weeks to think it over. If I were to shave, then decide it was a mistake, it would take quite a long time to replace my thin, slow-growing facial hair. During that time, I would look like that unkempt homeless vagabond who visits my mirror almost every morning—not just in the morning, but around the clock. Ach! Is it just vanity? Who knows? Time will tell. Maybe.

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A photograph I saw yesterday showed the stark difference between the pickup trucks of several years ago and the ones that devour multiple parking spaces today. The older pickup in the photo looked like a tiny toy compared to the newer, monstrously large pickup next to it. Except for their tendency to drink gasoline and, lately, their size, I might want a pickup. Their size, of course, has quite a lot to do with their addiction to gasoline. An article in  I read this morning on euronews.com reported that Parisians have “voted to triple parking fees for SUVs to make the city greener and friendlier for pedestrians and cyclists.” Though the initiative to increase parking fees was triggered by a desire to improve the city in advance of hosting the Olympic Games, the tendency toward increasing the size of SUVs with every new model year probably had a lot to do with it. Parisian Mayor Anne Hidalgo said “The time has come to break with this tendency for cars that are always bigger, taller, wider.” I suppose I have bent to the desire for big, comfortable vehicles, but I was helped along by manufacturers that seem to enjoy doubling the size of vehicles every ten years. I would be delighted if I could snap my fingers to shrink the size of cars and SUVs (and pickups, of course). Our streets would be easier to maneuver, less crowded, and far friendlier to cyclists and pedestrians. My fantasy, though, is a waste of creative thought; it won’t be long before extension ladders will be required to climb into SUVs; they’re already necessary to get inside some pickup trucks. Bah! I believe I have transformed from the period of geezerhood to curmudgeonhood.

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Last night, we watched The Greatest Night in Pop, a documentary about the incredible complexity and skill involved in recording “We Are the World.” I was amazed at the number of recording artists involved in the process. And my admiration for Quincy Jones, who orchestrated the recording, grew exponentially as I watched the film. I felt the same appreciation for the critical role played by Lionel Richie in making the recording happen. The producers, director, artists, sound technicians—everyone involved—were beyond impressive; they were, in a sense, magicians. I was stunned by the speed of taking the idea from inception to completion. The documentary is quite entertaining and well worth watching, in my opinion. Oh, and moving.

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I wish We Are the World had brought focus to the famine in Africa and caused people the world over to reflect on the intense need for people on this planet to come together to solve our problems. Sadly, that is simply wishful thinking.  Every time I hear that song, I feel a catch in my throat and my eyes begin to glaze. So very sad that the message of that song did not change the world in a fundamental way.

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Time to abandon fantasy and, instead, confront the real world.

Fog makes the tops of pine trees in my line of sight look like smudges. Gazing intently at the more distinct outlines of trunks and branches, I allow the scene to become a painting in progress, in my head. The smudges in that imaginary painting must be the artist’s technique of establishing a background for what, later, will become clumps of pine needles and pine cones. The precise lines of the trees’ framework provides the artist’s vision of the broader scene. But the more I stare at the foggy scene in front of me, the less distinct all of it becomes. The fog is getting heavier and less translucent; the light of the invisible sun cannot penetrate the clouds and fog as well as it could just a few minutes ago. I can imagine that, if the fog continues to thicken at the same pace for another ten minutes, the world outside my window will be enshrouded in absolute darkness. But my experience tells me that will not happen. At least it has never happened before. At least not to me. And, of course, the fog now seems to be lifting slightly; but not for long. Wave upon wave upon wave of thick pillows of fog drift by, hiding the tops of trees for a moment, then revealing them for another. And, then, again the cycle repeats. I like to think about how fog behaves and how closely it resembles the behavior of some people. I had a conversation yesterday, during which my brain seemed to drift in and out of a fog. I hope that was only a brief attribute; I do not want to become, permanently, like those fog-people, whose words and thoughts meander between the irrational and the disturbing.

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Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you’ve been faithful
Ah, give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you’ve been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

~ Leonard Cohen ~

A stanza from one of my favorite LC songs, Everybody Knows. Cynicism can teach us, even when we do not want to learn. His use of paradoxes and impossible opposites was something about his poetry I have always admired. 

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I have always enjoyed hot, spicy food. But I can no longer tolerate the very hot stuff like I once did. It’s not my gut that’s impacted by the change; it’s my taste buds. I love the flavors associated with very hot peppers, but now when I eat the peppers they can seem a little like molten lava. I still like hot, spicy foods, but just not AS hot. I have never enjoyed foods simply because they are hot; their heat has to be both tolerable and necessary to the greatest enjoyment of the food. I do not eat whole Scotch Bonnet peppers or habaneros (are they one and the same?) or Carolina Reapers. This, too, just happens to be on my mind. That having been said, I could stand something hot and spicy to eat right now. But I doubt there’s anything quick and easy enough waiting for me to pop in the microwave…or whatever.

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The difference between expectations and demands can be vast. I remember that the expectations placed upon my staff and me by clients boards of directors, in the form of contractual obligations, often were far lower than their demands. Once I committed my signature to a contract, I committed to provide the services stipulated in the contract. But clients’ contractual expectations frequently seemed to be equivalent to “at a minimum…” Their true expectations, which transformed into demands, were far higher. When those demands significantly exceeded levels the fees could cover, I had to broach the topic of fee adjustments or limitations to services provided. Actually, the services rarely were limited; I tried to scale back on the time devoted to the client. But that rarely worked for long. The demands returned. And they grew. My experience with organizational boards of directors was not unique. It was simply an attribute of the kind of relationship that existed, and still exists, between boards and contract management. That relationship required constant attention; it had to be tweaked, revised, manipulated, twisted, etc., etc. on an ongoing basis. Some people find such relationships both challenging and fulfilling. I found them challenging and frustrating. And draining. And, over time, increasingly unsatisfactory. I retired at age 58, rather than waiting to the more traditional 65, so the pressure vessel that was my brain would not explode. Well, that was part of it. I had long wanted, desperately, to be free of work obligations. If I could have figured out a way to do it without starving and going broke, I would have done it earlier. I should have pursued a different field of endeavor that did not involve close, personal engagement with board members—many of whom considered their board membership evidence of their power and importance. There were plenty of dedicated, intelligent, reasonable, likeable board members, of course; but the many others sprinkled among boards provided enough discomfort and frustration to make escape an appealing objective. Fortunately, the board I lead today does not behave like those boards in my past. These matters flood my mind sometimes; so I document my recollections and my observations. They merit no more than a passing nod; what’s done is done.

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Church before long…and off I go.

This is one of those days when I curse myself for allowing my software knowledge and abilities to wither from infrequent use. There was a time, not so very long ago, that I could quickly and easily burnish my understanding of software. But disuse over time has buried some of those capabilities under an almost impenetrable coating of dust. And where once I had an enviable degree of concentration that allowed me to take as much time as I needed to figure out how to make software work for me, there is now an enormous mound of impatience that leads not to solutions, but to frustration and abandonment. All of this is to say I have been unable to successfully resize some too-large photographic images so WordPress would allow me to upload them to this blog. Damnit! Had I been able to do what I attempted, this page would display images of two views of an insulated Yeti mug and one image of a Sweet Poppy Cat, a whimsical creature created from used cashmere sweaters. The mug and the Sweet Poppy Cat were surprise gifts from two very generous, caring, wonderful friends. If my patience allows, I will continue attempting to resize the photos I took and will post them here; the images say much more than I can with mere words. I should mention that the Yeti mug has “John” embossed (I think) on one side and the word “Soubhiyé” embossed on the other. Soubhiyé, for those who did not see or do not remember my blog post of January 26, is a Lebanese Arabic word, which when translated into English means the whisper of dawn, when the house is still in slumber, allowing one to savor the stillness before the day begins. Here is a link where images of the whimsical creatures may be seen of the Sweet Poppy Cat, in whose heart (I was told) I can place all my worries and be done with them. I hope the friends who gave me these precious gifts feel the intensity of my love and appreciation. Despite cursing the creeping Luddditism that prevented me from posting photos here, the two gifts boosted my spirits yesterday and they continue today. I am drinking coffee from my Yeti mug and feeling the gaze of my Sweet Poppy Cat, sitting on the bookshelf behind me.

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Some people may have noticed that I did not post here yesterday. I started the day unusually late, feeling approximately rotten, and continued on that path until late morning. During that period, I returned to my primary care physician’s office for pre-physical lab work, where the phlebotomist (who usually causes no pain when she stabs me) was off her game. After returning home to attempt a brief nap, I went to my oncologist’s Village office for an infusion of magnesium. By the time that process had been completed, I felt considerably better. That improvement was enhanced considerably by the arrival of a package (containing my Soubhiyé mug) and a short visit by a lovely friend, who brought with her my Sweet Poppy Cat. Care, compassion, and love are incredibly powerful. At any rate, I opted not to write a post for late in the day. Instead, I took mi novia out (well, she drove) for an early Japanese dinner. And then we watched a couple of episodes of Griselda (a dramatic miniseries based on the life of a real-world cocaine “godmother” whose network pushed $80 million per month in cocaine).

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I have serious mixed feelings about the U.S. response to the Iran-backed drone attack that killed three American soldiers and injured some 40 more. The fact that the U.S. is calling the response (which hit some 85 locations in several Middle Eastern countries) a “first step” is especially concerning to me. In my view, the response is far beyond “proportional”
and appears to me to be an invitation to an enormous upheaval in an already-dangerous situation. War—and its precursors and after-effects—cannot be legitimized by tit-for-tat retaliation. War is the province of idiots.

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War does not determine who is right – only who is left.

~ Bertrand Russell ~

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The fact that I have bounced from feelings of joy and appreciation to brittle anger condemning war and its indefensible excuses is reason enough to retreat into remote isolation with no access to news. If there is to be more conventional warfare or even thermonuclear war, let me learn of it only when it arrives with a blinding flash at my remote doorstep—so sudden that my knowledge of the cataclysm will last no more than a fraction of a second.

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Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.

~ Henry Van Dyke ~

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Enough of this. I return to my celebration of friendship, love, and the beauty of care and compassion. Have a good day, please, and make it last for years and years.

The first month of this year slipped away, almost unnoticed. Time, as always, has a way of distracting us from the reality that it gives us only a limited, but unknown, store of itself. If, at every moment, we were conscious of the precise amount assigned to us during our lifetimes, our experience of life would be difference. We would want to know how much we had used. We either would consider deeply every moment we spend—never to retrieve—or we would live in a constant, frenzied panic, unable to determine its best use. Time fascinates me, in part because it embeds itself in everything we do, whether thinking or acting on our thoughts. The second sentence of this paragraph begins, “Time, as always…” The definition of always is based on time. Other words I have used here—during, would, moment, never—rely on time for their meaning. Time surrounds us, yet it is simply a concept, not a physical reality. Oh, we could argue that for years (another time-reliant word), but agreement would elude us. My fascination with time may not be unique to me, but others with whom I try to engage in “philosophical” conversations about time seem to have little or no interest. The topic bores them. Perhaps a conversation that is guaranteed to end without any measurable resolution does not sit well with them. Such is life.

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I went to my primary care physician’s office yesterday for pre-physical labs (blood, urine, whatever). However, in the fog that seems to be creeping into my brain, I did not fast beforehand. So, no tests yesterday; I will return early tomorrow. My physical is next week. Given all the tests, pokes, prods, and other invasive stuff I’ve experienced in recent weeks, I am not sure a physical is really necessary. Based on all that “stuff,” I think I could write the report arising from the physical:

Pleasant 70 year old man (they always say that) has lung cancer, the vestiges of pneumonia, COPD, Type II diabetes (a mild case). Though he has lost weight since his last physical, he remains overweight (grossly overweight, in the view of physicians who define obesity, etc.). He has lost muscle mass, due in large part to his sedentary lifestyle. His blood tests reveal wildly varied measures of blood components, some much lower than the desirable range, some much higher and, in one case, critically high. His answers to questions designed to determine his state of mind are, as usual, “normal.”

I am probably far off in some ways, but I feel confident the doctor’s findings will not be too far from my guesses.

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After tomorrow’s blood and urine tests, I go in to the oncologist’s Village clinic for a two-hour (or so) infusion of magnesium. At some point, the amount of time devoted to “healing” that offers no guarantees, seems to exceed the time available to enjoy the freedom and joys of retirement. When, I wonder, does that out-of-balance experience begin to seem not worth the trade-off? I am not there yet, of course, but I do wonder; it is possible I could get there at some point. That is the point, I think, when people who have passed it, decide to investigate euthanasia. I am a believer in self-determination when it comes to life and death. If a person reaches the point of deciding death is preferable to life, he or she should be permitted to end life. And people who assist should not need to worry about helping. But, because the decision, once carried out, is irrevocable, I think a reasonable amount of time be required before action is taken. Hmm. What a cheery topic for a Thursday morning.

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Once again, I did not sleep especially well last night. So, instead of going to breakfast with men from church, I think I will return to sleep for an hour or two after I finish this blog. Later today, the church board meets. The agenda is full, but I hope I can prompt participants to hurry it along. I’ll probably want to sleep afterward, too, so the earlier we finish, the better. I feel a bit distant from the church, even as president of the board. That is due in part to my absence/illness, but also due to my desire not to “run” the church. Others have different perspectives, I think. I suspect some people might think I am not filling my role as I should. At 70, I have reached the point of not letting that bother me. I think I’ve said it before: such is life.

They asked me what I thought about euthanasia. I said I’m more concerned about the adults.

~ Jay London ~

🙂

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If you’re planning on taking public transportation in Finland tomorrow, make other plans. A series of political strikes will stop all metro, tram and light-rail services, as well as the majority of bus services, in the capital region, according to the Helsinki Times. What a mess.

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Reading small online newspapers based in other countries does not necessarily make me better-informed, really. But that practice does make me more thoroughly entertained. And I tend to put more stock in reporting from many of them than I put in many big media newspapers. Any newspaper with an obvious left-leaning or right-leaning perspective on information-sharing is suspect in everything they do. I do not look at newspapers (or newscasts) for analysis, except when presented as commentary (and I expect to see multiple perspectives in the commentaries). Wishful thinking? Yeah, probably.

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It’s 7:15. Time to finish this post and return to bed for a while.

It doesn’t take much. A glimpse of a photograph. A memory springing on me, seemingly out of nowhere. The way the quiet morning wraps around me as I sit at my desk. Whatever provokes it, it brings on a sudden feeling of eternal emptiness. Almost anything can trigger the onset of waves of anguish. Tears abruptly well up in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I feel the sense of loss so acutely that I think the pain may be physical. Maybe it is. If I were to allow myself to start sobbing, I am afraid I might never stop. Grief never ends. It may hide its face for a while, but when it returns it is just as powerful as it ever was. Sometimes it is temporarily debilitating; for a brief few moments, I can do nothing but weep. Sometimes it is so strong I would do almost anything to make it stop. Slowly, though, its hold on me weakens. But when it hits me particularly hard,  its residue can stay with me for hours. On occasion, days. This morning, though, it is not as overwhelming as it can be. I am grateful for that.

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Mi novia searched online for information that might explain why my sleep patterns seem to have changed radically in the last few weeks—why I sleep so much during the day and wake in the middle of the night. She learned that cancer—presumably its treatment, like chemo—can cause such changes in one’s sleep patterns. I have been assuming, for no good reason, that the effects on me of chemo—7-10 days of fatigue after a chemo infusion—would be the only physical effects I would experience. Apparently, that is not the case. As she pointed out, the chemo drugs likely affect the body for the entire period between treatments, but not always in predictable ways. Maybe that explains my weird sleeping habits. I slept for several hours yesterday afternoon, woke for a while, then slept again, then woke, then slept again. I woke up around 2, stayed in bed (and drifted in and out of sleep) until 3, got up for a minute, went back to bed (but did not sleep), and finally got up around 4:15. Getting up at that hour is good for my morning serenity, but if the bizarre sleep patterns are the price, perhaps…oh, never mind.

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The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

~ Robert Frost ~

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Though I think I am keeping it in check for the most part, I think I have been slipping in and out of depression, especially lately. Cancer treatments notwithstanding, maybe that could explain my deviant sleep patterns. I understand, of course, that my diagnosis of a recurrence of cancer must contribute to how I function and how I feel, but it’s the stuff that accompanies the diagnosis that seems to exacerbate my experience. I have every hope that I will beat cancer again, but I think it’s natural to contemplate “what if” I do not. How will mi novia respond? What about my siblings? The possibility pressures me to take action in updating my will, etc. and to ensure that I have properly established beneficiaries for my financial accounts…but, pressure notwithstanding, I have not acted (with legitimate reasons, but even so…). I sometimes want to bury my head beneath a comforter and forget everything. But that does not help, of course. I must simply allow the depression (or simple anxiety) to pass. I have not devoted enough time and attention to my responsibilities to church, either, which contributes to my sense that I am barely treading water. Some days I want to abandon everything; find a hidden cabin deep in the woods and just vegetate. Skip treatments, skip responsibilities, skip engaging with people. But because that is neither practical nor productive, I claw my way out of that pit and return to what is at least a moderate sense of normalcy. I saw a therapist twice in recent months. For several reasons, she is not likely to be of real value to me. Finding any therapist who both accepts Medicare patients and has an opening is damn near impossible; but not just any therapist will do. I am not quite sure what I am looking for, but might know it if I encounter it. My self-diagnosed depression/anxiety may be off the mark, anyway. And trying to fit therapy in alongside chemo and doctor visits and all the other crap probably would be almost impossible. I think I’ve talked myself out of it. Plenty of people do just fine coping, without therapy; I am confident I will cope, as well.

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Every few years I become intrigued by the fact that the design of shirts—especially slip-on t-shirts and similar attire—accounts for relatively minor differences in a person’s body shape. Until I give the matter some focused thought, it seems to me that identical front and back halves of a shirt should fit just fine. But, of course, that is not the case. If I mistakenly put on a t-shirt backwards, its misfit is immediately obvious. But just looking at the garment, I would say it should fit just fine either way. The little physical or printed tag in the “back” of the collar area gives it away, of course. Less obvious is the cut of a seam where the arms attach to the body of the shirt; that clue is sufficient, even without the tag, to identify the front versus the back of the shirt. I am referring here, of course, to men’s shirts. Their design takes into account the fact that the shape of our bodies requires accommodation. The design of women’s shirts must also take into account what I’ll call boobs (breasts, in this context, sounds to me too clinical). But I am not quite sure how that unique bodily attribute figures into shirt design. Perhaps if I had grown up making clothes from off-the-shelf patterns I would not be so captivated by what I periodically find so fascinating. I wonder…does anyone else find this subject intriguing?

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I have been at this, off and on, for quite some time this morning. The sky is showing signs of daylight, so it may be time for me to sleep again.

Almost every day, I play Wordle, Words with Friends, and the New York Times‘ daily min-crossword. I have no interest, at the moment, in attempting to work the larger, more complex, much more difficult crosswords from the Times—that beast is intended for aficionados; people who are competitive in the extreme. I am not particularly competitive. I am perfectly satisfied to do as well as I can at any given time. For me, the games are entertainment, not opportunities to demonstrate my advanced skills with words. But, still, there are times when I allow slivers of competitiveness to dictate my approach to the games. I think I inherited my interest in words from my mother. Maybe inherited is not the right word; she taught me to appreciate language and to exercise my analytical and language skills with word games. My mother was a crossword fiend; whether she finished a particularly difficult puzzle or not, she attacked it with a passion. She sometimes used a pen, I think, but that memory is a bit fuzzy. Sometimes, I wonder why she spent her relatively limited free time (she was an English teacher who had tests and essays to grade almost every evening) entertaining herself with language challenges, which were so closely aligned with her profession. I suppose I’ll never know.

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Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.

~ Desmond Tutu ~

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What, I wonder, is the point of giving names to children based on gender? Why not name baby boys Linda and baby girls Barney? I read a bit about the topic this morning, but the reasons given do not get to the heart of the matter. While I understand why (I think) we differentiate males and females, but is the assignment of “masculine” or “feminine” a necessary element of that differentiation? As I think about the matter, I can imagine that confusion might arise if there were no gender-based naming conventions. Many examples of names gender-neutral names exist; the confusion that accompanies them is not overwhelming…just curious.

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This morning, while wandering the pages of the New York Times, after I performed abysmally playing Wordle, I stumbled across a recipe for an Indian dish called Bagara Baingan. I immediately recognized it as an eggplant dish (baingan is an anglicized version of the Hindi word for eggplant…बैंगन…which I learned long ago during a phase when I was almost fanatical about making and eating Indian food, which I can imagine happening again). At any rate, the author of the recipe for Bagara Baingan described it as a fiery Hyderabadi dish, which immediately caught my attention. The author says the only chopping required involved an onion. Though the ingredient list is long, the actual cooking time is only about 40 minutes. Now, whether my desire to eat Bangara Baingan will parallel an interest in—or willingness to—actually make it remains to be seen. I suspect I might be able to find it on the menu at one of Little Rock’s several Indian restaurants. The question is whether I would rather drive to Little Rock to order it off the menu or whether I would rather slog through grocery stores (quite possibly involving a trip to an Indian grocery in Little Rock to find all the ingredients) and plant myself in the kitchen. I do love to cook (well, I did…), but my passion for spending time in the kitchen has diminished considerably since my wife died. She and I cooked quite a bit together and I sometimes did it all myself so she could kick back and be served a no-effort Indian or Pakistani or Mexican or Chinese or Korean or…on and on…meal. My patience for cooking and my interest in “showing off” my culinary skills have both declined precipitously. I suspect my skills (never truly impressive…not by a long shot) have degraded dramatically over time. The old bones and muscles of mine seem more inclined to be pampered than to pamper; aside from the efforts to go to restaurants, ordering from a menu is the kind of pampering I rather enjoy.

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Two surprises yesterday. First, I got a call from a home health nurse, who wanted to come visit (which she did…spending all of 15 minutes verifying my vitals, etc.). Second, my oncologist’s office called, telling me I need to return for another 2-hour infusion of magnesium on Friday. Looking ahead, next week I will have at least 2 visits to the cancer clinic; the second chemo treatment that Thursday and the second follow-up injection the day after to protect me from the ravages of the second chemo treatment. If things go as they did the first time around, I will feel quite good (like…VERY good, thanks to the steroids they give in connection with the chemo) the two days following chemo; subsequently will experience intense fatigue/exhaustion for 7 to 10 days. I have an brain MRI scheduled for February 13, as well. Busy, busy, busy. My hospital follow-up with my Primary Care Physician yesterday morning was routine, but like every time I visit with him, I enjoy having an actual conversation with him. He is interesting and very willing to spend considerably more time with me than other doctors have in the past. He’s the kind of guy with whom I think I could enjoy socializing, provided we steer clear of politics and related topics. But we can talk politics in a calm, reasonable way; we have done that. Nice guy.

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Damn! It’s 7 o’clock! Five hours since I awoke, a touch under three hours since I got out of bed. I think I’ll clean up the kitchen and prepare something simple but tasty for breakfast. And here I go.

Perhaps my viewpoint is colored by romantic notions of the way things once were. Or, maybe my perspective is influenced by a combination of respect and guilt. Guilt that the privileged among us are allowing a way of life for people on the lower rungs of the socio-economic ladder to be unceremoniously stripped away. Regardless of what drives my point of view, I feel a sense of emptiness and loss when I learn that the gentry, of which I embarrassingly am a part, is choking off the oxygen for intercity bus transportation. People in my socio-economic class generally seem unconcerned that the bus system that allows people, especially low-income people, to travel is being dismantled in favor of giving the well-to-do more unnecessary luxuries. Those in my economic stratum hardly ever give intercity bus transportation a passing thought. When they very rarely consider travel by bus, they tend to think that mode of travel is beneath them; bus travel, they seem to believe, is for poverty-stricken people whose lifestyles contribute to their unbreakable cycle of poverty. Most of them—us—will not acknowledge our contempt or pity or simple distaste for people who populate the lower socio-economic strata. But it is there, just as sure as bus stations are disappearing, replaced by inner-city gentrification.  And, of course, recent political stunts, which use buses to transport undocumented immigrants to places far from the southern border, tend to equate bus transportation with the “riff-raff.”

There was a time, not so very long ago, when travel by bus was perfectly legitimate. Taking a Greyhound bus from Corpus Christi to Dallas was an adventure. The mix of passengers exposed riders to all manner of ideas and attitudes and cultures. Over time, though, bus travel has been relegated mostly to the poor. The unkempt. The suspicious. The potentially dangerous. No matter how hard the gentry tries to object to being labeled elitist for attitudes about motor coaches and bus travelers, the perceptions are there. Sometimes hidden, sometimes overt.

I do not remember where, very early this morning, I read about the demise of so many inner-city bus stations. But I remember feelings of anger and guilt and embarrassment welling up inside me while reading the article. The disappearance of amenities for bus travelers does not impact me directly, so I can safely dismiss the issue. But that, of course, is absurd. Sweeping poverty aside and eliminating services for the poor tears at the very fabric of social decency. We are watching, dispassionately, as a sharply-defined caste system is being constructed, polished, and memorialized in our culture. I hate what is happening to us, with our permission and, in too many cases, our encouragement. This stream-of-consciousness expression is incomplete because the more I think of how we, collectively, view the less fortunate among us, the angrier I get. And my anger severs my own thoughts into disconnected threads. And I just stew in my own juices, accomplishing nothing, as I wander aimlessly through a convoluted web of disappointment and shame. Ach.

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Where all are guilty, no one is; confessions of collective guilt are the best possible safeguard against the discovery of culprits, and the very magnitude of the crime the best excuse for doing nothing.

~ Hannah Arendt ~

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I was reasonably energetic yesterday morning. I went to church to hear a very well-conceived and professionally-delivered presentation about preparing one’s home, auto, and thought processes for emergency situations. And then we went to lunch with a large group from church—sixteen or so of us. I had three margaritas on the rocks during lunch; they were exceptionally tasty. But in hindsight, I should have skipped them. Whether it was the margaritas or some ongoing fatigue associated with chemo, etc., I was very, very tired by 3 pm, when I decided to take a nap. The nap lasted until 7. I stayed up for two hours; back in bed at 9 for the duration. I got up today just before 4; fed the cat, measured and recorded my vital signs, etc., prepared an agenda packet for a board meeting later this week, and skimmed the news and some other informational websites. And I’ve done several of the exercises the physical therapist recommended I do three times a day. My energy, though, has not rebounded completely. It’s now 6:30 and I am tired; could sleep soundly, I think, for another 3 or 4 hours. But I can’t, because I have a post-hospitalization follow-up appointment with my primary care physician at 9:30. Ach, again. Oh well.

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34°F. So says the computer’s link to a local weather app. That is more than a little brisk, but the forecast high today at 59°F will be tolerable, provided the sun is shining and I am suitably dressed. At the moment, I am not suitably dressed; flip-flops, sweatshirt, and a pair of sweatpants that are a shade too short. I desperately need some new jeans that are neither too loose (like all the ones I have now, which can drop to the floor at the most inopportune times) nor too tight. If I could have a pair of jeans custom made for me, I would have the tailor use a slightly stretchy fabric. And the pattern he or she uses would have to account for the fact that I have no butt to speak of. And the jeans would have slightly tapered legs. And the legs would be short enough so that the cloth doesn’t “pool” around my ankles, making me look like I cannot dress myself properly. Yeah, that’s the ticket. A $850 pair of tailored jeans. What a positively delightful way to spend my money. Okay, maybe not.

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I may have said this a thousand times before. I love hugs, both to get and to give. I am especially pleased when I get a very tight, long-lasting hug. I got one of those yesterday. It was delightful! Except for the fact that the hug took place in a very public place, I might have urged the hugger to give me an additional thirty minutes. Who knows, that might have cured my cancer…and made me stronger and taller and better looking…improved my singing voice…eliminated the cowlick in my hair…etc. Physical embraces can have a positive impact on one’s emotional state of mind. And they can generate a sense of well-being and general joy.  The trouble with many embraces, though, is their duration; they are too brief. That brevity can make a person feel like he is walking on a loose emotional tightrope that could give way at any moment. But even short ones are better than none at all; the absence of hugs can make a person remember, moments after jumping from the belly of a plane, that he has forgotten his parachute. Okay, that’s a touch too dramatic. Drama, though, gets the blood pumping and makes one feel giddy and slightly terrified. “Slightly terrified?” I don’t think so. Time to stop this wandering and have some breakfast; yesterday’s lunch leftovers. Day-old shrimp on a bed of congealed cheese and rice. Perhaps I should heat it; might improve both flavor and texture. To you who has gotten this far, I wish you a wonderful day. To the rest of you…the same.

Finns are at the polls as I write this, casting their ballots to replace President Sauli Niinistö, who will finish his second six-year term in March and who is not eligible for reelection. Finland is one of several Scandinavian countries that have intrigued me for years. My one extremely brief (a single day) visit to Finland took place after an overnight “cruise” from Stockholm to Helsinki on a ship operated by Silja Lines. We (my late wife and I) spent the day walking around Helsinki, stopping in to visit little shops and soaking in the ambiance of what I think was a unique briskly emerging democracy that gave voice to a broad spectrum of political perspectives. From what I have read (admittedly not very much), President Niinistö seems to be a conservative who stresses that other political perspectives should be acknowledged and respected. Finland’s population, it seems, has ricocheted between left-leaning and right-leaning, with the most recent expression of political perspectives having greater right-leaning representation. Writing as a novice in matters involving the intricacies of global politics—nationally, country by country, and internationally—my thinking leans toward compromise within an unbending commitment to one’s core principles. The idea is not necessarily to make everyone happy—it is to embrace tolerance and avoid getting everyone angry. Pollyannaish; check. Naïve in the extreme; check. Back to Finland. I would happily go back, but I would want to know more about the country before I go. And I would hope, on my return, to find the wonderful root vegetable and reindeer stew the proprietor of the spot where we ate lunch encouraged to try. Helsinki was cold and a bit rainy during my one-day visit; I would like to see the city on a clear, cool day. And I would like to venture out into the countryside. The idea of having conversations with people in little Finnish villages appeals to me. I suspect more Finns speak English today than did when I was there a number of years ago.

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Yesterday was a pretty good day. After waking around 5 yesterday morning, I remained awake and moderately alert until nearly 11 last night, when I gave in and quickly fell asleep. And this morning, after awaking again about 5, I feel like I might have another day like that, though I have been yawning off and on for the last hour and a half. My sister-in-law will come for coffee, as she usually does on Sunday morning. This morning, I will prepare avocados (salt and lime juice mixed with crushed avos), so the three of us can have avocado toast. The avos are ripening at the speed of light; we must eat them this morning or we will curse ourselves for letting them become unpleasantly over-ripe. After our coffee and conversation and yuppie breakfast, mi novia and I will go to church. I have not been keeping track of my church attendance, but it seems I have missed quite a lot of church in the last month or two or three. And, speaking of church, I have to prepare the agenda for Thursday afternoon’s board meeting. That holds about as much appeal right now as chewing the bark off the trunk of a big healthy oak tree. Perhaps it’s a relatively temporary state of mind…my interest in some things that, not so long ago, were fascinating has dwindled to the point of fragile tolerance.

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My weight fluctuates from day to day. This morning, for example, I was up more than two pounds from yesterday. Two days ago, though, my weight reached a low I have not experienced in several years. This morning’s number is more than 29 pounds less than one year ago: January 29, 2023. I have been keeping almost daily records of my weight, blood pressure, blood oxygen, blood sugar, etc., etc. for a tad more than a year. That’s what a combination of geezerhood and age-related (and lifestyle-related) health challenges will do to  you. I can no longer legitimately claim to be of “late-middle-age.”

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An occasional text or email check-in by friends keeps me connected to the world outside my window. And, of course, mi novia has driven me to doctor visits and appointments for treatments. But these contacts do not feel quite real; some of them feel downright artificial. This odd emotions makes me wonder whether the pine needles on the trees outside are made of plastic? Is the driveway just a concrete-look-carpet that has been rolled out to make fake look real? I do not really wonder, but what’s to stop the universe from fooling me into believing I am still alive and locked behind an impenetrable obstacle? Is it possible that all of us are simply tests of our bodies’ ability to successfully live and breathe in an oxygen environment…instead of the more natural hydrogen sulfide gas on which we thrive? We may be incredibly gullible. We’ve bought into the myth that we are in control of ourselves and our lives. Every move we make could be orchestrated by a being who lives in a different dimension a billion light years away…but who can step across dimensional boundaries as easily as…pie. Yes, pie. There, I’ve said it. Apple pie. Cherry pie. Peach pie. Tart green grape pie. Every one of them is powerful; they bring energy and light and boundless wisdom to people who consume them. I have it on good authority that almost all pies are imbued with stunning powers. Healing powers! Yes, pies can cure rabies, blindness, and blues. Eat one and see. You’ll want to thank me, but you will be embarrassed to have bought into my little story. A story that exists for no other reason than to manufacture and distribute lies. That is appalling. Yes it is. But so many things are.

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It’s almost 7:30. How in the hell does it get so damn late so damn fast? I am amazed at the blue sky outside my window. I wonder, is it real, or has my brain been programmed to “see” a blue sky when, in reality, I am locked in a completely dark 4 foot by 4 foot box? What if? Indeed, what if? I think I’ll stop stream-of-consciousness-spilling now. Good day!

I was confident I had bounced back—almost completely. But that was before I decided to take a “nap” after dinner, sometime before 6. I woke briefly at around 10 and periodically during the night, but aside from those moments, I slept soundly until around 5 this morning. Oddly, I feel a bit tired—sleepy—even now, an hour after I got up. The moment these post-chemo bouts of sudden fatigue disappear is a moment I will celebrate. Using the timeframe the oncologist mentioned, during which I could have such rounds, that moment should be any time now…possibly just minutes. I hope.

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Nestled, all alone, near the end of an otherwise-empty cul-de-sac, our house sometimes feels like a refuge from the world. Inside, behind protective windows to the universe outside, I peer out into what I can see of the wider world. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. We are here and everyone else is out there. Though I value this quiet, isolated sanctuary, I can imagine transforming it into a commune of sorts by inviting our friends to build private houses that hide behind the trees.  Supplemental common areas, like kitchen, bathrooms, large living area, etc. would be laced throughout the expansive property. At a moment’s notice—or with no notice at all—we could gather and have fun. Impromptu parties. And, then, back to our individual lairs. The best of both worlds. A private domain that provides a sanctuary from the rest of the world—and a place to gather and engage with close friends.

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Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.

~ Henri Nouwen ~

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Before I was released from the hospital, I was enrolled in a “home health nurse” program, in which a nurse, physical therapist, and respiratory therapist visit one’s home after the hospital visit. Yesterday was the first visit; a physical therapist. Depending on which representative is speaking, this at-home service should last between 2 and 6 weeks. Apparently, Medicare pays for the service; but there is a proviso that the patient is essentially home-bound. So, I’m not supposed to drive (except, in a pinch, to doctors’ appointments and pharmacy visits). I do have various medical appointments, but I should have a very local existence for a while. Oh, given where I live, I suppose driving to church is also acceptable. Fortunately, mi novia is a willing driver.

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During a break in blogging this morning, I watched a BBC.com video that dealt with the way individuals’ brains react when we see art. The piece was fascinating, but that is not what is on my mind. While watching, my attention was drawn to the facial characteristics of two people in the video. I noticed that their cheeks and jawlines and chins and necks and the rest of their bodies changed as they moved through space. Yet even with those changes, we continue to recognize individuals…the same individuals from moment to moment. Those thoughts morphed into a realization that everyone—every single person—is visually appealing if we simply allow ourselves to be guided by compassion. Hmm.

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This post is hereby committed to the ether.

I came across a Lebanese Arabic word yesterday that felt almost as though it had been coined just for me. Soubhiyé. One definition I encountered—a definition that feels luxurious and comfortable and beautiful—was this: “the whisper of dawn, when the house is still in slumber, allowing one to savor the stillness before the day begins.”  That definition, and variations thereof, are valid only in Lebanese Arabic, according to what I have read. The word’s definition in other Arabic-speaking countries is completely different; unrelated in any way to its use in Lebanese Arabic. Like so many words in other languages, its pronunciation depends on the person pronouncing it. The one that I choose to use—for the moment—is this (using what is probably my own peculiar form of phonetic pronunciation): Soob’-i-yeah. The pronunciation, though, is largely irrelevant to me, though the word pronounced in that way is pleasing to my ears. The word’s meaning is what matters. It describes my favorite time of day, that relatively brief period—an hour or two when I am alone with the quiet morning, enjoying the stillness—that feels like it was made for me.

Many words in “foreign languages” cannot be easily translated into English or, rather, there is no English word that shares the meaning of those words. I am sure I have mentioned many of them in earlier blog posts. Words like komorebi, a Japanese word meaning dappled light filtering through a canopy of leaves and branches; fernweh, a German word (translated literally as “farsickness”), meaning an aching to return to places one has never been. There are many more, I am sure. I wish, now, I had categorized as “language” the blog posts in which I mentioned those and other such words. Any attempt to search for those posts now would require too damn much time; searching for a needle in an enormous haystack. English, though, has some of its own pleasingly unique words: psithurism, for example, a rustling or whispering sound, such as leaves in the wind.

I have always had a love affair with language, but I have never delved deeply enough into words to be sufficiently knowledgeable to be an expert. My love of words has been shallow; superficial. I think I either am fundamentally too lazy to more deeply explore language  or I suffer from attention deficit disorder (or both).  Those characteristics/attributes/flaws probably are responsible for the fact that I write and write and write, yet rarely finish what I have begun. I lose interest in my own curiosity. After a while, my creativity begins to wear thin on me; maybe I withdraw from it out of fear I will learn I am not especially creative, after all. The same thing happens beyond writing. Sculpting. Pottery. Stained glass. Painting. And on and one. I lose the drive to continue when I begin to realize I will not achieve sufficient skills or talents or abilities to warrant having pride in what I am doing. I do not doubt I could reach some level of adequacy if I kept at it; but I have fantasies of actually being good at whatever it is I am doing. Rather than coming to grips with the reality that I might not be any good at all, I withdraw. And that is my psychological self-assessment. Psychology; another area of interest I never pursued with enough fervor to become truly knowledgeable. Ditto sociology. Ditto linguistics. Ditto, ditto, ditto. I am not incapable; I am bright enough, I simply have rarely pushed myself to go beyond a self-limiting boundary. I think that is quite enough about my inadequacies. I should write about my capabilities, instead. Perhaps I will do that sometime soon.

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Poetry has never been the language of barriers, it’s always been the language of bridges.

~ Amanda Gorman ~

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Yesterday, I spent a couple of hours at the cancer clinic getting an infusion of magnesium. I thought I was going in to get a simple injection, but I spent time with an IV drip, instead. My labs from my first chemo treatment revealed that I was low on magnesium, so my oncologist ordered the IV. We (mi novia and I) spoke to my oncologist, who confirmed that my extreme fatigue and other such reactions were normal responses to chemo. She said individuals’ responses differ from patient to patient, but it would not be out of the ordinary for me to feel essentially exhausted for seven to ten days after each chemo treatment…and that the effects could well be cumulative. I was quite pleased with the amount of time the oncologist spent with us, explaining and responding to our questions. I feel like I should know the answers already, having undergone chemo five years ago, but I have to remind myself that I was also undergoing radiation treatment at the time, which is a process with its own side-effects (and which probably combined with the effects of chemo). I felt better yesterday than I had the few days before, though I did get quite tired and napped late in the day. As much as I would rather not nap so much (or sleep damn near endlessly), I know I have little control over my fatigue; it is best to just go with the flow and sleep when I feel like I need it. Which, of late, seems almost constant. My next treatment is scheduled for February 8, which probably will leave me exhausted a few days afterward until around February 18 or so. I hope to feel sufficiently energetic thereafter to be able to participate in an insight program at church on February 25. We shall see. Before then, though, I should be scheduled for a brain MRI, which I expect will reveal that the cancer has not invaded my brain…a non-contrast CT scan while I was in the hospital recently did not show any “acute abnormalities,” which suggests the MRI probably will confirm that my brain is about as good as it’s going to get.

+++

It is now 6:38. I am hungry. I woke at 3:55 and ate a few pieces of cantaloupe. Now is the time for a helping of spicy turkey pumpkin chili. I am extremely grateful for that chili.

And for the loving kindness of friends—you know who you are—who wish me well. I appreciate offers of help and support; they mean more than I can possibly express. I look forward to visiting with “my people.” I hope to go to church on Sunday. Whether I do or not, my door is always open.

Another grey day, but the temperature promises to remain reasonably comfortable, with a high of roughly 60°F. Yesterday, while I was sleeping (when was I not?), a new supply of propane was delivered, so we can again use our gas fireplace…but 60°F outdoors is too warm to sit in front of a fire inside. And, also while I slept, our handyman assessed how much pipe insulation he will need to apply to the water pipes in the crawlspace. Both of these matters should have been addressed before the horrifically cold weather we experienced during the past few weeks. This business of home ownership is requiring too much concentration, planning, and action; a condo in which all this sort of thing is handled for me (in return for a hefty association fee) is increasingly appealing to me. Or even an independent living situation…the very idea of that makes me cringe, but on the other hand… I do not know. I suppose now is not the right time to think about such matters. First, I need to get through the cancer treatment. If it works, I may change my mind. If it doesn’t, the idea is probably entirely irrelevant. I am counting on it working, of course. But I am a realist, too, so there you are.

+++

Yesterday morning I expressed a desire to sleep for umpteen hours. And so I did. I slept most of the day and, with the exception of multiple trips to the bathroom to pee, all last night. I woke up this morning feeling depleted—weak and wishing for yet more sleep. Whether it is the chemo from last Thursday, the post-chemo injection on Monday, or something else, something has erased my strength and replaced it with a vague feeling of general illness. I return to the cancer center this morning for yet another injection—some sort of mineral, I seem to recall, that my blood tests say is low. I will inquire as to the reasons for my nebulous discomfort. While the staff at the center are no doubt knowledgeable, my friend, Bev, is truly a fount of information about chemo treatment and related matters. Her experience and research (in connection with her late husband’s lung cancer) are proving extremely valuable in understanding the chemo process and my response to it.

+++

Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; pain we obey.

~ Marcel Proust ~

+++

I should drink some water and have a tiny bite to eat before we’re off to the cancer center. I would be perfectly happy to drive myself, but mi novia insists that she take charge of the wheel and accompany me. And I intensely appreciate that, of course. I would really rather not drive, especially because I am still sleepy-tired-fatigued-exhausted-whatever. Sometime after I return home, my wonderful sister-in-law will bring us some spicy turkey pumpkin chili (very nearly the best food on the planet, I think), which will no doubt awaken me and give me an enormous boost of energy. After consuming just one bowl of the stuff, I could easily sprint—full-speed—around the course of a full marathon and still have ample reserve of energy to do another one. Perhaps I am hallucinating, but probably not.

+++

Off we go to let the cancer people stab me.

Another grey, coolish day. I would like to slip back into bed and sleep for the next umpteen hours. Whether it was the very rare prime rib dinner I prepared last night or Monday’s injection I received at the cancer center, something caused me to feel approximately awful for much of the night. I was up at least five or six times. I do not feel much better this morning, either. I’ll get over it. The online order for groceries I placed yesterday afternoon will be ready for me to pick up between 8 and 9 this morning; I hope I feel moderately well within the next half hour. Ach. Perhaps I should take one of the anti-nausea pills the doctor prescribed for me; just in case. Blogging is not high on my list of priorities at the moment. On the other hand, I want to capture each day’s experience—but maybe not this morning’s experience. Headache, neck ache, upset stomach…the blahs. Why, I wonder, do I feel like I spent the night being punished for my taste in food? Medications for pain are not what I need. I need something to transform me into someone else for just a little while; someone better equipped to utterly ignore this unpleasantness that surrounds me.

+++

I have blogged enough for now. My energy and inclination both are insufficient to continue.

Injections that protect against infection but that cause bone pain. Pills that calm bone pain. More injections that address blood deficiencies that probably were caused by chemicals intended to kill cancer cells. It’s not overwhelming, by any means, but the process of treating this cancer so far seems convoluted and labyrinthine. Treating. That’s not the right word. Fighting is the appropriate term, I think, though I am not the one fighting it; the medical team is taking on that responsibility. My role is to follow orders. Do what I’m told. That is fine, of course, because I do not have all the weapons necessary to take on the obligation; they do. Ostensibly. But I do have insurance, so the astronomical costs of cancer treatment do not fall to me but, instead, to the insurers. I am extremely grateful to have that coverage. People who are not so fortunate can be—and often are—ruined financially when faced with attempting to pay for treatments after a diagnosis of cancer. And, of course, money troubles are not the only things so many people face when confronted with that diagnosis. They may face death—after prolonged periods of agonizing pain that cannot be overcome without unaffordable pain medications. This is not cheerful stuff. But it is reality. I am more than a little lucky that it is not and will not be my reality.

+++

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

~ Khalil Gibran ~

+++

More grey, dull, foggy skies. But at least the temperatures are well above freezing. The snow and ice are melting away the perils…of uncontrolled sliding on black ice into frigid waters cluttered with shattered chunks of ice. Even with more welcoming roads, though, I doubt I will go out and about much. I do not feel much like venturing out, though even though I drove to the cancer center yesterday, I am feeling a bit of cabin fever here in the house.

+++

I am (almost) in the mood to write personal letters to people who will not expect to receive them from me. Those people represent enormous numbers of folks, because no one expects to receive personal letters from me. My letters (if I write them), as I think I have said here before (a few years ago?), will not be hand-written because neither my handwriting nor my printing are legible. I rely exclusively on the keyboard to communicate on the page or screen. Hand-written letters carry more emotional weight than do typed messages, but in my case most of the meaning is lost in the illegibility of the words I try to place on the page. I have considered composing a generic “what’s up” letter and distributing it to a list of people with whom I have not maintained close contact in recent months and years. But that seems almost dismissive of whatever relationship I might have with the recipients. Personal letters are personal. They convey and emphasize the connections that one hopes exist between the writer and the recipient. Personal letters require focused thought…intent…emotion…caring…engagement.

+++

My intent during the weekend just ended was to phone a woman with whom I used to work some forty years ago (and with whom I have briefly communicated via email lately). But of course I got sidetracked and did not think of it until late yesterday. She still works, so free time is not as readily available to her as is mine. I find it interesting to think about a conversation with someone with whom one has had almost no contact for forty years. Aside from exchanging “this is my life” stories, what does one talk about? Perhaps I will find out in the not-too-distant future.

+++

Today, especially, this blog is basically a journal, a diary. I prefer to write about ideas. I prefer to muse with my fingers. I would rather explore thoughts that promise to open my mind a bit wider. But I will be satisfied with whatever I write today, no matter how dull or how poorly written. That is just the mood I am in. And off I go to think so more.

Yesterday, a friend braved the cold and ice to visit us for the afternoon. During our conversations, she told us about hearing of a practice, taken near the beginning of each year, of selecting a single word to help guide one’s daily motivations and activities during the course of the remainder of the year. She mused about what word she might select, saying she chose “energy” as the word she wished to use as her polestar for the year. She selected energy to serve as a reminder to build her energy daily and to channel her energy into areas of her life that would benefit from the attention. It took me almost no time to select “kindness” as my word; I want to constantly remind myself I do not know what people around me are going through—emotionally, physically, or otherwise—and for that reason, among many others, I should treat everyone with kindness. As I reflect on my choice, though, I question whether kindness is sufficiently practical; perhaps supportive or non-judgmental or tolerant or accepting or a hundred other words might be better drivers of concrete actions. Or, maybe focusing on how I interact with others is not the route to take; perhaps a better tactic would be to direct my attention to how I deal with my own emotional or intellectual challenges. Introversion comes to mind. Contemplation might be better. A word that provides impetus for me to more fiercely battle physical threats might be considerably more practical; but what word? After mulling about the matter overnight, I have not reached any unalterable conclusions. But I may be leaning in the direction of adapting the practice my friend described; choosing a word or an idea or a target of self-improvement or self-recovery that corresponds to the circumstances in which I find myself during any given stretch of time. Adapt. Maybe that’s the word. The concept merits more consideration…more intense thought. I enjoy this sort of self-exploration, though the results of the efforts—what I learn about who I am at any given moment—sometime disappoint me. Because I discover that, despite the amount of time and energy I devote to understanding who I am at my core, I do not know myself nearly as well as I should—or, at least, as well as I would like.

+++

By late this afternoon—when I am scheduled to return to the oncology clinic for an injection intended to fight potential infections arising from chemo’s negative effects on my immune systems—I hope temperatures a bit above freezing and water in the form of rain falling from the sky will make the roads less treacherous and friendlier to drive on. I know now I should plan on returning to the clinic the day after my chemo treatments for the injection; waiting a few days gives infections more time to take hold, something I want to avoid. I do not remember whether, during my chemotherapy five years ago, it was the chemo that sapped my energy or it was the radiation treatment. Or both. This time, I am dealing only with chemo for now and probably for the duration. I hope I will not be drained of my energy during the course of the chemo regimen. So many questions to ask, but too little time to ask them and a brain too scrambled to remember what to ask.

+++

For those of us with an inward turn of mind, which is another name for melancholy introspection, the beginning of a new year inevitably leads to thoughts about both the future and the past.

~ Michael Dirda ~

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We do not know what the past held for us until the future reveals where the past was taking us. “Now” is too immediate and demands too much of our distracted attention to be instructional. But when the future is now, as it often is, we are left to wonder whether we are giving our perceptions about the past adequate time to settle into actual knowledge and understanding. The answer to that nagging concern must always wait until the future has morphed into the past. And, of course, when we look backward in time, we must ask whether our perceptions are being colored by tinted glasses—rose, smoke, amber…anything but pure, unbridled clarity. Even then, it’s just a guess.

+++

It’s nearly 7, three hours after being rousted out of bed by a hungry, yowling cat. Only one demitasse of espresso so far. I believe I’ll have another. And a mug filled with cool water. Maybe another strawberry yoghurt, but probably not. Cereal? I looked up the various spellings of yoghurt. That spelling is common in the UK. In the US, the more preferred and more common spelling is yogurt. For some reason, my natural inclination in many cases in which words have a US and a UK spelling is to go with the UK spelling, usually without realizing I’ve chosen elements of language drawn from outside my country of birth. It’s the same with grey (my preferred spelling) and gray (the US default). None of these spelling issues will help me decide what to ingest next; perhaps a pair of dice would be more helpful. I’ll just go see. Daylight is beginning to show through the trees!

Competitive mind-manipulation is the process to which I am subjecting myself this morning. On one face of the process, I am shocking myself more thoroughly awake by drinking an intense demitasse of expresso. The other face attempts to sooth me by burning, across my desktop, a patchouli incense cone. Acknowledging and promoting two competing processes, experimental though it is, holds promise. Increasingly, I feel a profound, acute alertness—alongside a growing tranquility…unfortunately disturbed by a return of a mild headache. That headache that seemed to have left permanently two days ago returned to its aimless wandering, bringing it back around to me. Just an observation; not a well-defined complaint. The hoped-for payoff of the competitive mind-manipulation process is that I will approach tomorrow afternoon’s return to the oncologist’s office—for an injection—with serenity. In connection with what I envision as an uneventful drive through the freezing rain predicted for tomorrow before, during, and after my cancer clinic visit, I intend to feel an intensely (but extremely) laid-back sense of self-confidence and control; almost a beckoning welcome to all who come. I will practice this later today and tomorrow before I wander off through the ice and snow (and, probably, cold dry roads). Successful competitive mind-manipulation must be implemented slowly, like a spill of thick molasses making its way to the edge of a cold marble table-top.

+++

Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.

~ Søren Kierkegaard ~

+++

This morning’s balmy temperature at 6:30 was 12°F. Then-current windchill would have made a person feel like the temperature was actually just 1°F. A twenty-one-degree boost is forecast to take place by mid-to-late afternoon. Tomorrow, though, below-freezing temperatures for most of the day will be accompanied by freezing rain and mixed precipitation.  All-wheel drive in the Subaru, I hope, will not turn the trek into town tomorrow into a stress-fest. Damnit, John! Stop infecting every passing thought with carcinogenic undertones and/or overtones.

+++

I made the call yesterday to close the church today, postponing the worship and new member recognition/installation service for two weeks hence. Though the temperatures are expected to rise during the day, the low double-digit temperatures of last night refroze snow and ice melt, no doubt. And the streets in so many places in the Village remain dangerously icy. So, after considering whether it would be safe to go ahead with today’s service, I figured delaying a Sunday service is far less potentially catastrophic than, after inviting people to attend, people getting injured or worse as they try to make their way to church. I made the call, incidentally (and for the record) after seeking input from the minister and a couple of others.

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Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all they have.

~ H. Jackson Brown, Jr. ~

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I hope I soon will devour a big bowl of creamed salmon over rice. The idea of “comfort food” seems a bit corny to me, but I know it’s a real thing. Some people like carb-rich foods for comfort; others go for sweets; others, still, go for…who knows what? Creamed salmon over rice, with white pepper sprinkled on top of the creamed salmon, somehow takes me back to a time when I felt no insecurities, no existential fears, no real worries of any kind. I wonder how extremely young I must have been at that point in my life. Whenever it was, though, the deep, comforting appeal of creamed salmon somehow made it into my mind. And there it has stayed for lo these many years. My adoration of creamed salmon over rice competes neck-in-neck with Chinese congee, a savory rice porridge whose flavors can be transformed with just a few ingredients. I like to use a touch of ground pork, grated fresh ginger, chicken stock (in lieu of plain water) for boiling, soy sauce, sambal oelek, maybe some fish sauce, crispy fried shallot rings as a condiment…whatever. Back to my hopes. I do not expect them to be granted immediately or, for that matter, in a matter of weeks or months. It is not an expectation. It is more of an aspiration. I suppose.

+++

Even though I do not get out a lot on a regular basis, regardless of the weather, these last two weeks (more or less, yes?) of hospitalization and subsequent self-imposed isolation/quarantine have begun to make me stir-crazy. But I can take it. All I have to do is manipulate my mindset. This post seems to be all about manipulation; control of my external environment, my internal landscape, or a combination of the two. An attempt, I am now beginning to understand, to find a sustainable stability that will allow me to explore everything my mind holds. This exploration, by a 70-year-old man, may seem to some to be too late to start. I choose not to be limited by my age or any measure of how much more aging will be available to me. Instead, I will make strides toward places or ideas I have not seen for forty or fifty years. How far I get is not so important; finding the right map and following it is what counts.

+++

I am incredibly fortunate. In spite of coping with the heartaches and dangers we naturally encounter as we goes through life, I recognize how easy my life has been thus far. The “challenges” have been minor in comparison with the obstacles placed before people whose lives are defined by mental and/or physical pain. If I wake up every morning and give at least a few fleeting moments to thinking about this reality, I think it will make me even more grateful for my life and more empathetic toward people whose lives periodically spin into chaotic turmoil and pain.

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Good morning. It is a good morning, isn’t it?

Twenty-five hours after completing yesterday’s blog post, I started this one. Oh, I’ve interrupted myself a few times, but here it is. The cat’s been fed, I’ve weighed myself, taken a mouthful of medications, washed some dishes, measured my blood glucose, taken my blood pressure, and done a smidgeon of research to learn that one of the medications prescribed for me to take for two days post-chemotherapy is the culprit for consecutive sharp increases in my level of blood sugar yesterday and this morning. What a mouthful of words about my healthcare; it seems that topic commands all my attention in recent weeks. Though it bores me almost beyond tolerance, I myself drawn to explore just what is or may be happening to my physical self. Age and abuse individually take their toll; combined, they ramp up their ability to extract revenge for the passage of time and a steadfast attitude of invincibility. I would like to be able to take my mind off this dull stuff for a day or two, at least.

+++

The comments and wished-for desires notwithstanding…I had hoped I could return to my oncologist’s office yesterday to receive a required injection, but that was not to be. The medication is not kept on hand in the cancer center (must be ordered from the pharmacy) and cannot be allowed to “sit” for long; it will be ordered to arrive Monday afternoon. So, even though yesterday’s road conditions (bad, but not horrible, on many streets in the Village) were said to be better than what can be expected Monday, I will have to make my way back to the cancer center late Monday for the shot. I was afraid of that. So it is. Cancer treatment interrupts one’s day-to-day experiences. And it demands confronting undesirable situations—like attempting to drive over black ice on hilly terrain. Poor, poor, pitiful me. I must try harder not to whine; I realize the circumstances facing me are far, far, far less grueling and onerous than those confronting many, many, many other cancer patients. Patience and humility are the watchwords of the day.

+++

Brilliance does not necessarily correspond with perfection. Flaws—even deep, damaging ones—are found in some of the most brilliant minds. I believe the reason that is possible is because brilliance is not all-encompassing. It may be broad (though usually is not), but normalcy or even sub-normalcy often share the same brain with it. For example, Frank Lloyd Wright exhibited brilliance in architecture, but even in his profession he was imperfect. My understanding is that many of his flat-roofed buildings leaked, but he insisted on maintaining the designs that allowed that to happen. A Wright quotation might provide an explanation for that insistence: “Early in life I had to choose between honest arrogance and hypocritical humility. I chose the former and have seen no reason to change.” A brilliant man with an over-abundance of self-confidence. Critical open-mindedness may be the best defense against indefensible self-confidence. By that I mean a willingness to entertain concepts or ideas counter to one’s own and to give them a fair, unbiased assessment before deciding for or against their legitimacy.

+++

Out of the blue, during the last few weeks, I have daydreamed about career paths I could have pursued during my working life. During these reveries, I found myself enamored with medicine, law, industrial engineering, farming, forestry, psychology, sociology, and on and one. Every one of those pursuits has high potential for any practitioner to make significant contributions to humankind, which I suppose contributes quite a lot to my fantasies about what paths I might have taken. Simply having such visions is probably the height of arrogance; they assume I have the capacity to achieve such stations in life. Several of those career paths could position one to make contributions worthy of a Nobel Prize. I “chose” (fell into, actually) association management, instead. Rather than a Nobel Prize recipient, an association executive is more likely to be compared to be Wayne LaPierre, CEO of the National Rifle Association. I suppose these fantasies are based largely on ego, though I with I could say with certainty they are based more on a desire to make contributions to humankind. Could I honestly say, if I was notified that I was to be a recipient, I would anonymously suggest the Nobel Prize be give to someone else, someone more deserving? Impossible to say, as I’ve never been in that position. But I have made a career of reflective thought.

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Food for thought:

Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue, where patience, honor, sweet humility, and calm fortitude, take root and strongly flourish.

~ David Mallet ~

I was reminded yesterday that black ice can challenge even big, heavy, four-wheel-drive vehicles. The truck in which I was riding lost traction (at very slow speed) and slid off the road onto a slope that led to an ice-filled pond. Fortunately, we stopped sliding before plunging into the icy water. With time and some skilled maneuvering by the guy driving the truck, I made it to my chemotherapy appointment just a shade over an hour late. I am enormously grateful for the ride. If I had been driving my car, I suspect I would have abandoned the effort to drive over long stretches of black ice to make my way to clear roads.

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Loneliness is and always has been the central and inevitable experience of every man.

~ Thomas Wolfe ~

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The recent—and ongoing—cold snap illustrates how quickly and completely Nature can overwhelm humans’ capacity to cope with a changing environment. Frigid air coupled with precipitation stops us in our tracks; we cannot safely walk, drive, or otherwise traverse the ground just outside our abodes. While some places are more used to the brutality of winter than others, nowhere are even the most prepared able to overcome Nature’s ferocity. Watching the weather take command of our ability to move should give us humility; we should simply acknowledge that we are the weaker in a contest between humans and weather. But we don’t. We attempt to act as if we are in control. That is a silly mistake; sometimes simply embarrassing, sometimes deadly.

+++

The time as I write this is 4:13 a.m. I woke around 1:30, expecting to be up just long enough to have a drink of water; that expectation dissolved as I became more acutely conscious. I cannot recall everything I have done in the nearly three hours since I got out of bed; odd, isn’t it, that time continues on even while one’s consciousness seems to stall. One thing on my mind during the last three hours has to do with the people with whom I spent time in the oncology treatment room yesterday. No matter how intense the treatments, some of the people in that room probably do not have much time left in their lives. Others will overcome cancer to live long, enjoyable, cancer-free lives. Still others will benefit from treatment to the extent that they will temporarily overcome cancer for a while; long enough to embrace the lessons that cancer gives: live your life to the fullest while you can. Yesterday, one guy who like me was there for his first treatment talked to another patient in a voice loud enough for all to hear. He said he put his full faith in God; whether the chemotherapy worked for him was entirely in God’s hands, he asserted. That belief must be soothing; otherwise, the reality of having cancer is bound to cause at least a little anxiety. But is that really true? Acceptance of human mortality—one’s own and others’—can reduce and maybe even eliminate that anxiety. The words of Lobsang Tenzin offer a wise perspective, I think:

No one can avoid death; it is inevitable. Therefore, I should create in my mind a kind of willingness and accepting for that event without any fear.

~ Lobsang Tenzin ~

+++

I must return to the cancer center, either today or Monday, to get an injection intended to offer protection against infections (the chemicals used in chemotherapy can damage one’s immune system). The weather both days is expected to be a continuation of yesterday’s; maybe even more so. When I was treated for cancer five years ago, an automated injection packet (Nuelasta) was affixed to my abdomen so that, at a pre-programmed time, I was given the necessary injection. Since then, though, insurance companies have refused to cover that mode of delivery of the treatment, according to my oncologist. Damn. The prospect of driving in to Hot Springs is not at all appealing. The major challenge is simply getting out of the Village; the highways and roadways outside the Village are (or were yesterday) safely passable. Such is life; another challenge to face and overcome.

+++

The time is approaching 4:45. I will return to bed and try to sleep some more. I am not going to place any bets as to the degree of success I will enjoy in that attempt. If nothing else, I can muse over these musings…that might well put me to sleep.

Bizarre, unpleasant dreams filled part of my night, attempting to ruin what could have been some relaxing moments of sleep. That odd space between wakefulness and sleep can be brutal; on one hand, one is aware that a dream is, in fact, a dream, but on the other hand there is nothing one can do to combat the artificial reality the dream brings about. I cannot seem to get my mind off the fact that my cancer has returned, though that is not part of my dreams. But I cannot help but think that fact influences the way my mind works while I sleep—having an effect on what and how I dream. Or maybe I am just allowing my mind to scramble like eggs. Ach!

+++

Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them – that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.

~ Lao Tzu ~

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Thanks to my sister-in-law, my late wife’s sister, I am getting a ride to my first chemotherapy appointment this morning. My SIL arranged for her friend, who has an enormous pickup, to drive me to and from my appointment, sparing me the stress of driving on treacherous roads that may be covered with black ice, refrozen from yesterday afternoon’s snow melt. Her friend is a genuinely good guy; the world could use more like him. He is no doubt better equipped than I, too, to maneuver these streets in hilly terrain. I am extremely grateful to my SIL and her friend—people who care.

+++

Once again yesterday, in an attempt to battle my damn headaches, I slept quite a lot. Only by resting horizontally in bed was I able to minimize the annoying pain. Somehow, as I mentioned in yesterday’s post (I think), I was able to get to sleep through the headache. I wonder whether the headaches are caused by anxiety/stress? The doctors in the hospital were unable to find any physical causes or triggers.

+++

I will leave for my chemotherapy in a few minutes. I may write more later today. Or maybe not.

Yesterday was a sleep day. I slept, or tried to sleep, for most of the day. The ache that has been hounding me, off and on, for weeks decided to take up semi-permanent residence in my head. Sleeping was the only way to combat the symptoms, so I slept. I am not sure how a person can muscle through the pain and get to sleep, but I did it several times during the day. Every time I woke, though, the headache was waiting for me. Though the headache was not the reason I spent last week in the hospital, it took up time and energy from the medical staff, who sought to determine the cause and who tried to ease the pain. A brain CT-scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary. And the rather weak pain remedies the medical staff administered did little to reduce the throbbing, aching, deeply annoying headache. The pain was not excruciating, but it interrupted my ability to enjoy being conscious. My headache may be related to tight muscles in my shoulders, neck, and lower skull (that’s my assessment, not the doctors’), but so far I have not been given any muscle relaxants nor received a long, comforting massage.

+++

Be soft in your practice.
Think of the method as a fine silvery stream,
not a raging waterfall.
Follow the stream, have faith in its course.
It will go its own way,
meandering here, trickling there.
It will find the grooves, the cracks, the crevices.
Just follow it.
Never let it out of your sight.
It will take you.

~ Sheng-Yen ~

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The temperature outside is a chilly 5°F again, but the wind chill is only -6°F. Later today, the high temperature is expected to reach 37°F for a couple of hours, though I doubt that brush with the sun will do much to melt the snow and ice covering the roads. Tomorrow morning at 8:15, I have my first chemo-therapy appointment. I hope the roads are not too icy to make the trip into town.

+++

Reading and re-reading the words of Sheng-Yen, I understand more today than I did yesterday. With enough time and focus and willing acceptance, I can understand things I never thought about before. That is a welcome experience.

The sky is blue, the air is “brisk” (5°F, feels like -9°F), and my head is pounding. My broken blog has been fixed…to some extent…but the individual posts are not viewable. The “fixes” cost me several hundred dollars, which I suppose is a reasonable investment, inasmuch as the blog is, essentially, my “hobby.” But I wish I could simply turn the entire project over to someone who would take care of all of the glitches; I am losing my patience to deal with the minutia of managing a blogsite/website. My patience seems to be shattering into a thousand pieces, courtesy of this damn pounding headache. And I worry that the roads on Thursday will remain icy and unsafe as I prepare for my early morning chemotherapy appointment. I am ravenously hungry for something like an apple fritter or biscuits and gravy or hashbrowns  and a couple of rashers of bacon. But if I could fall quickly and deeply asleep, I would, opting for sleep over sustenance. I’m tired of screwing around with blog-related irritations. My tensions are growing more and more brittle. I keep asking myself “what’s the point?” The answer I give is completely unsatisfactory. What I need is a heavy dose—maybe multiple doses—of morphine; something to deaden mental and physical pain. Enough of this ranting. It’s almost a quarter after 8 and I am utterly unproductive and unhappy with my head. Maybe I’ll try an early morning nap, something that might last through the day.

A friend who—rather unexpectedly—visited me in the hospital last week happened to be at church yesterday morning. We conversed briefly but did not have the chance to spend much time visiting before the service began. Because by the time the post-service group discussion took place I was not feeling quite as energetic as I had before the service, mi novia and I went home, so I did not have the opportunity to talk with him afterward. During the time of  his hospital visit and yesterday, while we chatted, we touched on several topics about which we share similar perspectives. Yet time and circumstances did not permit much conversation in either situation. As I reflect on our brief interactions, the importance of carving out time to talk to people—the way he carved out time to visit me in the hospital—occurred to me. Only by actively pursuing for ourselves, and the people around us, the chance to engage can we maximize the opportunities to enrich our lives and those of others. By stopping by the hospital to see me, my friend illustrated that it does not take herculean efforts to make those kinds of connections—but it takes a little time and intention and an appreciation for the importance of engagement.

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Food brings people together; often, offering food to people is a sign of friendship. Lately (and many times in the past), I have witnessed and benefitted from the connections between offerings of food and the confirmation of relationships. Chili, baklava, chicken pot pie, pound cakes, lovely spreads of hors d’oeuvres, nuts, crackers, cookies, and many other delicious expressions of friendship and love have made their ways into my home, delivered by people with whom I have developed close connections. Recognizing and acknowledging those offerings as they are delivered or accepted informs me of the power of food in relationships. And I have prepared and offered food to others as a means of enhancing and cementing our relationships. Reflecting, after the fact, on how sharing—whether giving or receiving—food reminds me of just how powerful the act of “feeding” one another can be. Eating just for fuel, especially when the opportunity exists to use food as a way to connect with other people, seems to me to rob one of the chance to strengthen interpersonal bonds. Sharing food—whether elaborate cuisine or simple cheese and crackers—with others can be a highly meaningful and purposeful act of love. Offering food to a friend or acquaintance can be translated as a statement: “You matter to me and I want our relationship to grow; I want to be close to you.” It may sound corny; so be it. Corny can be a profound attestation of intent.

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Much of the last week has been unpleasant, with admission to the hospital by way of the emergency room to address pneumonia and COPD among other kinds of medical unhappiness. I am home now, feeling much better but still battling symptoms I would rather have left at the hospital; such is life. Aside from continuing to deal with those symptoms, I am readying myself to take on another battle against lung cancer, which has returned after a five-year hiatus. Later this week, another treatment regimen is scheduled to begin: chemotherapy in the form of two powerful anti-cancer drugs and immunotherapy in a form I have not yet come to fully understand. If my body responds as the oncologist and I (and mi novia) expect and hope, there will be just four courses of chemo, spaced three weeks apart. Simultaneously, immunotherapy will be in play; it, though, will continue after the chemo is complete, for a total of two years. These plans assume, of course, that the cancer responds as desired to the treatments. Were that not to be the case, adjustments in either the types of chemo drugs/immunotherapy and the forms or length of treatment will be made. Unfortunately, the chemotherapy port installed in my chest before chemo began five years ago was removed just a couple of months ago; so, I will either deal with needles in my veins or I will have another port implanted—to be determined. The auto-injected Neulasta (a drug to reduce the risk of infection…and, I thought, nausea…during chemotherapy) was used during my last treatments, but apparently is no longer approved by insurance, due to cost. So, instead of having an automatically injected dose delivered the day after chemo, I gather I may have to return to the clinic the day after chemo treatment for an anti-infection injection; I will try to learn more and clarify later this week when I begin the treatment process. Even though I have gone through this before, I am entering this second experience in a state of mild confusion about exactly what will be involved in my treatment. I know I will have regular CT-scans and a lot of blood draws to measure the extent to which the treatments are or are not working. But, at this stage, it appears I will not have to undergo radiation treatments, a fact I appreciate enormously. Whether I will be as fatigued as I was last time around, what side-effects the treatments will have, etc., etc. are questions I hope to have answered later this week. My oncologist visited me twice while I was in the hospital this week, but I was not sufficiently clear-headed to ask (or remember the answers to) the right questions. Mi novia will be with me Thursday, so I will depend on her to help me wade through the questions. So…onward through the fog of chemotherapy!

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The weather is brutally cold (8°F at the moment). As I look out the window, I see that it has begun to snow again, after an inch or two (I think) overnight. I wish I had called the propane company week before last to refill the propane cylinders; damn it! Both the cylinders are either empty or quite low, so the warming glow of a fire in the fireplace will have to wait until we can get them re-filled. Today’s weather (and road closures of the hilly terrain in our area) will delay that for quite some time. I was not an especially good Boy Scout.   Okay…time to watch the snow fall and just…chill (but not too much, I hope).