John Swinburn

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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?

+++

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.

+++

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…

+++

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!

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

My delayed CT-scan, put off due to the fact that I did not think I could tolerate the drive to the image clinic and the simple 20-minute procedure, is scheduled again for Monday. I think I can tolerate it…one week later. We shall see. Aside from feeling able to deal with that procedure, I do not feel like I could tolerate much more. But I could improve considerably by later today or tomorrow—I felt far better twice or three times within a 24-hour window during the past week. “But.” That improvement has come crashing down, only to gradually recover. I would happily be placed in a medical coma for a week if I could have assurances this, this…whatever would be gone when I awoke. Whenever it’s over, I still have to look forward to the results of the CT scan. Age-related decay takes it unpleasant decay.

My optimism blossoms when my headache subsides or my other symptoms seem to improve. But pessimism returns when those improvements are short-lived or the symptoms seem to get progressively worse. Or both. The rare improvements seem to be old news. My patience is wearing extremely thin—but my options when “thin” becomes “invisible” are just the same. I am certain I could feel far worse and be much sicker, but knowing a splinter in my finger is more tolerable than a nail through my hand does not improve things.  The roller-coast of extreme weakness and attempts at recovery is more tiring than just staying weak and bed-ridden. Yesterday was a little better for part of the day. But the parts that were not better supplied reminders that of how damn intrusive this tangle of symptoms has become. I have the strength to bitch about my malady. At least there’s that. Barring a miracle, though, I cannot imagine feeling even close to “normal” by Christmas.  Shit!

I have not posted for the last two day for lack of energy, plus the pain in my head makes movement of any kind more than a little uncomfortable. My ongoing headache has drained me. I went to my doctor’s office day before yesterday; I learned I do not have COVID, I do not have flu; apparently I have some sort of viral mystery malady that should dissipate…over time. No idea how long. If the way I feel this morning is any indication, it could be awhile.

I post here this morning only to inform my family, and the other few readers, that I am alive and probably will not post until I am feeling much better.

I slept yesterday morning while mi novia went to church. I slept yesterday afternoon for a few hours. I sent to bed at 6 last night and slept until 8 this morning. I feel extremely sore and I have an incredibly unpleasant headache. If I could make my headache disappear, I would go back to sleep; probably sleep another six hours or more. Whatever this is, I am not pleased with it. If someone would bring me morphine, I would be extremely grateful.

Though I have been curious about the concept of a kibbutz, until this morning, I never fully understood the idea and its implementation, nor have I ever taken the time and expended the energy to try. This morning, though, I explored kibbutzim (the plural of kibbutz, I gather), by reading about about the concept on the Jewish Agency for Israel website.

In a nutshell, here is an explanation of kibbutzim, as published on the Agency website:

The main characteristics of Kibbutz life were established in adherence to collectivism in property alongside a cooperative character in the spheres of education, culture and social life. With this came the understanding that the Kibbutz member is part of a unit that is larger than just his own family.

The Kibbutz operates under the premise that all income generated by the Kibbutz and its members goes into a common pool. This income is used to run the Kibbutz, make investments, and guarantee mutual and reciprocal aid and responsibility between members. Kibbutz members receive the same budget (according to family size), regardless of their job or position.

The idea of collectivism has appealed to me for as long as I can remember. If I had not allowed fear to intervene, I might have pursued a lifestyle involving collectivism during or immediately after college. But fear that I might be unable (or, more likely, unwilling) to fully engage in an environment in which economic equality takes precedence over economic gain, among various other concerns, derailed that possibility. Despite the many stumbling blocks that would have gotten in my way—had I been truly serious about pursuing collectivism—my interest in the idea has remained strong.

This morning, when I read that most kibbutzim are secular (I assumed most would be religiously-based), it occurred to me that religion would not be an obstacle…provided, of course, all other members of the kibbutz agreed and would commit to a secular basis. Before I get too far afield, I want to clarify that I have never had an interest in going to Israel and joining a kibbutz. My wish, long ago, involved the idea of establishing a secluded collective community in this country. Over time, that idea changed; the idea morphed into the concept of establishing a secluded community in a truly democratic society. The society in which I live today pretends to be democratic; perhaps my aim would be to establish a collective in a place in which democratic socialism is openly practiced.

My interests in a collective has, over time, waxed and waned. Today, I like the idea of a secluded community with access to the amenities of a robust democratic society. Obviously, my philosophies are not hard and solid; I want readily available cake that I can enjoy eating…but I want the same for everyone. Yeah. A bit of altruistic greed, it seems. Maybe I would be perfectly satisfied if all members of society were generous, caring, compassionate, hard-working…all that, and more. My late wife liked expressing her sense of what I wanted by modifying a common saying: “If wishes were horses we’d all have wings.” You don’t have to understand it; I do, and she did. I think that major modification was first uttered by mistake, but it caught on and it spoke loudly to my fantasies.

+++

We were invited to have drinks and hors d’ouevres with some former neighbors last night. After a couple of hours, we returned home, where I promptly got in bed (around 8) in an effort to get rid of a headache. I woke several times during the night, but stayed in bed in the hope my headache would disappear until I arose at 4:45 this morning to a yowling cat. My headache is better, but it still lingers. I loathe headaches. They interfere with my writing, although I conquered this one for a while this morning; enough to write about my interest in collectives. Perhaps the headache will disappear in time for me to enjoy church, where this morning’s speaker (who was a former assistant secretary of state under Colin Powell and who spent several years in the CIA) talks about the clash between Israel and Hamas. This morning’s church service is an “insight,” which differs radically from a “worship” service. I have been quite happy with most insight presentations over the past year or two…or longer. I hope I can bring myself to go.

+++

I showered late yesterday, so I might not shower again this morning. A little deodorant, clean clothes, brushed teeth, and washed face (and various other body parts) should make me presentable and tolerable. If I decide to go. Ach. I hate headaches with a passion.

Yesterday morning, I sought out a post I wrote on an old blog that remains accessible, but to which I almost never contribute any longer. I do not know exactly why I went looking for that post, but something pushed me to find it. The post, from March 7, 2010, addressed my experience and the accompanying emotions surrounding the March 6 memorial service for my late sister, who died the month before. Reading that post was just as emotional as was writing it. Because I do not feel sufficiently energetic or intellectually capable of writing anything of merit this morning, I am reposting here what I wrote 13+ years ago. The promise I made in the closing paragraphs of that post remain unfulfilled; that is both inexcusable and painful.

Remembering
Yesterday morning, we held a memorial service for my sister, who died February 19. I say “we,” but my niece is the one who did the lion’s share of the work of organizing it. She did a magnificent job. My niece and my nephew, her brother, were two of the many people who reaped the rewards of being dearly loved by my sister. My niece lives in the same city where my sister lived, so was able to see her often and benefitted from being near her aunt. And she dearly loved her aunt, and the work she put in to arrange the memorial service showed it clearly. While she and her brother were deeply affected by my sister’s death, they were more deeply affected by her life.

My sister was a Catholic, and so is my niece. So it was fitting and right that my niece arranged a service at the Catholic church, though some of my sister’s siblings are like fish out of water in that setting. Despite my atheism, the words and actions of the priest and the religious ceremony of yesterday’s service moved me. The music…Ave Maria, Amazing Grace, and How Great Thou Art were exceptionally moving and, remembering how much my sister loved that music, made me cry. Some other things moved me even more.

My ex-sister-in-law, my niece’s mother, delivered a eulogy that was nothing short of the perfect remembrance of my sister’s life. Despite having split from my brother many years ago, she remained close to my sister and her presence was yet another testament to how my sister affected people.

She spoke of all the thousands of thing my sister did for others, from giving people shelter, to handling income tax preparation for people unable to do (or pay for) their own, to making raggedy-ann dolls for children who desperately needed a bright spot in their otherwise dull and dreary and poverty-ridden lives. She described my sister’s love of her brothers and sister, and her niece and nephews, and she spoke of the things my sister did that were natural to her but invisible to most others who never saw all the good she was doing. The eulogy described my sister as someone who just naturally helped people…it was just “what she did.” One day I will post that eulogy here.

Something else that moved me was the presence at the service of my sister’s doctor, who had been her primary physician for ten years or more. He spoke to several of my siblings about her, describing her as “brilliant” and as someone unlike anyone else he had ever known. He said he could talk to her about things he had never been able to with other patients, personal things outside the doctor-patient relationship. “I don’t know if you realize how much she did for people. She got things done,” he said, “when no one else could,” going on to relate an incident in which he had told her of another financially-strapped patient who needed a motorized wheelchair but apparently did not qualify or could not get through the red-tape of getting one. “She didn’t need to do anything about it, but she did.” He said she got the wheelchair for the guy in a matter of days. “I don’t know how she did it, but she did. She was remarkable.” I had heard my sister talk about her doctor before, describing him as someone who was not in the profession for the money but, instead, for the opportunity to serve. His presence at my sister’s service was a tribute to her, and a tribute to him as well.

Other people who made their way to the memorial service spoke volumes about my sister, too, though the people did not speak. At least three people confined to wheelchairs were there, people my sister had helped in one way or another. I had met one of the people, a man who’s probably in his forties, at my sister’s apartment not too many months before. Since I had seen him, he had undergone a leg amputation. I remember him wheeling in to the room when my sister had opened the door, looking sheepish as my sister dressed him down for failing to get tax documentation to her earlier so she could help him file his return. Yesterday, when I spoke to him, he said “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.” He meant it; he was lost without the help that my sister regularly gave him just to get by in his daily life.

I don’t know just how I’m going to do it, but I’m going to keep my sister’s legacy alive by doing something to continue her work helping people, particularly people in the apartment building where she lived. The building is for people over age 62 and the mobility-impaired; all residents pay a significant percentage of their income in rent. I want to do something to carry on my sister’s work. I’m not going to replicate it…I won’t even try…but perhaps I can honor her memory by honoring what turned out to be, in a very real way, her life’s work.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say
Tomorrow do thy worst,
for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

~ John Dryden ~

+++

What’s done is done. The logic is irrefutable; efforts spent trying to change the past are wasted. Emotions tend to sidestep logic, though, as if desire or regret might have magical powers to transform the historically good, bad, or benign into something else. In spite of the reality that history is immutable, emotions struggle mightily to revise the past. Often, those efforts rely on arguments suggesting history is a product of perspective. The harshness of past actions that had negative consequences—judged at the time to have been cruel—cannot be transformed into compassionate simply because they might have been motivated by love or concern. That perspective cannot alter the reality of history. The same is true of past good deeds. They cannot be modified into something evil or cruel simply by changing one’s perspectives of history.

+++

My limited research into the history of corrective lenses suggests that their first recorded use was by the emperor Nero, who was said to have viewed gladiatorial games using an emerald. The first corrective lenses supposedly were invented by Abbas Ibn Firnas, who lived between 809 and 887 A.D. I suspect the availability of corrective lenses was quite limited until considerably later. Before they were widely available, most people who suffered from poor eyesight must have had to simply put up with it. Before I had cataract surgery, my distance vision without glasses was abysmal. Though I did not attempt to go without glasses for days at a time, I imagine day-by-day life would have been extremely challenging. But I have always had options. People who lived before eyeglasses had been invented did not have those options. Even today, I sense that many, many, many people the world over do not have access to eyeglasses. When faced with spending limited resources on food or on improved vision, food certainly must win out. Now, with lens implants in my eyes, my distance vision is vastly improved, but my near-vision without glasses is utterly insufficient to allow me to read. I could afford cataract surgery (I had to pay for it…insurance did not cover it and my surgery took place before I was eligible for Medicare). My gut tells me the vast majority of the world’s population cannot afford that expense, which most of us almost take for granted. We are incredibly fortunate. We should be deeply grateful for our good fortune. And, to the extent we can, we should share it.

+++

I spent an hour and a half with a therapist yesterday. The session was a “getting to know you” introduction. During the conversation, my health was among the subjects we covered. While telling her about challenges to my health over the years, I told her I had “dodged a bullet” several times, beginning with the diagnosis of Crohn’s disease when I was 18, which put me in the hospital a number of times over the years, including once while on a business trip to Toledo, Ohio, where I underwent surgery for a suspected appendicitis (I was 37 years old at the time). It was the Crohn’s. The surgeon removed a very long piece of my small intestines; though I have had a few more flare-ups (including one that began within 12 hours of arriving in Vienna, Austria and put me in the hospital for five days before flying home), it seems I have been mostly in remission ever sense. And I told her about my double-bypass heart surgery when I was fifty years old and about the removal of the lower lobe lobe of my right lung due to lung cancer and about a brief hospitalization for pancreatitis. She learned that my mother and father died when I was in my early thirties and that my oldest sister died almost years ago and that my brother who was closest in age to me died early last year and that my wife of almost 41 years died almost three years ago.  The therapist suggested that all of my health issues and the emotional traumas of deaths and illnesses in my family were “bullets.” As I consider my history of major and minor physical and emotional traumas, I marvel that I have made it as far as I have. But that may be a bit overly-dramatic. I can be something of a drama-fiend. The conversation caused me to reflect, though, on the “punches” thrown at me over the years. And I realized my experiences pale in comparison to many, many other people who also have withstood such punches. Most people tend to be resilient, I think. My experiences are far from unique; just part of the process of living and coping with the world around me.

+++

We have not decided what we are going to do over Christmas. We’ve decided not to make any plans until after my appointment with my oncologist late next week, following my CT scan. Just in case. Assuming all is well, we’re considering the possibility of going to Mississippi or to the south Texas coast. Or staying here and having a leg of lamb or prime rib for Christmas dinner. Having those options, and many more, is yet another reason to be grateful for our good fortune. The fact that I can go to the refrigerator to get a low-fat peach yoghurt for breakfast is yet another reason; and it is one for which I will be grateful right now. I am trying to discard the darkness.

The effects of the COVID-19 pandemic will be felt for years. It added enormous pressure to everyday life, turning minor stresses into traumas. Anxieties blossomed into depressions. Depressions grew more painful and powerful, becoming more dangerous and in too many cases, deadly. An NPR article, reporting the results of an American Psychological Association (APA) survey, says “more people are seeking help for certain kinds of mental health issues, especially anxiety disorders, depression, and trauma and stress related disorders like post-traumatic stress disorder, sleep disturbances and addiction.” The APA survey also reveals that more than half of responding psychologists have no openings for new patients. The senior director of health care innovations at APA, Vaile Wright, says “…there are a variety of ways that individuals experienced trauma during the pandemic. It could be the loss of a loved one and the grief that comes along with that. It could be one’s own sickness and the impact of hospitalizations.” Looking back at my experiences during the worst of the pandemic, when thankfully I did not suffer directly from the virus,  I recognize that period had a lasting effect on me that cannot be erased, no matter how much support or treatment I could receive. Many, many people had experiences that were magnified several-fold. I cannot imagine trying to cope with losing multiple members of one’s family and friends to COVID while being sick with the virus personally. Considering the millions of people who were directly affected, it is no wonder many psychologists say there is a mental health crisis in this country. Worldwide, is a more realistic scope, I think.

+++

The sky beyond the trees is pale blue, almost white, and the forest is dead-still. The few remaining leaves are frozen in space, as if in a still-life painting. Even pine needles are absolutely motionless. It is not hard to believe that, by waving my hand to introduce even a slight movement to the air outside my window, I could cause the leaves to become agitated and alive with activity. The most modest breeze will accomplish that, though. When the air decides to move on from where it rests, motionless, it will disturb the leaves’ peace. What, I wonder, give air a reason to move on? What motivates movement? As I glance up toward a distant tree-top, I see movement; a bird, perhaps, or a squirrel. The motion is brief, though. The air is so still it cannot be jostled into sustained movement by something so small.

+++

Much to my chagrin, I was awakened at 6 by my alarm clock. I set it last night as a back-up, just in case I did not awake early. I have to get dressed and ready to drive into town by 8. My desired leisure time this morning is just a wish; an unfulfilled dream. The calendar for the day refuses to give me any extended periods of tranquility. I have obligations tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, as well. Ach! Why do I allow myself to get into such situations?