John Swinburn

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).

An absence from my blog feels odd to me, as if I have been incarcerated for several days as punishment for an inexcusable infringement of rules I had not realized I had so badly broken. Returning to write, even a few brief paragraphs, feels like a test of my commitment to “doing better” than the previous behavior—the behavior that had caused the abrupt withdrawal of my freedom to think publicly with my fingers.

The reason for the lack of new posts these last several days is that I was admitted to the hospital on Tuesday afternoon, after a very unpleasant Monday afternoon and evening and Tuesday morning. The unpleasantness was caused by a combination of pneumonia, COPD, and a longer-than-reasonable refusal to take action to resolve my symptoms by letting healthcare professionals take charge. I finally did that on Tuesday; the doctors and nurses immediately took charge and treated me like a needy patient, which is what I was (and, to an extent, remain).

At any rate, I was released from the hospital yesterday and am home now, committed to following medical advice.  I will follow this brief post with another, dealing with my upcoming cancer treatments, later today or tomorrow. And I will try to return to writing about matters unrelated to my health—matters more interesting and more meaningful than an account of the medical journeys of a temporarily feeble old man.

For now, a brief visit to a very cold Sunday morning Insight service at church, followed by bundling up at home in preparation for several days of brutally cold weather, which possibly will include considerable snow and maybe icy conditions.

Just minutes after confirming an appointment with a chiropractor’s office this morning (to have some work done on tight muscles in my neck and shoulders that I think may be responsible for my headaches), my oncologist’s office called to reschedule my CT-guided needle biopsy. It had been scheduled for Friday; they want me to show up TODAY, at noon. Fortunately, I am flexible (and so is mi novia) so I can go in today; I need someone to drive after the procedure. I still do not have a new date scheduled for the post-biopsy visit with my oncologist; and I still have not had my MRI-scan of my brain scheduled. Frustrations with healthcare scheduling processes are not new to me, but they remain just as frustrating as always.

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My mind is not behaving the way it should. Instead of rational thought, it has been engaging in irrational fantasy. For example, while I was still in bed this morning—at least half asleep—my thoughts focused on trying to coordinate hundreds of smoked cheeses and golden rings of barbeque sauces. The confusion of those thoughts was so complex that I dare not even try to describe it here. But I remember distinctly that the point of my attempted coordination was to stop sweating so profusely; the bed was awash in perspiration. And it had another point: to make the flavors work together. WTF? It made good sense in my incoherent semi-sleep, but as I try to recall it now, it makes no sense whatsoever. I worry about myself when such odd stuff tumbles out of my brain.

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Whenever I can arrange my schedule with some degree of real control, I am going to either go to the chiropractor’s office or to a massage therapist. The muscles in my neck and shoulders are screaming for something to ease the tension and pain. The electrical gadgetry that is found in chiropractors’ offices, used by technicians, have made me feel happy in years past. So have massages. Perhaps both should be on my agenda. I would pay handsomely for something that would eliminate the pains.

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This is enough of an attempt…a failed attempt…at writing. I may not be capable of writing any more. That is a scary thought.

As if cancer isn’t enough, some sort of virus (or whatever) has either returned or has come out of hibernation. The symptoms: headache, chills, fever, fatigue…and perhaps a few others that do not come immediately to mind. I have been wrapped in heavy blankets so I can keep just tolerably warm. Sleeping seems to be my favorite pass-time. Headaches and neckaches and other achiness are my constant companions. The symptoms are mostly annoying, not truly troublesome. But I am impatient with all these damn annoyances. I’ve been avoiding crowds for a week or more (at least), as part of my efforts to remain COVID-free and flu-free in preparation for my upcoming CT-guided biopsy; I do not want illness to get in the way of moving ahead with a treatment regimen. This paragraph is a health rant; I do not like to write health rants, but experiencing them is even less appealing. Maybe, if I ignore my symptoms, they will go away?

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The day outside my window looks beautiful; blue skies, little or no breeze…but the temperature is a bit on the low side (43°F now, on the way to 52°F ). Thanks in part to one of my symptoms (the inability to get and stay warm), I dare not go out to face temperatures that could trigger another round of chills. So I look out the window and feel grateful that my house is, for now, warm and cozy.

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Enough…yet again, I seem unable to write anything of consequence. My head is full of ideas that do not belong there. I will try again tomorrow.

I was up early enough to spill my early morning thoughts onto the screen. Thanks to feeling unwell, though (and an obnoxiously loud, yowling cat), I was slow to follow my routine. The predictable headache is now accompanied by an upset stomach, a complaint I rarely have. I think I will blame yesterday’s much-larger-than-reasonable breakfast at the Track Kitchen (after leaving mi novia’s car for service) and last night’s pizza (delivery) for the latter complaint. If the discomfort lasts long, I will return to bed and sleep it off; perhaps several Tums tablets might help.

Reporting one’s maladies to people who have better things to do than read about them is bad form. I will stop, then, at least briefly. Instead, I will write something completely unrelated.

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We watched Good Grief last night, a recently released film written by, directed by, and starred in by Daniel Levy (who was a major character in Schitt’s Creek). The film—a romantic comedy to a limited extent but more a dramatic expression of coping with loss—was well done, but I think I just was not in the mood for it last night. Mi novia liked it quite a lot; I appreciated it and was glad when it ended. From what I’ve read, the critics are raving about it; very positive reviews. I may have odd taste in film, so if I were someone who had not seen the film and was looking for feedback about it, I would go with the critics.

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Nothing excites me this morning; I suppose I am reacting to feeling unwell, but I suspect I am allowing myself to think unhappy thoughts—thoughts I should refuse to think—to crowd out more upbeat thinking. Headaches tend to do that. They intrude on one’s positive attitudes, quickly spinning webs around them like spiders on speed. The webs are thick and surprisingly strong, so cutting through them with psychic scalpels is a long, tedious, and difficult process. I suspect there are pills that cause the webs to loosen and melt away, releasing positive attitudes that overtake the intruders; I want some of those pills. Happy pills.

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Once again, I feel discombobulated; my thoughts have no cohesive links. They are not worth sharing, even with myself. So I shall stop again. I look forward to a time when I can write something of which I can be rightfully proud. That time is not now.

Thick, grey skies. Snow showers. Rain. Slick roads. Cold winds that blow through even the heaviest coats. Tree branches draped with melting snow. Promises of icy conditions as temperatures fall later today and tonight. I believe the words drab, dingy, dismal, and bleak were coined to describe just such circumstances. An early morning drive to town to leave mi novia’s car for routine maintenance verified the meaning of those words. Much faster than expected completion of service on her car had us driving our respective vehicles back home far sooner than we expected. The return trip home reiterated the meaning of the words. Sitting here in my study, peering out the windows, I think I see those words superimposed on my vision of the forest outside. I feel those words as I wonder whether I will ever feel warm and comfortable again. And, now, in this early afternoon, the bleakness of the cold, snow-drench forest is amplified by periodic waves of fog that dims my vision of the frigid trees.  Until this very moment, I have never felt a deep longing to rest on warm tropical beaches; but, now, that longing is powerful. So strong that its magnetic pull on me is almost impossible to resist. Unfortunately, other unpleasant circumstances place obstacles before me, preventing me from surrendering to the desire for a healing tropical paradise. Damn.

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I wonder whether certain emotions are governed more by the physical configurations of a person’s brain (nature) than by his mental/psychological evolution during the course of his maturation (nurture)? Both anger/rage and pronounced emotionality (e.g., easily brought to tears) might owe their existence to physical attributes of the brain. Hah! So much work has been done on this concept that finding evidence to support any theory is simple, quick, and easy. Perhaps.

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Today’s snowy conditions (but not icy…yet) make me think of what I might have to deal with when the time comes for my cancer treatments. Thinking of the need to drive to town for chemo in the midst or the aftermath of an ice storm is a sobering thought. It’s unpleasant enough to deal with needles full of chemicals; add a frightening drive on ice to the mixture and it becomes downright nasty. It’s too early to think of these “what if” scenarios, though. I tell myself not to worry because I do not control the weather; suddenly, though, that admonition seems utterly foolish, as if I would be susceptible to such a blatantly absurd attempt to control my emotions.

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I have never been the sole occupant of a dinghy—with no way to communicate with anyone, anywhere—in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. But I think I know exactly how it must feel.

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Perhaps I will be up early enough tomorrow to write a blog post based on my early-morning thinking. This afternoon crap just won’t do.

This published post will be number 4,560 in this blog; another 550 drafts await either my decision to revise or to delete them. Having written more than 5,000 posts for this blog, alone, I have to believe there must be something worth reading among all of them.  When I take the time to rummage through old posts, I am pleased to stumble upon some I particularly like. And that experience invariably leads me to think—again—about extracting what I consider the best of what I have written, editing it, and assembling the collection into a book. Dreams. Just dreams. I just may be too old. “He published his first—and only—book at age 70.” Yeah, I may have exceeded the point of ripeness.

Some days are gentler than others, the usually hard corners worn just soft enough to make them malleable.  Those are the days when, after hours of dappled brightness, night comes on slowly, as if the light in the sky was draining the way water drains from a wet sponge left in the sink.  Orange skies become pink, then drift into cloudy purples and, finally, into dull grey blackness, with just enough light to see, but not enough to expose the jagged edges of the night.

If I were to spend any more time looking at old posts, I would find myself awash in snippets I find especially appealing. But that would be time spent stroking my own ego. I do not have the time this morning; I am off for my second visit to a therapist. This time, I suspect the conversation will revolve around the resurgence of cancer. Ach. When will I have time to make a book? What else demands my time? It is a matter of priorities, interests, and willingness to treat the endeavor as worthy of my investment of time. Those may be the biggest obstacles; I probably am not the best judge of my writing and I certainly will not ask not ask anyone else to undertake the laborious task of reading all my posts and determining which, if any, are worthy of inclusion in a collection. That effort might turn into an enormous disappointment if, after untold hours of reading and pondering, the outcome were to reveal that there’s nothing of consequence in all those posts.

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Returning to my old habits, I got up this morning before 4:30. Feeding the cat at that hour was a futile exercise in attempting to quell her yowling. Drinking two espressos simply confirmed that I was, and will remain, awake. Writing this post did little but exercise my fingers. Two hours have passed since I awoke—two hours I have more or less wasted on unproductive endeavors. I forgive myself for being non-productive, though; living 70 years so far has earned for me the right to sit and simply think. The constant question, though, is whether I have 70 years of incremental life experience or simply one year of life experience repeated 70 times. If I am being generous with myself, I would say I probably have 35 years of incremental life experience and one year of life experience repeated 35 times.

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I am scheduled to have a set of pre-procedure tests (probably just blood draws) on January 10, followed by the CT-guided biopsy on January 12. The results of the biopsy should be back in the hands of my oncologist by the time I meet with her on January 17, at which point I expect to learn details of her recommended treatment plan, which I think will almost certainly include both chemo and immunotherapy. My discussion with M.D. Anderson in Houston was not especially satisfactory; until I complete their paperwork to become a “new patient,” they seem to have little interest in talking to me. Still, I may explore that again after I meet with my oncologist. It all depends…

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Time for me to shower, shave, and otherwise make myself look moderately presentable. I have a semi-full calendar today, which is about as full as I want the calendar to get. Leisure time and freedom from obligations are my desires of late. Decompression. I may look into getting a massage; my neck, shoulders, and back seem to have been getting increasingly tense lately, leading (perhaps) to a constant low-grade headache. The massage therapist comes highly recommended by mi novia’s ex-husband, who generously provided spaghetti sauce for last night’s dinner. Okay, John, enough procrastination; get to it.

My fingers continue to rest on the keyboard, awaiting instructions from my brain. They—my fingers—have waited for at least half an hour, expecting signals to flood the nerves in my hand any second. But nothing happens; as if my brain is sending no impulses to my fingers. Instead of feeling an urge to tap the keys, my fingers feel like they have been anesthetized and wrapped in thick pieces of cloth that prevent them from moving. Thoughts that normally flow through my fingers, instead, stay locked up in my head. That is just an assumption, of course; are there any thoughts there, in fact? Or have all the thoughts turned to vapor; lost to the atmosphere?

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Perhaps some thoughts have been frozen in place, rather than turning to vapor. If so, maybe I will be able to thaw them during the course of the day. Maybe I will spill them onto the keyboard and into the screen. But probably not. Not today.

A tangled swirl of unwelcome thoughts ruins any hope for sleep and serenity. Last night, the idea of a warm flannel cocoon was appealing. This morning, resting in a tub of very hot water—which conforms to the shape of my body—seems more attractive. Both, though, would be ideal only if accompanied by an empty mind and dreamless sleep. I dreamed last night that an incompetent plumbing contractor was attempting to arrange for the repair of a ruptured water pipe. His crew was to completely resurface a swimming pool, as well. But another contractor showed up with bad news about another serious issue with an underground pipe. I was upset and angry with the plumbing contractors, but equally angry with myself for my ignorance of the problems; I hated having to rely of the contractors, one of whom I knew was utterly inept. I want that sort of dream to leave me. I want to be unconscious and unaware while I sleep, not tormented by a keen recognition of my incoherence and confusion.

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This morning’s sky is a very smooth blend of pastels: pink, blue, grey, and white. Like watercolors, but more evenly blended than one might normally see. The pink seems to brighten just a bit, turning into the color of a salmon or a peach, with almost imperceptible hints of orange. When the sky’s variations are indistinct, the way they are now, trying to determine which colors are actually visible and which are products of the imagination is a challenge that requires focused attention. The demand for focus is both exhausting and exhilarating; it draws my thoughts away from matters I would rather ignore and forget. Watching morning light unfold in the sky each day can be both a repetitive, boring undertaking and an introduction to an endless opportunity to experience the world anew. Sometimes, that latter opportunity is hard to seize, simply because so many that have gone before have not lived up to their promise.

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Today’s obligations grate at me like sandpaper. By the time I force myself to meet them, my skin and my brain will be raw and caked with drying blood. Fortunately, the ruptured water pipe was just a dream; I can rinse away the residue and prepare for the next obligation.

The first day of the New Year provides a convenient milestone, a moment ideal for declaring a fresh start. Then, again, the first Thursday of every month offers the same opportunity, as does the first day of each week. When we want or need a moment to serve as a marker of a new beginning, we choose whatever artificial origination point that suits us. That power of choice allows us to begin anew if we stumble. Whether we opt to select a new week, a new month, a new sunrise, or some other moment, any occasion that is to our liking gives us a chance for a clean start. Today, January 1, is as good a moment as any to declare a rebirth of optimism and all the good, positive things that flow from it. That having been said, behaving like a Pollyanna is pointless. Achieving desired objectives requires effort and the willingness to confront and overcome challenges. An awareness of those necessary components of success goes a long way toward reaching a figurative destination.

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The grey skies of recent days are no longer. Today, as I look out my window, I see blue sky beyond the naked hardwoods and evergreens. Though the sky is not a deep cerulean blue, it is sufficiently clear and readily fits into the definition of “sky blue,” which can be any shade of blue one wishes. The horizon, though, seems lighter…almost white. The transition between blue and white is so indistinct that I find it impossible to know where blue ends and white begins; there seems to be no ending and no beginning to those colors in the sky. Infinity is somehow captured in that part of the celestial color wheel that we choose to call “blue.” We might as well call it “clarence.” What’s in a name, after all?

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My desk is littered with paper, pens, notebooks, magazines, and all manner of other evidence of my laziness. For days, I’ve been thinking of clearing the desktop; putting things away where they belong. But it’s mostly just thought. Very little action. My dormant motivation must be buried under some of the piles of stuff before me. I would peer beneath some of them to look for it, but my inclination to do so is sorely lacking.

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A week ago, I allowed myself to play with the idea of buying a new car. That idea is no longer even remotely interesting to me. And I cannot even fathom how I found it appealing in the least. Importance is contextual. Everything is.

The fact that I have a fascination with Time has been privately called to my attention. I do not disagree; in fact, I would go almost as far as agreeing that my interest in Time is a shallow obsession (shallow in that my interest is not sufficient to push me to delve deeply into the concept of Time). Humans have manipulated Time from the very beginning (which calls into question…when was the true “beginning?”). The Gregorian Calendar we use today has been in effect only since October 1582, when it replaced the Julian Calendar, which took the place of the ten-month Roman Calendar. We assume today’s Gregorian Calendar provides us with the “true” measure of Time and will, therefore, last into eternity and beyond. But humans are fickle, as evidenced by the fact that we continue to tamper with Time; twice each year, large swaths of humanity agree to adjust their clocks an hour forward or back, transforming the period of time we call a day by establishing one 23-hour day in early spring and one 25-hour day in the middle of fall. Looking into history, I believe it was the Roman Calendar that was ten months long and began in March. Today is the last day of the year; tomorrow will be a new, entirely artificial, beginning. But tomorrow already is today in New Zealand and other places in the far reaches of Planet Earth. People in those places have an edge on those of us who remain trapped in the year 2023. They know how the new year began. The rest of us are coming late to the game. Yet all of us—those of us still living in 2023 and those now experiencing the nascent new year of 2024—exist at the same time…if not for knowing the entire idea of Time is a human concept, our minds might melt as we tried to understand…

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Though I keep trying, I have not yet been able to completely clear my mind of worry. “What if…,” I keep asking myself. And, as I think of a million things I need to do, I get frustrated that the actions I need and want to take are hampered by the fact that yet another holiday is making “normal” life impossible. Tomorrow will be just one week to the day since the last holiday. If we had lived our entire lives with at least one weekly holiday, along with a weekend (for those of us fortunate enough to be free of some “normal” obligations on the weekend), we all might be happier, more relaxed, and free. But that idea conflicts with the stresses and strains and worries that holiday shut-downs cause. We want free time, but we want that time to be readily available for us to be slaves to our worries. Ach!

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Last night, mi novia and I discussed my desire to know what my oncologist really thinks about my condition. How likely is it, I wonder, that whatever treatments I undergo for my cancer will eliminate the cancer? Is my one-year or two-year or five-year survival likely? These are not morbid thoughts, they are practical concerns. Knowing the odds of progression (or lack thereof) of the cancer could help determine which of my millions things to do should be given priority.

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I intend to call M.D. Anderson Cancer Center on Tuesday to explore the possibility and practicality of getting treatment there, versus here in Hot Springs. Exploring options is not equivalent to clutching at straws. Though I have confidence in the oncologists here, I just want to consider options that might be available to me and at what cost in terms of time, emotions, and money. Money, I think, is the least of my worries, given my Medicare supplemental insurance. But I have been surprised before, so I make no assumptions as to what I might learn.

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We humans have lost the wisdom of genuinely resting and relaxing. We worry too much. We don’t allow our bodies to heal, and we don’t allow our minds and hearts to heal.

~ Thich Nhat Hanh ~

I slept a lot and rested even more during the last two weeks. Today, even though that sleep and rest seems to have helped rid me of the virus (or whatever) I had, I feel more than a shade of mental exhaustion. The cause, I assume, is related to the cancer diagnosis. Even though I expected it, actually seeing the results of the PET-scan and hearing the oncologist talk about the “bright” spots on the PET-scan images seems to have sapped my mental energy. I really need to pay heed to Thich Nhat Hanh’s implicit admonition; rest and relax and abandon worry to my body and my mind can more quickly and completely heal.

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I began writing this post before 7 this morning; it is now nearing 11. Coming back to it and finishing it gives me a modest sense of accomplishment. Now I need to rest and relax; my plan was to shower and shave this morning, but I give myself permission to wait until this afternoon. In the meantime, I will do my damnedest to relax and rest.

For five years, follow-up visits with the oncologist confirmed the success of my lung cancer surgery and the chemotherapy and radiation treatment that followed. But, then, a blood test (CEA, carcinoembryonic antigen) indicated a possible return of cancer. When a follow-up CT scan revealed undesirable physical changes that more strongly suggested recurrence of the disease, a PET-scan was ordered. The PET-scan showed several areas of likely recurrent/metastatic disease. Within the next several days, a biopsy of the left supraclavicular lymph node will be taken to confirm recurrence and to verify the recurrence is the same type of cancer treated five years before.

The treatment probably will include chemotherapy; if radiation therapy is used, it will be quite limited. Within two weeks, I should have a clearer idea of the recommended plan of treatment. My assumption is that the original cancer was an easier target because the one tumor was large and well-defined and, therefore, was an obvious candidate for surgery. The latest version is, I believe, more diffuse; not suitable for either radiation or surgery. Chemo and  immunotherapy apparently are the best options.

The follow-up CT scan that revealed the changes was originally scheduled more than a week ago, but I was knocked down by some kind of non-specific viral something-or-other that made me decide to postpone the scan. I probably should have gone ahead with it, anyway, but it’s a bit late to cry over spilt milk. Such is life. At any rate, planning for the treatment process has begun.

This morning, I skimmed several blog posts from the original cancer experience five years ago. I had forgotten just how draining the treatment process was. I suppose I’ll have generally the same kind of experience this time, except (I hope) for the misery of 30 radiation treatments. I have aged five years, of course, which means my body is five years older and weaker. With good fortune and some luck, I will survive this newest bout of cancer for another five years (I hope considerably more). The battle begins anew.

Uplifting news is rarely reported “above the fold.” The role of the media is not to bring a smile to the faces of the public but, instead, to warn the public of circumstances that could endanger the public order and/or lead to tyranny or other such calamities. But we (including I) still complain about the lack of “good” news. We do not want to be reminded about the fundamental flaws in human nature; instead, we want to be lulled into happy complacency. I know that’s what I want: blissful ignorance. Tell me convincing lies about the certainty of universal comfort and the guaranteed absence of pain and hardship; I will sleep like a baby and awake refreshed and ready to celebrate the majestic beauty of humankind. That’s all I want: believable and purely positive illusion. What if that state of mind were to require regular consumption of psychedelic drugs? So be it. Whatever it takes. Just make me believe all’s right with the world. I am not serious, of course. At least not entirely serious. But having confidence in a positive future for humanity would be a nice respite from the pessimism that deserved extinction is just around the corner.

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Once again, I woke with a headache. Presumably the same headache that accompanied me as I fell asleep last night. Two hours after I went to bed, the ache had not been vanquished by the acetaminophen that I took in the hope of calming the constant pain. The headache is not awful—not excruciating—but it is sufficiently painful to cast a pall on the morning. And its sidekick, a troubling crick in my neck, stayed with me overnight, as well. Damn it! I assumed all my tension and anxiety and minor aches and pains would slide off me like beads of water on freshly-waxed car after I had completed the PET-scan. Nope. They remained, even after a wonderful restaurant meal, a treat given to me by mi novia to celebrate the completion of the scan. Perhaps my tension, etc. remains, awaiting the visit with my oncologist early this afternoon, when I expect her to review the results of yesterday’s scan with me. Then, the tension will vaporize; or it may solidify. We shall see.

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Once again, I find myself at a loss for creative thought or interesting ideas. I feel like my brain is clogged with cotton; my IQ has slipped well below 60. I want to sleep, again, for a long, long, long time. No dreams; just empty, blank, purely restful sleep. I had a dream last night. It involved learning that a hotel sales executive in New York City wanted to host a meeting for new members of an association I managed. The new members were joining in droves; they joined via illegible faxes, all sent by their leader, a Unitarian Universalist who did not want his people to join the association but who had no choice but to support their desire to join. I handed the situation over to the membership manager, who I did not trust to handle it appropriately. The dream was stressful; I slammed a former employee’s fingers in a car door and she knew it was intentional. I did not know it. But it was.

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I sometimes wonder about those few anonymous people who surveil me as I behave like an exhibitionist, exposing private thoughts without regard to sensitivity or confidentiality. I mean, of course, my blog posts. I define exhibitionist, by the way, according to Merriam-Webster’s second definition, not the primary one that refers to one who obtains sexual gratification through indecent exposure of one’s genitals (as to a stranger). My definition is based entirely on calling nonsexual attention to oneself. Just to clarify. But, now, about those people… Is it that they find my convoluted thoughts interesting? Or do they find entertainment value in witnessing expressions of deviance/insanity? Or is it something else entirely? Curiosity? Fascination? Boredom?

+++

Stop, John. Just stop.

Under this tree, where light and shade
Speckle the grass like a Thrush’s breast,
Here, in this green and quiet place,
I give myself to peace and rest.

~ W. H. Davis ~

+++

Obligations intrude into my search for serenity. But they are not really obligations; they are unwelcome expectations I have of myself. Expectations should be silenced by an empty openness; a willingness to leave everything for another time, another self.

+++

Thirty-seven pounds. That is the difference between my weight this morning and my weight as of January 16 this year. Just yesterday, or the day before, I thought it was just 30 pounds; first, I misjudged, then I realized more of me has disappeared into the ether. If I were to keep up the same pace of shrinkage, I could reach my (personal) ideal weight in a tad less than a year. I am not quite sure what has caused the significant weight loss, though. While I have paid a little closer attention to my caloric intake than I might have done in the past, I cannot imagine that such a minor adjustment would have the impact it seems to have had. As I mull over my weight, I am thinking about how damn hungry I am right now; most of the foods that sound especially appealing to me at this moment are loaded with carbohydrates or sugars or both, which are off-limits at least until after this afternoon’s PET-scan.

+++

Last night, we finished watching the five-season series (several years old), Six Feet Under. All in all, I was impressed. But I am ready to change into something completely different. I just do not know what. Today, I wait and wait and wait; anxiety has long fingernails and each passing minute is a chalkboard.

+++

It’s no use. I cannot think clearly this morning. My neck aches. I want to sleep, but sleep requires a degree of relaxation that has remained unavailable to me since I wake.

The early hours, before light begins seeping into the sky, seem shorter and faster-moving than those later in the morning. Beginning around 4 a.m., time feels like it accelerates for a few hours—until at least 8 a.m. The more energy I employ in my efforts to increase my accomplishments during that timeframe, the faster the minutes and hours speed by. But deliberately slowing my pace does not reverse that acceleration; time slips through my fingers and my mind just as quickly, no matter what I do. At some point, as I was contemplating my apparent runaway internal clock, I realized I have no control over either time or the way I experience it. I simply am carried along by time, at a pace over which I have no dominion. Of course, I am not alone in this; we’re all swept through the rapids of time.

+++

Time is the school in which we learn, time is the fire in which we burn.

~ Delmore Schwartz ~

+++

This morning’s light-speed transition from darkness to light, just a short while from now, will shrink before too much longer; time will move at the speed of cold molasses, thanks to tomorrow’s schedule. And tomorrow will move just as slowly. Once the PET-scan is complete, though, I imagine the molasses will warm quickly and completely, allowing the passage of time to speed by in a blur.

+++

It occurs to me this morning that, no matter how capable and competent I may be and feel, I would have a very hard time finding a job that would satisfy my interests or that I would otherwise find fulfilling. Seventy is much like sixty, except that seventy is more fragile and less integrated into the modern world. Younger people tend to judge seventy-year-olds; exhausted shells who once were normal people but whose energy and intellects have slipped beneath a baseline at which value can be measured. I do not necessarily want a job, but I like the idea of being productive in some way. I think the creativity of my daydreams is evidence enough of my productivity. But you cannot build anything from evidence of productivity.

+++

I could go back to sleep now. Perhaps I will.

Once Christmas Day is behind us, the year feels like it is finished; even though a week remains. This calendar year’s first fifty-one weeks feel like Time captured in solid, almost indestructible granite. The impossibility of making changes to that very recent near-year is clear. Once current moments have become memories, attempts to revive them is akin to trying to carve granite with one’s fingernail. All the wishes expressed through political science and science fiction to the contrary, actual history is sacrosanct. Its story may be expressed in the form of a lie, but reality refuses to bend to accommodate liars.

+++

When I finally got around to reading the radiologist’s report of my most recent CT-scan, I was struck by how utterly impossible it was for me to understand the bulk of what it said. For the most part, I could not tell whether the report was positive, negative, or neutral. But two sentences jumped out at me:

1. “Findings are highly suspicious for recurrent malignancy.”
2. “Increased mediastinal lymphadenopathy/soft tissue nodularity concerning for metastasis.”

I suspected going in that the scan would reveal something extremely unappealing, but reading those sentences, extracted from the radiologist’s “impressions,” was more than a little jarring. I finally abandoned my attempts to understand “subpleural invasion” (and its context) and myriad other medical terms; I will simply wait until Friday to hear what my oncologist says about last week’s CT-scan and/or this coming Thursday’s PET-scan. I continue reminding myself that I have no control over the presence or absence of cancer in my body, so should not worry about something over which I have no control. Though that reminder is generally effective most of the time, I occasionally find myself dwelling on “what if” situations; a misuse of intellectual capability. Perhaps I should stop writing about my health; that might go a long way toward erasing pointless worries.

+++

Once again I woke with a slight headache. Naturally, I did not bother to take acetaminophen before I ventured out into the kitchen for my espresso. I wonder whether the espresso might have a role in the headache? I doubt it. I am hungry, but I have to watch my food intake; no sugar or carbohydrates or alcohol from now until after my PET-scan. For the next few days, then, I suppose I will eat zucchini, cucumbers, tomatoes, etc. And, perhaps, bacon. And cheese (I think).  My weight today is roughly 31 pounds less than it was about a year ago. During that year, though, my weight has see-sawed up and down during the year. As late as mid-September, I had dropped below and then back up to less than half that amount. I have not been trying hard to lose weight; but little changes in habits have made big contributions to the change. Blah, blah, blah.

+++

Yesterday’s pasta (not spaghetti) was superb. Actually, it was the sauce mi novia made from scratch (and without a recipe) that made the magic. That and sour dough bread to accompany the meal. Naturally, though, the carbs jacked up my blood glucose; another good reason to restrict my intake of carbs, etc. Apparently, I have only myself to blame for the diagnosis of diabetes several months ago. Had I eaten better, restricted my consumption of alcohol, and exercised regularly, I might well have avoided it. But my internal assumption that I am invincible and immortal permitted me to ignore facts, apparently believing they would not apply to me. That fantasy was in play during the many years I was a smoker, too. Other people got lung cancer, not me. Uh-huh. If I could go back in time, either I would exercise the discipline necessary to both avoid smoking and eat small, balanced meals or I would padlock myself to a ship’s anchor just before it set sail.

+++

Today is the day after Christmas. The season tries to cling to our collective experience, but instead it feels like the season is a huge balloon that has a hole in it. Well, not quite that.

Merry Christmas and all the other Happy Holidays to the world! 

I figure if I start on a forced positive note, the positivity might carry me through the remainder of the post. We shall see.

I awoke extremely late this Christmas Day, due in part to multiple pee breaks during the night, along with several cat-based awakenings. Consuming a second gummy in pursuit of both sleep and the eradication of various and sundry bodily pains probably contributed to the lengthy time in bed last night.

We do not exchange gifts at Christmas (and most other times) because we have reached the point of good fortunate that we can (and usually do) simply buy what we want or need. That tradition having been abandoned, we opt to abandon another one, the big, fancy Christmas meal. Oh, we might “do-it-up” from year to year, but it is not a requisite to experience December 25. This year (today), we’re planning to have spaghetti. One of these days before too terribly long, we may thaw the leg of lamb that waits patiently in the freezer—or we might take the rib roast out in preparation for a grand meal—but for now, we will keep our kitchenining to a more reasonable level.

Speaking of food, mi novia made a remarkably tasty beef stew a few days ago. Hmm. This apparent fixation with beef and lamb is an illusion; our consumption of beef has declined rather dramatically over the past year or two. As well it should. But as I consider the possibility of a worldwide rejection of beef as a food, which so many people would like to see, I wonder about the unintended consequences. What would happen to the millions of cattle now being processed (from pasture forward)? And what about the millions of acres of land dedicated to growing grains for cattle feed? Would the people employed in the beef industry be able to find other work? How about the segments of the transportation industry dependent at least in part on the beef industry—railroads, trucking, etc.—would they adapt to  other streams of business, or would they, too, collapse? Give the matter enough thought and both the expected and the unintended consequences begins to be overwhelming. I am not arguing against abandoning beef (I am in favor of it, though obviously not sufficiently supportive to radically change my behavior), I am just thinking of what might happen if we did.

Happy Birthday to my favorite Patty! (Who shares her birthday with Christmas Day) And today also is the birthday of an acquaintance from church. If I paid closer attention, I might find that I could offer birthday wishes to at least one person on almost every day. But I am not prepared to pay that much attention.

Much to my chagrin, I began to develop another headache last night (to replace the one I just overcame). It is still sniffing around my skull, so soon I’ll probably take some low-level, essentially worthless, pain killer. I am in favor of much stronger over-the-counter painkillers, but I feel sure the reasons against easy-access are much more persuasive than the reasons for easy-access. How can this kind of twist take place? I was expressing myself about my headache…but suddenly I’m about to create a conversation about legal controls on pharmaceuticals. Some people say I’m crazy. On occasion, I think they may be right.

Onward toward Christmas Day. I wish the world, as especially you, a Merry Christmas.

Thanks to a yammering, yowling, obnoxious cat—as the clock reads 5:03 a.m.—I have been awake now for half an hour. For some reason, she enjoys making a loud racket in the wee hours, clawing at the area rugs, then running away as I approach her. This Christmas Eve, I am not feeling especially hospitable toward Phaedra—not hospitable in the least. At least my headache is—for the moment, anyway—mild and tolerable; but if the cat continues her irritating behavior, I can image a stress headache coming along any moment. Damn cat.

+++

I came across an interesting word this morning: latibulate. The word is now obsolete, its only known use (according to the Oxford English Dictionary) from 1623 in the writing of Henry Cockeram, lexicographer. Its meaning: to secretly hide oneself in a corner. Why the word would have become obsolete is beyond me, inasmuch as I can imagine frequently expressing a desire to latibulate as a protective measure against a world gone made. Because the world has gone so utterly insane, I advocate for an architectural style in which every room has at least eight corners, thereby providing twice the protection of the average room today. Each corner in this new eight-corner architectural model might be referred to as a latibulation station.

+++

I will miss the soup supper and Christmas Eve service at church this afternoon. Today will mark the second consecutive soup supper I will miss; last year it was cancelled due to frozen pipes in the church. Even though I am not feeling as sick as I was, my lingering cough, slight headache, and ongoing fatigue suggests I should stay home. In addition to that, I want to avoid being around groups of people who might unknowingly share various viruses, etc. with me—at least until Thursday, when I will have my PET-scan. I am steeling myself against the results of the scan, which I will receive when I visit my oncologist on Friday. I have no control over the results of the scan, so I should not allow myself to worry about them. I am having some moderate success in that restraint.

+++

My home is
my retreat and resting place from the wars.
I try to keep this corner
as a haven against the tempest outside,
as I do another corner of my soul.

~ Michel de Montaigne

+++

The sound of rainwater flowing through the downspout outside my office window normally would be mesmerizing. But this morning it is annoying; like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. I wonder why the sound I hear this morning grates on my nerves? A person’s environment can be stable, while his emotional reactions to it shift with every breath. Emotions simultaneously are both flexible and rigid, depending on environmental and mental influences. Simultaneously flexible and rigid? Perhaps difference emotional pairs, but not the same emotion at the same time. My thoughts on these matters spin into a chaotic stream of consciousness that makes no sense, yet is perfectly understandable.

+++

Last night we continued watching the series, Six Feet Under. It’s fascinating how the script-writers so deftly explore the differences within and between each character, within the context of a common story line. And in each character’s exploration, a completely different story line that ties back in to the main story pulls the viewer in. There was a time when I would have been sufficiently fascinated by the complexity that I would write something that would parallel the series’ structure. Not anymore; it is too much like work. I have become supremely lazy.

+++

I have taken a few breaks from writing. It’s just after 6:30 now and I’m ready to rest my fingers.

Merry Christmas Eve!

I’ve spent the last hour looking at the “year in pictures” from the CNN website. Though I did not keep a tally, it seems to me the majority of photos captured individual reactions to bombings, earthquakes, wildfires, severe weather, and various other traumatic circumstances. It’s enough to make a person want to slit his wrists. No one could absorb all the photos and read the captions accompanying them without feeling deep hopelessness. Perhaps that was the intent of the person(s) who curated the collection.

+++

Teach us delight in
simple things.

~ Rudyard Kipling ~

Simplicity carries with it the possibility of calmness. Serenity thrives when one unravels the tangled world and experiences pure clarity. Focusing only on just an inch of bark on a tree—rather than its entire trunk and all its limbs and twigs—is a direct path toward understanding. But it is not a completely “easy” path. It requires an intensity of concentration that may be difficult, in the beginning. Yet that powerful focus quickly sheds the fierceness of seeking to know, allowing understanding to flow without effort.

+++

I continue to be tired around the clock. I am not fighting it, though. Instead, I go with it without resistance. My energy is at a low ebb. That is all right; it helps me sleep.

My favorite pocket knife—one I carry with me most of the time—is a stockman style folding knife. It has three blades: a clip point blade, sheep’s foot blade, and spey blade. Periodically, I teach myself about the types of blades comprising my favorite pocket knives, but my memory of the technical aspects of knives rarely lasts long. It can be embarrassing to feel an affinity for such cutting instruments, while being unable to remember the terminology that applies to them. I suspect I would be more likely to remember what to call the blades if I used all of them regularly. But despite using the clip point blade far more often than either of the other two (I easily could get by with a lone clip point bladed knife), I do not even remember what to call that blade, without reminders of one kind or another. A moment ago I mentioned embarrassment; one of the sources I consulted this morning for information about knives is a website, artofmanliness.com. I have a broad and shallow appreciation of knives; pocket knives in particular. Like so many of my interests, I am not passionate about pocket knives—or any knives, for that matter. I wish I could nurture an abiding interest in some things—knives, for example—to the extent that I would naturally develop a deep knowledge and true expertise about them. The fact that I have not done so, though, suggests my wish is superficial.

+++

Finally, after roughly two hours in bed, I arose at midnight and took a couple of acetaminophen. I have been taking too many of those pills, I think, though I have scrupulously avoided exceeding the frequency or dosage recommended by the manufacturer. Here it is, almost 8:30, and I am thinking of having another two pills; the headache continues to plague me, though the pain is far from severe. It is more of a background discomfort, a mild ache that would seem to have been far worse if it suddenly disappeared. I wonder how I could feel if I suddenly became pain-free? I am so used to ALWAYS having some pain, somewhere—head, joints, gut, etc., etc. If all the minor background pain were to suddenly leave me, I suspect I would feel very good, as if I had become giddily high. Perpetual pain. That is an aspect of geezerhood I find especially irritating.

+++

The cat’s yowling woke me, late. Since then, I have been quite slow to get started. I am still trying to summon enough energy to have breakfast. One espresso, hours ago, is enough for this morning. I think I could go back to sleep if I tried. Maybe even if I did not try. I am weary again.

I would rather it be scheduled sooner, but it is what it is: I will have a PET-scan one week from today; I will see the oncologist the day after to discuss the results. Depending on the results, we either will have the freedom to take a delayed short road trip or I will prepare for the medical journey that follows. After the PET-scan that pinpointed my lung cancer, five years ago, I had a needle biopsy (fully sedated, thankfully). I am getting ahead of myself; until I get the PET-scan results, there’s no point in speculating about what—if any—steps might follow. As the nurse said, the CT-scan might simply have revealed scar tissue.

+++

My headache disappeared—or, at least, was minimally annoying—for much of the day yesterday. It is back this morning; not severe, but noticeable enough that I curse the constant minor pain. I suspect it’s sinus-related. Acetaminophen seems to have little impact on my headache. I doubt my doctor or his nurse would be willing to prescribe anything more powerful without seen me, again, first. The pain is not sufficient, at the moment, to warrant another visit. I’d rather it not become sufficient.

+++

The most valuable thing
we can do for the psyche, occasionally,
is to let it rest, wander,
live in the changing light of a room,
not try to be or do
anything whatever.

~ May Sarton ~

+++

I will try to follow May Sarton’s advice. Just chill. I could sleep again right now, I think. But I won’t. Not for the moment. I won’t read the news, either. I will simply sit as comfortably as I can, have another espresso, and watch the day emerge.

An inch of time is an inch of gold: treasure it.
Appreciate its fleeting nature;
misplaced gold is easily found,
misspent time is lost forever.

~ Loy Ching-Yuen ~

+++

My oncologist’s office called yesterday to tell me Monday’s CT-scan revealed changes from the last one in early September. I will get a call soon to schedule a PET-scan. A PET-scan can help discover a variety of conditions, including cancer, heart disease and brain disorders. In my case, it will be used to determine whether the changes found by the CT-scan are (or may be) a recurrence of cancer. The nurse who called me said the CT-scan changes could simply be scar tissue. Given that Monday’s CT-scan was scheduled as a follow-up to a significant increase in my CEA (carcinoembryonic antigen) blood test, a “tumor marker,” I doubt the changes revealed by the CT-can were scar tissues. Time will tell. I did not expect to be rattled by the results of Monday’s CT-scan—and I shouldn’t let them rattle me—but they make me want the schedulers to hurry up and put me on the PET-scan schedule.

In spite of the news, I feel modestly better; at least my headache is not so severe. My head congestion is not quite as bad. I’m still tired, but that probably can be attributed to the fact that I’ve spent so damn much time sleeping in the past umpteen days. I would like to return to some semblance of normal today, though I have no interest in going out and about; I would rather the world come to me than vice versa.

+++

It’s a lesson too late for the learning
Made of sand, made of sand.
In the wink of an eye my soul is turnin’
In your hand, in your hand.
Are you going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind?
Well, I could’ve loved you better, didn’t mean to be unkind.
You know that was the last thing on my mind.

~ Tom Paxton ~

+++

Those lyrics from Tom Paxton’s song regularly visit me, especially when memories and regrets are in overdrive. Contemplation. Ach.

Today marks three years since Janine died. No matter the passage of time—while trying to adjust—the pain frequently rushes in to fill the emptiness she left. The months preceding her death kept us apart like cages built of COVID. For most of those months, I could not be physically in her presence to comfort her, so she had to go through the experience alone. Her pain has ended. On anniversaries that remind me, it feels like mine never will. Were it not for my good fortune in unexpectedly discovering love with Colleen, I might sink into  depression. The intensity of this morning’s reminder will pass; the sharpness of the memories never will.

Drinking barium in preparation for my 8 a.m. CT-scan. Unrelated to the scan, I continue to battle a variety of symptoms like headaches, too-much-sleep, etc. This is getting more annoying by the moment. But I’ll try to keep my bitching to a dull roar.

Yesterday, when I awoke late, I felt almost human. But that did not last. I am here again, though. If my options were “this,” for several years or a quick and comfortable demise, I think I know where I’d lean toward placing my money.

In other news, I received notice that my healthcare information, maintained by my local hospital/healthcare providers network, has been compromised. If I had a little more jaundiced view of the world, I might suspect the origin of this unidentified malady arose from a targeted intervention. You cannot see the sneer on my face.