Lookin' Good

I’m between courses of chemotherapy right now. Of course, I’m not cured. My doctor at the Veterans Administration said I needed some time to rest up and recuperate before we start again with some new poison cocktail.

He’s a funny guy, my doctor. He’s kind of like "House" on television only with a potbelly and a great laugh. He tells me it’ll be good for me to take a "drug vacation." That’s what it’s known as in the world of oncology. Besides, he said, I’ll have plenty of time to be miserable later. I have a good idea what he means, but I’m not exactly sure. And I don’t really want to know. Not yet, anyway.

Meantime, he says, I’m doing as well as can be hoped. The main tumor, the one in my right lung, shrunk about 50% during my first course of chemo. The second course of chemo didn’t shrink it but did keep it from growing. Now it’s regained some of its appetite, but it’s still only about 20% larger than it was when I was first diagnosed. The other three tumors are pretty much unchanged. There are some spots on my liver, but for now they’re tiny.

"You really look good," a friend of mine told me a few days ago. "Wow, you look pretty healthy," another friend said. My wife tells me I look handsome, but that’s kind of her job, right?

You know, though, when I look in the mirror I see that, in fact, I do look pretty healthy. My hair has grown back except for my bald spot. My mustache isn’t as thick as it was, but it’s not stringy. I’ve lost some weight but since I’ve always been thin, it’s okay. My color is good. In fact, sometimes when I step our of the shower and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I look pretty normal. Except for the chemotherapy port in my chest and the purple blotches on my hands and my arms where I’ve bumped up against a door or a wall or just brushed against something hard.

Sometimes, looking at myself, I forget my diagnosis. And that’s wonderful when it happens. But it doesn’t last. Always, without fail, I’ll think about taking a trip or writing a new book or sailing one more time down to the Keys or doing something six months from now or next year and then it hits me.

Who am I kidding?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I’m glad I look good, that I’m not bald, that I’m not as skinny as I will eventually be. But it’s terrible to have to question every hope I have or dream I dream or plan I make for any time more than a few days or weeks from now. It’s really terrible when my wife talks about going to St. Augustine in the fall or about where we’ll spend Christmas, to nod, to smile, to agree, and then to think, ‘we’ll see.’

Sometimes, usually when I’m not feeling so good, I blurt that out. "We’ll see, Honey," I say. "We’ll have to see, won’t we?" And what I see is the pain in her eyes, the fear, and I realize how unfair that is to her, even though it’s true.

Maybe if I looked worse, less healthy, bald and emaciated, it would be easier, on me and on her.