I’m not doing well.
Believe me, that’s a sentence I hoped never to write. However, I’ve no choice, unless I wish to kick the truth aside.
Not doing well. That’s why it has been so long since my last entry in this blog. I now spend almost all my time in bed, so tired I can hardly walk, weak, uninterested in any food other than chocolate ice cream.
I want to write. Not just this blog. I have a novel to rewrite and, of more importance, my memoir. I try to write. But I can’t really. My memory is fouled by chemotherapy. Not just my memory of dates and names but my memory of spelling, of dates, of real happenings in my life.
As bad as I feel, as skinny as I am thanks to chemo, there’s still hope that I’ll get past the treatments and have a year or so to feel better and write and maybe head up to Virginia or someplace with Lynne. I hope that happens.
Now, though, I need to stop writing. I’m too tired.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, November 16, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Times Seem to be Changing
I’m embarrassed. Almost a full month ago, I said my plan was to write this blog more often, even if it meant writing shorter blog-entries.
I haven’t.
I guess I should not have said anything.
The problem is that I’ve been feeling terrible for the past few weeks. It’s all been due to the cancer and the chemo. My weight fell down to about 115 pounds and I’ve been exhausted all day, every day. I’ve had no appetite and some transient pain. As a consequence, I’ve had no real desire to write. Anything.
My typical day started about 5:20 when I woke, had coffee, took pills, shaved and dressed then went to a 7 a.m. A.A. meeting that ends at 8. Typically, I drove home (about a mile) and almost immediately hopped into bed so I could fall asleep. Most of the days I’ve been spending in bed, sleeping or reading. I usually got up at about 5 p.m., ate something for dinner, then watched T.V. with Lynne until about 8:30 when I went to bed.
The last two days have been different. I’ve had no chemo in about three weeks. Instead, I started taking chemo pills yesterday. I’ve felt pretty good. For two days. Yesterday, I was able to have breakfast with Mark Ford, a true friend. The eggs were good but Mark looked sad every time he looked at me. Still, the most recent days have been the best I’ve had in months. God willing, I may be able to start writing again.
I hope so.
I haven’t.
I guess I should not have said anything.
The problem is that I’ve been feeling terrible for the past few weeks. It’s all been due to the cancer and the chemo. My weight fell down to about 115 pounds and I’ve been exhausted all day, every day. I’ve had no appetite and some transient pain. As a consequence, I’ve had no real desire to write. Anything.
My typical day started about 5:20 when I woke, had coffee, took pills, shaved and dressed then went to a 7 a.m. A.A. meeting that ends at 8. Typically, I drove home (about a mile) and almost immediately hopped into bed so I could fall asleep. Most of the days I’ve been spending in bed, sleeping or reading. I usually got up at about 5 p.m., ate something for dinner, then watched T.V. with Lynne until about 8:30 when I went to bed.
The last two days have been different. I’ve had no chemo in about three weeks. Instead, I started taking chemo pills yesterday. I’ve felt pretty good. For two days. Yesterday, I was able to have breakfast with Mark Ford, a true friend. The eggs were good but Mark looked sad every time he looked at me. Still, the most recent days have been the best I’ve had in months. God willing, I may be able to start writing again.
I hope so.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Bad News
The last time I contributed to this blog, I felt pretty good. I was convinced I’d be able to start writing regularly, creating needed chapters for my two in-the-works books and writing pages I want to leave for my grandson and granddaughter.
Too bad. I can barely write at all.
For about 35 years before I grew sick, I spent basically every day writing. After a history as a newspaper reporter and editor and a long time as a magazine editor, I found an opportunity to write at home. I worked mornings creating marketing copy for one of the nation’s champion direct mail companies. Every afternoon, after a rest, I’d turn my full attention to working on one of the non-fiction books I found attractive. I’ve written without anything like breaks longer than just a few days. I produced thousands of words of direct marketing copy ever day along with at least one thousand words for whatever book I was working on.
No more.
This blog copy has already taken four days. I’m not going to give up. I try to work on my books. I plan to add to my blog at least every two weeks. Wish me luck.
Too bad. I can barely write at all.
For about 35 years before I grew sick, I spent basically every day writing. After a history as a newspaper reporter and editor and a long time as a magazine editor, I found an opportunity to write at home. I worked mornings creating marketing copy for one of the nation’s champion direct mail companies. Every afternoon, after a rest, I’d turn my full attention to working on one of the non-fiction books I found attractive. I’ve written without anything like breaks longer than just a few days. I produced thousands of words of direct marketing copy ever day along with at least one thousand words for whatever book I was working on.
No more.
This blog copy has already taken four days. I’m not going to give up. I try to work on my books. I plan to add to my blog at least every two weeks. Wish me luck.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Back to Work
I feel okay today.
Now, there’s a statement I honestly feared I’d never make again. But I do. Feel good, or at least pretty good.
Just two days ago, I honestly thought I would never feel worse. I was tired, shaky, nauseous, breathless and too weak to walk…the way I’d pretty much felt for the last couple of months, only worse. I figured it went with the territory.
My wife drove me to the VA for my regularly scheduled chemotherapy session.
It didn’t work out. As soon as a nurse took my vital signs, I was hurried to the ER. My blood pressure was 70/42. That’s low.
I’m not going to go into the diagnosis except to say that low blood pressure was partly a result of the cardio surgery I had a couple of weeks ago and partly caused by the fact that I was taking medicine that had been prescribed a year ago to lower my blood pressure. I wasn’t drinking enough liquids.
Anyway, I spent the day in the ER, on my back on a stretcher-bed with an IV something stuck in my chemotherapy port. By the late afternoon, I felt pretty good, able to walk. Yesterday was good and so is today.
Over the last few weeks – since my mother died – I’ve not been able to write much of anything. Oh, a lot of that inability stemmed from my physical condition but a lot of it was a reaction to my mom’s death. It just seemed that I couldn’t get my thoughts off my mother, largely because I hadn’t been able to visit her before her passing.
Stretched out in the hospital two days ago, though, I had something of a breakthrough. I realized, that my mother would be appreciative of my sadness, appreciative that I missed her and was going to keep missing her. She would have been enraged, though, if I allowed that perfectly natural sorrow to stand between myself and the writing I still want to do before my own death. "Stop it!" she’d say. "Get back to the computer. Show me you loved me by writing a good book."
My mother was proud of me. I know that. She was happy and proud and thankful that I’d fought my way from a terribly sick and sad and drunken life to a decent life. A life that included her and also includes a wife and my grown up children and my grandchildren. A life that includes some success as an author. A life filled with friends I’ve made since I took my last drink. But she wants me to finish the writing I started two years ago because she knows that’s what will make this period of my life make some kind of sense.
Now, there’s a statement I honestly feared I’d never make again. But I do. Feel good, or at least pretty good.
Just two days ago, I honestly thought I would never feel worse. I was tired, shaky, nauseous, breathless and too weak to walk…the way I’d pretty much felt for the last couple of months, only worse. I figured it went with the territory.
My wife drove me to the VA for my regularly scheduled chemotherapy session.
It didn’t work out. As soon as a nurse took my vital signs, I was hurried to the ER. My blood pressure was 70/42. That’s low.
I’m not going to go into the diagnosis except to say that low blood pressure was partly a result of the cardio surgery I had a couple of weeks ago and partly caused by the fact that I was taking medicine that had been prescribed a year ago to lower my blood pressure. I wasn’t drinking enough liquids.
Anyway, I spent the day in the ER, on my back on a stretcher-bed with an IV something stuck in my chemotherapy port. By the late afternoon, I felt pretty good, able to walk. Yesterday was good and so is today.
Over the last few weeks – since my mother died – I’ve not been able to write much of anything. Oh, a lot of that inability stemmed from my physical condition but a lot of it was a reaction to my mom’s death. It just seemed that I couldn’t get my thoughts off my mother, largely because I hadn’t been able to visit her before her passing.
Stretched out in the hospital two days ago, though, I had something of a breakthrough. I realized, that my mother would be appreciative of my sadness, appreciative that I missed her and was going to keep missing her. She would have been enraged, though, if I allowed that perfectly natural sorrow to stand between myself and the writing I still want to do before my own death. "Stop it!" she’d say. "Get back to the computer. Show me you loved me by writing a good book."
My mother was proud of me. I know that. She was happy and proud and thankful that I’d fought my way from a terribly sick and sad and drunken life to a decent life. A life that included her and also includes a wife and my grown up children and my grandchildren. A life that includes some success as an author. A life filled with friends I’ve made since I took my last drink. But she wants me to finish the writing I started two years ago because she knows that’s what will make this period of my life make some kind of sense.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Mother's Day
This Moher's Day stuff is a day or so early, I know. Not much, but enough to know that it will be on line just in time for my brothers to read it and wish they’d thought of it. My mom won’t read it. She has a computer that she used two or three times about two years ago when it was brand new. Now it’s under her desk, behind the typewriter with which she writes letters. That she bought used about 50 years ago.
I do want to talk about Mom, though.
I think I’ve already said here that she and I have a very special relationship, and we do.
I was adopted as a baby. I was a premature, very sick baby, only about three pounds at birth. My biological mother died in that childbirth. As far as I’m concerned, my biological mother was a wonderful, beautiful, good woman. My dad – whoever he was – was probably in the military as World War II came to an end. Maybe he died doing something heroic.
That’s what I choose to believe.
The people who adopted me – my mom and dad – really thought I’d die. That’s how tiny I was, how sick. But they took me anyway, to give me some love.
My dad is dead now, has been for a long time. I loved him. I love him. But he and I were never really close.
My mom and I were – and are.
Many of my happiest memories are of my mother. I thought she was beautiful and loved it when she’d hold my hand as we walked together. I remember the way she looked when we went to mass as a family and remember her giving me books and telling me, from the time I was a little boy, that I could become a writer if I wanted to.
I remember the late, late night when she learned her dad – my grandfather – had died. My father was working and my mom came to my room and woke me. She was sitting on the floor crying so I got out of bed and hugged her and cried with her and then, later, we went to the kitchen and drank some hot milk and just kind of looked at each other.
I remember her being angry from time to time. I don’t remember her ever hitting me. I do remember her making me stand in a corner for a time and remember my father’s punishments.
Whew.
I remember sitting on the floor in the kitchen on Saturdays, listening to the opera broadcast from New York as she did the weekly ironing. I remember sitting on her lap.
She’s 94 now, a retired teacher/librarian. She – whom I remember as being almost 6-feet tall – is tiny. A little bent over. Pretty deaf. And she uses a cane. She also drives, solo, to mass and shopping and to restaurants.
My wife thinks my mom, Mary, should not be allowed to drive. She’s too old. I told Lynne to go up to Clearwater and take my mother’s car keys. I’ll wait here.
My mom reads voraciously. The New York Times and the big New York Review of Books and a couple of other newspapers and more than a dozen magazines and every book she’s interested in. Not novels. Nonfiction. Good stuff.
I talk to my mother every evening at 6 p.m. I make sure she’s okay and we talk about the Times crossword puzzle and we talk about politics and our family and all kinds of things. She tells me what she did and I maybe tell her what I did.
We sound a lot alike, my mother and I. We laugh at the same jokes, find the same political actions disgusting, feel the same way about people we know, like the same food, even curse with a lot of the same words.
We can sit together and not say a damn thing and both know we’re having fun.
Sometimes, when I’m having a tough time, I edit my comments. I can tell how sad she is that I’m sick and I don’t want her to know everything.
I hope she has a good Mother’s Day and wish I had the strength to drive up there. But I don’t and she understands. Lynne and I sent her a beautiful scarf and a book I know she wanted and she already opened the gifts because she never waits these days. She loves the gifts.
Thinking of her as I lay in bed earlier today, I thought how good it would be if she dies before I do. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever admitted in a life that’s been filled, for years, with some terrible actions and reactions. But it’s true.
And guess what. I believe my mother hopes the same thing.
I do want to talk about Mom, though.
I think I’ve already said here that she and I have a very special relationship, and we do.
I was adopted as a baby. I was a premature, very sick baby, only about three pounds at birth. My biological mother died in that childbirth. As far as I’m concerned, my biological mother was a wonderful, beautiful, good woman. My dad – whoever he was – was probably in the military as World War II came to an end. Maybe he died doing something heroic.
That’s what I choose to believe.
The people who adopted me – my mom and dad – really thought I’d die. That’s how tiny I was, how sick. But they took me anyway, to give me some love.
My dad is dead now, has been for a long time. I loved him. I love him. But he and I were never really close.
My mom and I were – and are.
Many of my happiest memories are of my mother. I thought she was beautiful and loved it when she’d hold my hand as we walked together. I remember the way she looked when we went to mass as a family and remember her giving me books and telling me, from the time I was a little boy, that I could become a writer if I wanted to.
I remember the late, late night when she learned her dad – my grandfather – had died. My father was working and my mom came to my room and woke me. She was sitting on the floor crying so I got out of bed and hugged her and cried with her and then, later, we went to the kitchen and drank some hot milk and just kind of looked at each other.
I remember her being angry from time to time. I don’t remember her ever hitting me. I do remember her making me stand in a corner for a time and remember my father’s punishments.
Whew.
I remember sitting on the floor in the kitchen on Saturdays, listening to the opera broadcast from New York as she did the weekly ironing. I remember sitting on her lap.
She’s 94 now, a retired teacher/librarian. She – whom I remember as being almost 6-feet tall – is tiny. A little bent over. Pretty deaf. And she uses a cane. She also drives, solo, to mass and shopping and to restaurants.
My wife thinks my mom, Mary, should not be allowed to drive. She’s too old. I told Lynne to go up to Clearwater and take my mother’s car keys. I’ll wait here.
My mom reads voraciously. The New York Times and the big New York Review of Books and a couple of other newspapers and more than a dozen magazines and every book she’s interested in. Not novels. Nonfiction. Good stuff.
I talk to my mother every evening at 6 p.m. I make sure she’s okay and we talk about the Times crossword puzzle and we talk about politics and our family and all kinds of things. She tells me what she did and I maybe tell her what I did.
We sound a lot alike, my mother and I. We laugh at the same jokes, find the same political actions disgusting, feel the same way about people we know, like the same food, even curse with a lot of the same words.
We can sit together and not say a damn thing and both know we’re having fun.
Sometimes, when I’m having a tough time, I edit my comments. I can tell how sad she is that I’m sick and I don’t want her to know everything.
I hope she has a good Mother’s Day and wish I had the strength to drive up there. But I don’t and she understands. Lynne and I sent her a beautiful scarf and a book I know she wanted and she already opened the gifts because she never waits these days. She loves the gifts.
Thinking of her as I lay in bed earlier today, I thought how good it would be if she dies before I do. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever admitted in a life that’s been filled, for years, with some terrible actions and reactions. But it’s true.
And guess what. I believe my mother hopes the same thing.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Plagiarism
I’m between chemo treatments now, enjoying about three weeks without injections. Later this month, it’s cat-scan time, then a visit to the oncologist. Then the doc and I will decide what, if anything, we can do. I think there’s only one more chemo method we can attempt, something oral, but we’ll see.
I am alone a lot these days. Oh, Lynne and I are in the apartment but a distance apart that is much too long and arduous to be easily overcome.
Perhaps because of loneliness, I have found it a bit easier now to write every day. That makes me happy. I believe I’ve always been cheered by writing, grateful that I have had both the ability and opportunities to make my way as an author.
In an old shoe box in my closet, I have the very first thing I ever wrote. It was a little story about St. Patrick and Ireland. I guess I knew I really wanted to write books, because I’d taken two sheets of typing paper and folded them in half, then stapled them to fashion a tiny book ofeight pages, each filled with words and iterrible llustrations done in crayon.
My mom saved that creative work, giving it to me along with a bunch of old souvenirs – photos and grade cards from school and old news clippings and a dried flower from someplace long forgotten. I was, according to the date my mother had written on the first page, five years old when I’d written about St. Patrick.
I was thinking about that piece of work yesterday and suddenly, without warning, I remembered some other writing I managed to scribble out 45 years ago, or so.
What I remembered was winning the first writing contest I ever entered, a contest held when I was in the fifth grade at Our Lady of Peace, or maybe the sixth. If my memory is correct, every Catholic student in whatever grade I was in was given the chance to write 100 words or so about something Catholic and then – to win a prize – submit the writing to some priest or maybe a bishop or even a cardinal.
That judge, poor fellow, would read all the words of all the students and name two winners. One of the winners would be a girl, the other would be a boy.
I didn’t write a word until the night before the work was to be turned in. I had no idea what to write until I picked up a tiny volume written by some priest somewhere to explain different Catholic terms to little boys, like me. Flipping the little book open, I found myself looking at a page about prayer. Specifically, about how to pray.
I don’t know who the author was and have no recollection of the words. I do remember reading each sentence and then rewriting it in little boy terms. I even remember making a couple of mistakes on purpose. I remember hoping I would not get caught.
Ha!
Not only did I not get caught, I won the contest. Some girl from a school in the north side of town, won the female division.
As I recall, both writings – mine and the girl’s – were printed in the city’s Catholic newspaper or perhaps the parish bulletin. I was, I guess, supposed to feel proud. Instead, I was terrified. I just knew someone would recognize the words and shame me. I kept waiting for the telephone to ring or for a posse of monsignors to show up at the front door.
Instead, all I got was a note that I’d won a ticket to see The Song of Bernadette movie in one of the downtown movie houses. I wouldn’t be alone, of course. I’d be accompanied by the little girl who had won the female contest and by two nuns, one from my school and one from hers.
I don’t remember enjoying the movie even though we sat in the balcony. The only thing I remember about the little girl are the truths that she was terribly obese and disgustingly holy. As I recall, she sat with her hands together and her head slightly bowed from the film's opening until its ending.
I firmly remember that we couldn’t get popcorn or candy. I remember I had to sit next to a nun who prayed her rosary without a pause. I remember some other kids looking at me and the girl and the nuns and laughing. I couldn’t wait to get home.
I don’t believe I’ve ever knowingly plagiarized since those days. The reward for stealing those words was, to my mind, a simply horrible punishment.
I don’t even enjoy the memories at all.
I am alone a lot these days. Oh, Lynne and I are in the apartment but a distance apart that is much too long and arduous to be easily overcome.
Perhaps because of loneliness, I have found it a bit easier now to write every day. That makes me happy. I believe I’ve always been cheered by writing, grateful that I have had both the ability and opportunities to make my way as an author.
In an old shoe box in my closet, I have the very first thing I ever wrote. It was a little story about St. Patrick and Ireland. I guess I knew I really wanted to write books, because I’d taken two sheets of typing paper and folded them in half, then stapled them to fashion a tiny book ofeight pages, each filled with words and iterrible llustrations done in crayon.
My mom saved that creative work, giving it to me along with a bunch of old souvenirs – photos and grade cards from school and old news clippings and a dried flower from someplace long forgotten. I was, according to the date my mother had written on the first page, five years old when I’d written about St. Patrick.
I was thinking about that piece of work yesterday and suddenly, without warning, I remembered some other writing I managed to scribble out 45 years ago, or so.
What I remembered was winning the first writing contest I ever entered, a contest held when I was in the fifth grade at Our Lady of Peace, or maybe the sixth. If my memory is correct, every Catholic student in whatever grade I was in was given the chance to write 100 words or so about something Catholic and then – to win a prize – submit the writing to some priest or maybe a bishop or even a cardinal.
That judge, poor fellow, would read all the words of all the students and name two winners. One of the winners would be a girl, the other would be a boy.
I didn’t write a word until the night before the work was to be turned in. I had no idea what to write until I picked up a tiny volume written by some priest somewhere to explain different Catholic terms to little boys, like me. Flipping the little book open, I found myself looking at a page about prayer. Specifically, about how to pray.
I don’t know who the author was and have no recollection of the words. I do remember reading each sentence and then rewriting it in little boy terms. I even remember making a couple of mistakes on purpose. I remember hoping I would not get caught.
Ha!
Not only did I not get caught, I won the contest. Some girl from a school in the north side of town, won the female division.
As I recall, both writings – mine and the girl’s – were printed in the city’s Catholic newspaper or perhaps the parish bulletin. I was, I guess, supposed to feel proud. Instead, I was terrified. I just knew someone would recognize the words and shame me. I kept waiting for the telephone to ring or for a posse of monsignors to show up at the front door.
Instead, all I got was a note that I’d won a ticket to see The Song of Bernadette movie in one of the downtown movie houses. I wouldn’t be alone, of course. I’d be accompanied by the little girl who had won the female contest and by two nuns, one from my school and one from hers.
I don’t remember enjoying the movie even though we sat in the balcony. The only thing I remember about the little girl are the truths that she was terribly obese and disgustingly holy. As I recall, she sat with her hands together and her head slightly bowed from the film's opening until its ending.
I firmly remember that we couldn’t get popcorn or candy. I remember I had to sit next to a nun who prayed her rosary without a pause. I remember some other kids looking at me and the girl and the nuns and laughing. I couldn’t wait to get home.
I don’t believe I’ve ever knowingly plagiarized since those days. The reward for stealing those words was, to my mind, a simply horrible punishment.
I don’t even enjoy the memories at all.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Future
I spoke earlier about how difficult it is to simply think of my future and easy it is to embrace the past.
I spend a lot of time in bed these days. Sometimes asleep, usually awake. Often, as I lay in bed, I look around my room at stuffed, untidy bookcases, at boxes full of old manuscripts, at pictures, at piles of books on the floor, and clothes I should have hung up. Hell, I’ll look at just about anything that captures my eye.
One recent day, I looked at the top of one of my bookcases. I saw a couple of small boxes holding financial statements and old contracts from publishers. I glanced at the 20 or so books filed on top of the case. I saw an Irish cap I bought a few months ago, a cap I love. I also saw a framed picture of me in the fifth-grade class in Our Lady of Peace School in Chicago.
When I looked at the cap, I wondered briefly – very briefly – if I’d live long enough to once again experience cold weather in South Florida. I wondered if I’d ever wear the cap again.
Then I looked at the old class picture. Instantly, I was back in the fifth grade, tiny and skinny, dressed in my light blue uniform shirt and dark blue tie decorated with embroidered letters reading "OLP." I closed my eyes for a moment and I was back in the classroom with its green chalkboard, huge crucifix, and Sister Maureen, as small as most students in the class, with a look, when angry, as terrifying as any monster in any movie.
I smelled the classroom. I looked around and saw Jimmy Ross and Mike Ryan and and Jimmy Flynn and I remembered our playing together in the street outside the school and remembered how Sister Maureen always sold candy in the classroom to raise money for the missions in Africa and I smiled and really felt good.
Forget the Irish cap. I was much more comfortable in my world of 50 years ago than in the real world of today when I try to imagine my future.
I told Lynne (she’s home from the hospital) about my feelings. We’re married 18 years now, our anniversary just three days ago. As we talked, we both realized how long it has been since we’ve sat and spoken, for any time at all, about our fears and hopes and wishes and our feelings.
It has been a long time, but it hasn’t really been intentional.
We’ve both been locked inside ourselves. Part of the locking having to do with the feelings we share, each of us, that the other, our spouse, is in enough pain without our adding any weight.
It’s not helped great deal by the physicality of our situation, me in bed for hours at a stretch, unable or unwilling to speak to anyone while Lynne’s awake, moving about, looking for company.
That situation is just not right, Lynne told me. I agreed. So we’re going to set at least a little time aside each day, time to sit and talk about the stuff that matters, not the bank account or the dinner recipe or what television to watch.
Instead, we’ll talk about how we feel, what we fear, what we welcome, that kind of thing. Wish us luck.
Oh, yes, when I told Lynne about my inability to imagine the future, any future, she gave me some advice.
Think first of tomorrow, she said. Have a hope for that next day, that tomorrow, a desire, a target, whatever. Make the hope or desire or whatever achievable. That way, there’s some satisfaction almost certainly in store.
At the same time, she said, have one goal a bit further out, maybe two months or four months or so, but within a very possibly achievable time. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Maybe a short trip to St. Augustine, the city we both love. Maybe a trip to hear an opera or visit a friend in Miami or who knows. Again, its something achievable, realistic, and therefore comfortable.
My short-term goal is simple. I’m back working again, writing a bit and editing a bit each and every day. It’s good. I like the feeling of still being worthy of something. It also makes me feel as if there’s some reason for me to look into the future.
My long-term goal is for Lynne and me to go up to our favorite city, to eat in one or two of St. Augustine’s justifiably famous restaurants, to visit one more time the Castillo de San Marcos on the waterfront and to walk along the narrow streets of the Old City past the tourist traps and gift shops.
Let me rephrase that. The real long-term goal is for us to take that trip after I’ve finished writing the two books I’m working on. and almost finished That would be a pretty good way to end my life.
I spend a lot of time in bed these days. Sometimes asleep, usually awake. Often, as I lay in bed, I look around my room at stuffed, untidy bookcases, at boxes full of old manuscripts, at pictures, at piles of books on the floor, and clothes I should have hung up. Hell, I’ll look at just about anything that captures my eye.
One recent day, I looked at the top of one of my bookcases. I saw a couple of small boxes holding financial statements and old contracts from publishers. I glanced at the 20 or so books filed on top of the case. I saw an Irish cap I bought a few months ago, a cap I love. I also saw a framed picture of me in the fifth-grade class in Our Lady of Peace School in Chicago.
When I looked at the cap, I wondered briefly – very briefly – if I’d live long enough to once again experience cold weather in South Florida. I wondered if I’d ever wear the cap again.
Then I looked at the old class picture. Instantly, I was back in the fifth grade, tiny and skinny, dressed in my light blue uniform shirt and dark blue tie decorated with embroidered letters reading "OLP." I closed my eyes for a moment and I was back in the classroom with its green chalkboard, huge crucifix, and Sister Maureen, as small as most students in the class, with a look, when angry, as terrifying as any monster in any movie.
I smelled the classroom. I looked around and saw Jimmy Ross and Mike Ryan and and Jimmy Flynn and I remembered our playing together in the street outside the school and remembered how Sister Maureen always sold candy in the classroom to raise money for the missions in Africa and I smiled and really felt good.
Forget the Irish cap. I was much more comfortable in my world of 50 years ago than in the real world of today when I try to imagine my future.
I told Lynne (she’s home from the hospital) about my feelings. We’re married 18 years now, our anniversary just three days ago. As we talked, we both realized how long it has been since we’ve sat and spoken, for any time at all, about our fears and hopes and wishes and our feelings.
It has been a long time, but it hasn’t really been intentional.
We’ve both been locked inside ourselves. Part of the locking having to do with the feelings we share, each of us, that the other, our spouse, is in enough pain without our adding any weight.
It’s not helped great deal by the physicality of our situation, me in bed for hours at a stretch, unable or unwilling to speak to anyone while Lynne’s awake, moving about, looking for company.
That situation is just not right, Lynne told me. I agreed. So we’re going to set at least a little time aside each day, time to sit and talk about the stuff that matters, not the bank account or the dinner recipe or what television to watch.
Instead, we’ll talk about how we feel, what we fear, what we welcome, that kind of thing. Wish us luck.
Oh, yes, when I told Lynne about my inability to imagine the future, any future, she gave me some advice.
Think first of tomorrow, she said. Have a hope for that next day, that tomorrow, a desire, a target, whatever. Make the hope or desire or whatever achievable. That way, there’s some satisfaction almost certainly in store.
At the same time, she said, have one goal a bit further out, maybe two months or four months or so, but within a very possibly achievable time. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Maybe a short trip to St. Augustine, the city we both love. Maybe a trip to hear an opera or visit a friend in Miami or who knows. Again, its something achievable, realistic, and therefore comfortable.
My short-term goal is simple. I’m back working again, writing a bit and editing a bit each and every day. It’s good. I like the feeling of still being worthy of something. It also makes me feel as if there’s some reason for me to look into the future.
My long-term goal is for Lynne and me to go up to our favorite city, to eat in one or two of St. Augustine’s justifiably famous restaurants, to visit one more time the Castillo de San Marcos on the waterfront and to walk along the narrow streets of the Old City past the tourist traps and gift shops.
Let me rephrase that. The real long-term goal is for us to take that trip after I’ve finished writing the two books I’m working on. and almost finished That would be a pretty good way to end my life.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Hopes
Yesterday, I watched – online – an interview Barbara Walters conducted on Patrick Swayze, the actor who is battling pancreatic cancer.
I've only seen a few minutes of Swayze as an actor. Lynne and I went to see "Ghost" the very first time we dated. We were shy - hard to believe, right? - and we were both embarassed by some scene I don't remember. I also don't remember Swayze as a particularly impressive actor. That may have more to do with my memory than with his talent, but it’s a fact. As a consequence, I was not much interested when I first saw a link to his interview. But for some reason, I clicked on the link. I’m glad I did.
Swayze has – like me – already outlived his prognosis. Like me, he has some goals he wants to accomplish before the cancer wins its fight, as it surely will. Like me, Swayze is questioning his faith but not abandoning it. He is feeling angry but hopeful – not for a cure, but for meaningful days. He wonders what is on the other side. He’s scared sometimes. Me too.
At one point in the interview, Walters asked him how long he thought he’d live. At first, Swayze was reluctant to answer. I understand that. After all, that’s a hell of a question to have to answer, isn’t it? Finally, though, he said he hoped to live five years, perhaps long enough for science to find a cure. Then he hedged his bet. He said "averages" gave him about two more years.
It would be wonderful if, somehow, some magic bullet was found to cure Swayze’s cancer – and mine. Meanwhile, he wants to work, to film a television series, to ride horses on his property out west. He hopes to spend some quality time with his loved ones. I hope he realizes all these goals.
I hope the same things for me. There’s a book I want to finish. I want to have a few good months with my wife. I want to hold my grandchildren and share some more stories with my good friend, Mark. I want to go to a few more meetings of the writer's group I've been part of for more than ten years. Maybe there’s some way I could take the helm of a small sailboat again, just for a few minutes. Or read another book that just knocks my socks off.
But there’s a problem with having a lot of hopes when you have cancer. That’s because this disease doesn’t care about the averages. A doctor, asked about Swayze and his illness, put it right. The cancer could kill Swayze quickly, at any time, he said. All it needs is an excuse.
This morning – January 10 – when I went online, I saw another link to a Swayze story. It seems that at about the same time that I was looking at his first interview, he was hospitalized. In the lexicon of cancer, his condition isn’t serious. He has pneumonia. That frequently happens as a side effect of chemotherapy because the same chemicals that fight cancer destroy a body’s ability to fight off infections.
That's a reminder, if one was needed, just how tenuous hopes have to be, how important it is not to link hapiness to specific goals. Sure, it’s wonderful to have a positive attitutude. It’s nice to have plans and hopes and goals but the truth is that the path any terminal cancer patient is on is full of tricky turns and unexpected dangers. There are some wonderful vistas to be seen, but the road can end at any moment.
I hope Swayze is okay. I hope he gets back to his goals. I hope I do, too.
I've only seen a few minutes of Swayze as an actor. Lynne and I went to see "Ghost" the very first time we dated. We were shy - hard to believe, right? - and we were both embarassed by some scene I don't remember. I also don't remember Swayze as a particularly impressive actor. That may have more to do with my memory than with his talent, but it’s a fact. As a consequence, I was not much interested when I first saw a link to his interview. But for some reason, I clicked on the link. I’m glad I did.
Swayze has – like me – already outlived his prognosis. Like me, he has some goals he wants to accomplish before the cancer wins its fight, as it surely will. Like me, Swayze is questioning his faith but not abandoning it. He is feeling angry but hopeful – not for a cure, but for meaningful days. He wonders what is on the other side. He’s scared sometimes. Me too.
At one point in the interview, Walters asked him how long he thought he’d live. At first, Swayze was reluctant to answer. I understand that. After all, that’s a hell of a question to have to answer, isn’t it? Finally, though, he said he hoped to live five years, perhaps long enough for science to find a cure. Then he hedged his bet. He said "averages" gave him about two more years.
It would be wonderful if, somehow, some magic bullet was found to cure Swayze’s cancer – and mine. Meanwhile, he wants to work, to film a television series, to ride horses on his property out west. He hopes to spend some quality time with his loved ones. I hope he realizes all these goals.
I hope the same things for me. There’s a book I want to finish. I want to have a few good months with my wife. I want to hold my grandchildren and share some more stories with my good friend, Mark. I want to go to a few more meetings of the writer's group I've been part of for more than ten years. Maybe there’s some way I could take the helm of a small sailboat again, just for a few minutes. Or read another book that just knocks my socks off.
But there’s a problem with having a lot of hopes when you have cancer. That’s because this disease doesn’t care about the averages. A doctor, asked about Swayze and his illness, put it right. The cancer could kill Swayze quickly, at any time, he said. All it needs is an excuse.
This morning – January 10 – when I went online, I saw another link to a Swayze story. It seems that at about the same time that I was looking at his first interview, he was hospitalized. In the lexicon of cancer, his condition isn’t serious. He has pneumonia. That frequently happens as a side effect of chemotherapy because the same chemicals that fight cancer destroy a body’s ability to fight off infections.
That's a reminder, if one was needed, just how tenuous hopes have to be, how important it is not to link hapiness to specific goals. Sure, it’s wonderful to have a positive attitutude. It’s nice to have plans and hopes and goals but the truth is that the path any terminal cancer patient is on is full of tricky turns and unexpected dangers. There are some wonderful vistas to be seen, but the road can end at any moment.
I hope Swayze is okay. I hope he gets back to his goals. I hope I do, too.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Reading
This is the first Christmas I can remember without any gift-wrapped books under the tree with little stickers on them proclaiming they were for me. Instead, I got a couple of gift cards I can use to buy books at the local B&N.
There’s a reason for that. I don’t read the way I used to and the people most likely to buy me books are aware that my reading habits have changed. I used to read nothing but history and biography. I loved books about Elizabethan England, the reign of Henry Tudor, the settlement of pre-colonial America, Teddy or Franklin Roosevelt, and old ships or famous mariners.
With that range of interests it was always pretty easy to find me a book or two or three.
I don’t read history any more. Or biographies. So buying me a book is a bit more difficult.
When I first stopped reading history, I turned my attention to memoirs. I read Pete Hamill’s A Drinker’s Life; and Tweak, written by Nic Sheff, a methamphetamine addict.
I devoured books by Augusten Burroughs and David Sedaris and James Frey even though I was savvy enough not to believe Frey’s words because I’ve been where he claimed to be and I knew where he was talking about just ain’t the way he described it.
I read Smashed by Koren Zailckas and the beautifully-titled Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn.
These are tales written by the discarded, the addicted, the harmed, and those much less than perfect. Obviously, they each achieved some measure of stability, at least enough to put pen to paper. So each story is a success story in some way.
Each of these stories, and the others I’ve been reading, starts in pain and ends in hope. Each is the story of a mountain climbed or some difficult path walked to a better place. And that’s wonderful.
Lately, though, I’ve been reading Charles Bukowski’s books: Ham on Rye, and Women, and Hollywood, and Pulp, and others. Bukowski, for those who don’t know his work, is the writer whose story was told, at least in part, in the movie Barfly.
His books are different. They’re not about climbing some spiritual mountain or walking some difficult path to overcome an addiction or a dreadful childhood or bipolar illness or whatever. There’s no real salvation in Bukowski’s books. Instead, they tell how he embraced his need and his pain and his rage and somehow managed to co-exist with them and even to profit from the experience.
So why am I reading this stuff?
Thank God my experience has taught me the truth about myself. I know that if I tried to co-exist with my own long-acknowledged alcoholism the way Bukowski did, I’d be lost with the first drink. I’ve accepted that truth and don’t fight it any longer.
I envy Bukowski though, though he died a few years back, at the age of 74. I don’t envy his ability to drink and write and manage to eke out an existence but his ability to embrace his demons without flinching and turn that embrace into something positive.
Because not all demons can be overcome. Not all mountains can be climbed and not all difficult paths lead to happiness. In fact, many difficult paths lead only to more difficulties.
I’ve faced a truth other than the truth that I can’t drink in safety. I’ve faced the truth that I’m dying. What I want to do is embrace this damned cancer the way Bukowski embraced his drunkenness and then turn it into something positive.
At least that’s what I’m trying to do.
There’s a reason for that. I don’t read the way I used to and the people most likely to buy me books are aware that my reading habits have changed. I used to read nothing but history and biography. I loved books about Elizabethan England, the reign of Henry Tudor, the settlement of pre-colonial America, Teddy or Franklin Roosevelt, and old ships or famous mariners.
With that range of interests it was always pretty easy to find me a book or two or three.
I don’t read history any more. Or biographies. So buying me a book is a bit more difficult.
When I first stopped reading history, I turned my attention to memoirs. I read Pete Hamill’s A Drinker’s Life; and Tweak, written by Nic Sheff, a methamphetamine addict.
I devoured books by Augusten Burroughs and David Sedaris and James Frey even though I was savvy enough not to believe Frey’s words because I’ve been where he claimed to be and I knew where he was talking about just ain’t the way he described it.
I read Smashed by Koren Zailckas and the beautifully-titled Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn.
These are tales written by the discarded, the addicted, the harmed, and those much less than perfect. Obviously, they each achieved some measure of stability, at least enough to put pen to paper. So each story is a success story in some way.
Each of these stories, and the others I’ve been reading, starts in pain and ends in hope. Each is the story of a mountain climbed or some difficult path walked to a better place. And that’s wonderful.
Lately, though, I’ve been reading Charles Bukowski’s books: Ham on Rye, and Women, and Hollywood, and Pulp, and others. Bukowski, for those who don’t know his work, is the writer whose story was told, at least in part, in the movie Barfly.
His books are different. They’re not about climbing some spiritual mountain or walking some difficult path to overcome an addiction or a dreadful childhood or bipolar illness or whatever. There’s no real salvation in Bukowski’s books. Instead, they tell how he embraced his need and his pain and his rage and somehow managed to co-exist with them and even to profit from the experience.
So why am I reading this stuff?
Thank God my experience has taught me the truth about myself. I know that if I tried to co-exist with my own long-acknowledged alcoholism the way Bukowski did, I’d be lost with the first drink. I’ve accepted that truth and don’t fight it any longer.
I envy Bukowski though, though he died a few years back, at the age of 74. I don’t envy his ability to drink and write and manage to eke out an existence but his ability to embrace his demons without flinching and turn that embrace into something positive.
Because not all demons can be overcome. Not all mountains can be climbed and not all difficult paths lead to happiness. In fact, many difficult paths lead only to more difficulties.
I’ve faced a truth other than the truth that I can’t drink in safety. I’ve faced the truth that I’m dying. What I want to do is embrace this damned cancer the way Bukowski embraced his drunkenness and then turn it into something positive.
At least that’s what I’m trying to do.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Television
I spend a great deal of time in bed these days. I used to spend much of my time in bed reading. I read history and memoirs and a little bit of fiction. Though I’ve never wanted to live in New York City, I’ve always enjoyed reading The New Yorker magazine, The New York Review of Books, and the editorial section of The New York Times. In a normal week, before I got sick, I’d read two books, perhaps three.
That’s changed now. I just can’t read as much as I have for most of my life. I’m too tired. I hold a book on my belly as I always did, I start to read, and I nod off. I hold a magazine or newspaper section, read a couple of paragraphs and wake, later, with the magazine or paper over my face.
I miss the reading.
As a consequence, I find I’m spending much of my time watching television. In fact, the television in my room is almost always on. I’m either watching some movie or show I’ve already seen or studiously not watching some movie or show I’ve already seen. Either way, the television takes up a lot of space in my life. Most nights, Lynne comes in my room and switches the set off after my pills have started working and I’m asleep.
When I was a boy, my parents, who were far from wealthy, always had money to buy me one book a month at Marshall Field’s Department Store in the Chicago Loop. We take the elevated downtown, look for bargains in the basement, eat a fried hot dog for lunch and, always, stop in the book department on the fourth floor. That’s where my mother, a teacher and ultimately a school librarian, handed me a book about the history of the old west and teased me with the idea that someday I might be a writer.
Books were respected in our house. They were kept in bookcases that lined one wall in the living room and the bottom half of a wall that that ran along a hall almost the entire length of a three-bedroom apartment. To crack a book’s spine or dog-ear a page was a criminal offense.
Television wasn’t respected. I had to sneak to a neighbor’s house to see Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob and Clarabell and Princess Summerfall Winterspring on screen about the size of postcard. On weekends, we’d often go to my grandfather’s house to visit old Mike Molloy and my uncle Kevin and there we’d see wrestling and Ed Sullivan and the Jackie Gleason and Art Carney and Fulton Sheen and my mom and dad would watch as raptly as anybody else in the room. When we got home, though, the television went back to being the "idiot box."
Now, my mother lives alone. My dad is dead. My brothers and I can visit only so often. The television in her house is her constant companion, turned loud enough for her to avoid having to read lips. She watches Judge Judy and Flip this House and reruns of Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy show.
Don’t get me wrong. Books are still important to my mother and to me. But it’s different. Television is no longer the idiot box in either my mother’s house or in mine. The television provides an easy way to disconnect, to free the mind. And sometimes – in my case or my mother’s – that freedom from thought is as refreshing as a good read.
That’s changed now. I just can’t read as much as I have for most of my life. I’m too tired. I hold a book on my belly as I always did, I start to read, and I nod off. I hold a magazine or newspaper section, read a couple of paragraphs and wake, later, with the magazine or paper over my face.
I miss the reading.
As a consequence, I find I’m spending much of my time watching television. In fact, the television in my room is almost always on. I’m either watching some movie or show I’ve already seen or studiously not watching some movie or show I’ve already seen. Either way, the television takes up a lot of space in my life. Most nights, Lynne comes in my room and switches the set off after my pills have started working and I’m asleep.
When I was a boy, my parents, who were far from wealthy, always had money to buy me one book a month at Marshall Field’s Department Store in the Chicago Loop. We take the elevated downtown, look for bargains in the basement, eat a fried hot dog for lunch and, always, stop in the book department on the fourth floor. That’s where my mother, a teacher and ultimately a school librarian, handed me a book about the history of the old west and teased me with the idea that someday I might be a writer.
Books were respected in our house. They were kept in bookcases that lined one wall in the living room and the bottom half of a wall that that ran along a hall almost the entire length of a three-bedroom apartment. To crack a book’s spine or dog-ear a page was a criminal offense.
Television wasn’t respected. I had to sneak to a neighbor’s house to see Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob and Clarabell and Princess Summerfall Winterspring on screen about the size of postcard. On weekends, we’d often go to my grandfather’s house to visit old Mike Molloy and my uncle Kevin and there we’d see wrestling and Ed Sullivan and the Jackie Gleason and Art Carney and Fulton Sheen and my mom and dad would watch as raptly as anybody else in the room. When we got home, though, the television went back to being the "idiot box."
Now, my mother lives alone. My dad is dead. My brothers and I can visit only so often. The television in her house is her constant companion, turned loud enough for her to avoid having to read lips. She watches Judge Judy and Flip this House and reruns of Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy show.
Don’t get me wrong. Books are still important to my mother and to me. But it’s different. Television is no longer the idiot box in either my mother’s house or in mine. The television provides an easy way to disconnect, to free the mind. And sometimes – in my case or my mother’s – that freedom from thought is as refreshing as a good read.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Critique
I spent last Sunday with the critique group I belong to. At our meetings, we each read – if we’re ready – a chapter or sample of our current project. After we read, the other writers critique. Gently. We have a tendency to say things like, "Have you considered…" or "Maybe you could think about…" Even the most negative of comments are prefaced by a compliment of some sort.
We never get nasty.
With this group, that’s easy to do. There’s always something good to say about everything that’s read. That’s not always the case. In the past, I’ve been in groups where the writing was bad and personalities clashed. It could be brutal.
Once, I submitted a couple of sample chapters of a novel to an editor at a major publishing house. I’d been advised to mail the chapters off and given the editor’s name by an agent at a writing workshop I attended. With that support, I expected a positive response, or at least a friendly one.
Instead, the editor told me my ear for dialogue was abysmal and that he could hardly finish reading the first page of the manuscript. It’s taken me a long time to get over those comments, even though I’ve published about ten books since that editor passed his judgments.
I enjoy the critique group I’m in now, though I can’t always make the meetings or stay very long when I do. These men and women have often given me what I needed in terms of encouragement when the going got tough. Now they let me know how much they care just be being there for me.
And, of course, there’s Sylvia’s Irish soda bread. She gave me three more loaves, already sliced, still warm from the oven. I’ve started buying exotic preserves to go with her home-baked bread. Peach and blackberry and pure apple. It’s wonderful.
It’s funny how little it can take to make me happy these days. Or how little it can take to make me miserable.
The critique group and my friends and Sylvia’s soda bread remind me of what’s important.
We never get nasty.
With this group, that’s easy to do. There’s always something good to say about everything that’s read. That’s not always the case. In the past, I’ve been in groups where the writing was bad and personalities clashed. It could be brutal.
Once, I submitted a couple of sample chapters of a novel to an editor at a major publishing house. I’d been advised to mail the chapters off and given the editor’s name by an agent at a writing workshop I attended. With that support, I expected a positive response, or at least a friendly one.
Instead, the editor told me my ear for dialogue was abysmal and that he could hardly finish reading the first page of the manuscript. It’s taken me a long time to get over those comments, even though I’ve published about ten books since that editor passed his judgments.
I enjoy the critique group I’m in now, though I can’t always make the meetings or stay very long when I do. These men and women have often given me what I needed in terms of encouragement when the going got tough. Now they let me know how much they care just be being there for me.
And, of course, there’s Sylvia’s Irish soda bread. She gave me three more loaves, already sliced, still warm from the oven. I’ve started buying exotic preserves to go with her home-baked bread. Peach and blackberry and pure apple. It’s wonderful.
It’s funny how little it can take to make me happy these days. Or how little it can take to make me miserable.
The critique group and my friends and Sylvia’s soda bread remind me of what’s important.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Good Day
It’s amazing. Some days are bad. Very bad. And then, just when I start to think all my days are going to be bad, I have a day that’s so good it can hardly be believed.
Today is a day like that. Good, I mean. Wednesday, two days ago, was one of the bad ones.
On Wednesday, I had chemo. I was only able to walk about 50 yards along the sidewalk leading from the hospital’s front door to the parking lot before I had to sit down and rest. I was nauseous on the drive home, so much so that I pulled off the road to puke. I spent the rest of the day in bed except for a few minutes I devoted to working on that day’s entry for this blog.
Yesterday was so-so. But that’s okay because it turned out to be just a transition.
Today’s been great. I woke up feeling good. No nausea. I had some energy. The drive to the VA hospital was pleasant: traffic was light, it was cool, the sun was just coming up. The crossword puzzle I brought with me was not quite impenetrable and I was called on time for my appointment.
Linda Vesley, my therapist, was, as always, wonderful and understanding. I enjoy the time I spend with her. She helps, she's funny and smart, and great company. The stuff we talked about was sobering, but the session was pleasant.
The drive home was good. The Symphony Orchestra of Ireland was on the radio playing Mozart. I didn’t have to vomit.
Now I'm up from my nap. I’m going to write a bit and I expect the writing to go well. I’ll read and enjoy what I read. There won’t be any bills in the mail or, if there are, I won’t open them. I expect to eat something unhealthy but enjoyable and then waste my time watching a movie. Lynne and I will not argue about money or anything else.
I’m not going to complain, today, or try not to, because this is one of those rare days when I feel happy to be alive.
Many people who know me well believe I’m a curmudgeon, a grouch, a cynic.
And I am, kind of. Or maybe the problem is that days like this don't come along all that often when cancer's in the picture.
Anyway, I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Today is a day like that. Good, I mean. Wednesday, two days ago, was one of the bad ones.
On Wednesday, I had chemo. I was only able to walk about 50 yards along the sidewalk leading from the hospital’s front door to the parking lot before I had to sit down and rest. I was nauseous on the drive home, so much so that I pulled off the road to puke. I spent the rest of the day in bed except for a few minutes I devoted to working on that day’s entry for this blog.
Yesterday was so-so. But that’s okay because it turned out to be just a transition.
Today’s been great. I woke up feeling good. No nausea. I had some energy. The drive to the VA hospital was pleasant: traffic was light, it was cool, the sun was just coming up. The crossword puzzle I brought with me was not quite impenetrable and I was called on time for my appointment.
Linda Vesley, my therapist, was, as always, wonderful and understanding. I enjoy the time I spend with her. She helps, she's funny and smart, and great company. The stuff we talked about was sobering, but the session was pleasant.
The drive home was good. The Symphony Orchestra of Ireland was on the radio playing Mozart. I didn’t have to vomit.
Now I'm up from my nap. I’m going to write a bit and I expect the writing to go well. I’ll read and enjoy what I read. There won’t be any bills in the mail or, if there are, I won’t open them. I expect to eat something unhealthy but enjoyable and then waste my time watching a movie. Lynne and I will not argue about money or anything else.
I’m not going to complain, today, or try not to, because this is one of those rare days when I feel happy to be alive.
Many people who know me well believe I’m a curmudgeon, a grouch, a cynic.
And I am, kind of. Or maybe the problem is that days like this don't come along all that often when cancer's in the picture.
Anyway, I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Mark
I had breakfast with one of my favorite people yesterday morning. Mark and I have been friends for three decades. It’s a comfortable friendship. We meet every few weeks to catch up on the news, talk about our families, about politics and movies and books, and share our ideas. We enjoy the time we spend in each other’s company.
Like all friendships, ours has been transformed over the years, shaped and reshaped by our changing circumstances. At first, he was my boss, but even then we recognized shared ideas and ideals and that made us close. He’s been a mentor and a cheerleader. He was best man when Lynne and I got married. He stayed my friend even when I disappointed him. He has protected and aided me in a hundred different ways since I’ve been diagnosed.
During these years, we’ve shared the joy we find in writing. Mark is a successful businessman. He’s made a more-than-comfortable living as a business writer and a ton of money creating direct marketing copy. But he’s happiest, I know, when he writes his poetry and short fiction.
And he’s good. He’s one of the best writers I’ve ever read. Some of his lines are good enough to make my breath hurt. And I let him know that as often as I can. But I also tell him (and so does Lynne, who has edited much of his work) when he’s off target.
And he lets me know what he thinks of my work – good and bad. And in that, he has made me a better writer than I ever thought I could be. In fact, Mark edited the early chapters of my book about the Sea Venture, chopping out what I later knew was a major flaw.
It was Mark, too, who first encouraged me to write a memoir. He told me it was a worthy project and I believed him. So I wrote my story and he read it and said it’s not bad.
And now he’s encouraged me to write a novel.
I’ve had one inside me for a while and now seems to be as good a time as ever to put it on paper. I can write without worrying about hurting anybody’s feelings and without worrying about selling the book because, hey, I’ll be gone, right? There’s no real risk of failure.
That’s freeing.
Anyway, when we walked to our cars after breakfast yesterday, I gave him the first chapter to read. Then I started to drive away while he sat in his car for a moment. I didn’t know it, but he was looking at the first page of the manuscript. He drives faster than I do, so he was able to catch up with me about a block away, his lights flashing and horn blaring.
"I read the first paragraph," he hollered when he pulled up next to me and rolled his window down. "I read the first paragraph and it’s outrageous!"
I smiled. He doesn’t throw praise around just to hear his own voice.
"Keep it up!" he said.
So now I have a new project, just when I needed one. Who wouldn’t want Mark for a friend? I hope he knows how much his friendship means to me.
Like all friendships, ours has been transformed over the years, shaped and reshaped by our changing circumstances. At first, he was my boss, but even then we recognized shared ideas and ideals and that made us close. He’s been a mentor and a cheerleader. He was best man when Lynne and I got married. He stayed my friend even when I disappointed him. He has protected and aided me in a hundred different ways since I’ve been diagnosed.
During these years, we’ve shared the joy we find in writing. Mark is a successful businessman. He’s made a more-than-comfortable living as a business writer and a ton of money creating direct marketing copy. But he’s happiest, I know, when he writes his poetry and short fiction.
And he’s good. He’s one of the best writers I’ve ever read. Some of his lines are good enough to make my breath hurt. And I let him know that as often as I can. But I also tell him (and so does Lynne, who has edited much of his work) when he’s off target.
And he lets me know what he thinks of my work – good and bad. And in that, he has made me a better writer than I ever thought I could be. In fact, Mark edited the early chapters of my book about the Sea Venture, chopping out what I later knew was a major flaw.
It was Mark, too, who first encouraged me to write a memoir. He told me it was a worthy project and I believed him. So I wrote my story and he read it and said it’s not bad.
And now he’s encouraged me to write a novel.
I’ve had one inside me for a while and now seems to be as good a time as ever to put it on paper. I can write without worrying about hurting anybody’s feelings and without worrying about selling the book because, hey, I’ll be gone, right? There’s no real risk of failure.
That’s freeing.
Anyway, when we walked to our cars after breakfast yesterday, I gave him the first chapter to read. Then I started to drive away while he sat in his car for a moment. I didn’t know it, but he was looking at the first page of the manuscript. He drives faster than I do, so he was able to catch up with me about a block away, his lights flashing and horn blaring.
"I read the first paragraph," he hollered when he pulled up next to me and rolled his window down. "I read the first paragraph and it’s outrageous!"
I smiled. He doesn’t throw praise around just to hear his own voice.
"Keep it up!" he said.
So now I have a new project, just when I needed one. Who wouldn’t want Mark for a friend? I hope he knows how much his friendship means to me.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Jim
I was feeling grouchy when I woke this morning. I didn’t sleep well and I’m still having some chemotherapy-related problems. I lay in bed looking at the alarm clock wondering why I should bother to get out of bed.
What the hell, I thought. It’s just going to be more of the same. Get up, get tired, go to bed, get up again, write for a while, then get tired again. What’s the point?
Sometimes that’s the way I feel. I have to force myself to write. When I write, nothing seems to work out. The thought of eating is enough to make me gag. I’m impatient with my wife, who doesn’t deserve it. If I had a dog, I’d kick him. Or, with my luck, he’d bite me.
That’s the way it goes.
But I forced myself to get up and dressed. I had to. I had an appointment with my therapist at the VA, a block of time when I could go tell her – her name is Linda – how miserable I was, not so she could cure me but simply because I need someone to hear me moan and groan.
Before I headed for the hospital, I stopped by the fellowship meeting I go to each morning. The meeting hadn’t started, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and said hello to a couple of acquaintances. I lied when somebody I don’t really like about asked me how I was feeling. "Wonderful," I said. "Everything is just hunky-dory." I didn’t care if he heard what I muttered about him under my breath.
After I walked out, I sat in my car for a moment drinking my coffee. As I was sitting there, a white car I recognized pulled into the space next to me. It was a friend who just came down here from New York to spend a couple of weeks in his vacation home.
I was glad to see him. About six months ago, he was hospitalized with kidney failure. I’d been in touch, so I knew he’d recovered, but this was the first time he’d been in town since then.
Jim, that’s his name, is about as different from me as it’s possible to be. He’s big and I’m not. He’s serious and I’m not. He’s a conservative Republican and I’m a liberal Democrat. He was an army ranger in Vietnam while I was demonstrating against the war on the streets of Chicago. He was a command-level police officer in New York City while I was…well, you get the idea.
You’d think we wouldn’t get along, wouldn’t you? But we do. He and I have only known each other about three years, but when he’s here I see him almost every day and when he’s up north, we stay in e-mail contact. We’re comfortable in each other’s company.
There is, though, another area of disagreement. He’s a hard-core Roman Catholic and I’m a used-to-be Catholic. He goes to mass a couple of times a week. I drop into the Episcopal Church a couple of times a year.
Jim really believes in the power of prayer. I pray, but it’s more like an insurance policy for me. I’d hate to die and find out I was wrong.
Jim told me a long time ago that he would pray for me every day. When I heard he was sick, I started praying for him every evening. My prayer probably isn’t as formal as his, but I don’t think that much matters. I believe God doesn’t worry too much about formalities and if He did he’d probably be too busy to help Jim or me.
Anyway, when Jim saw me this morning he laughed. "I see we’re both still on this side of the grass," he said. "it looks like the prayers are working."
I guess that’s right. And that makes me happy. As soon as I saw him, I was able to smile. The day was suddenly made better.
Friendship is like that, isn’t it?
What the hell, I thought. It’s just going to be more of the same. Get up, get tired, go to bed, get up again, write for a while, then get tired again. What’s the point?
Sometimes that’s the way I feel. I have to force myself to write. When I write, nothing seems to work out. The thought of eating is enough to make me gag. I’m impatient with my wife, who doesn’t deserve it. If I had a dog, I’d kick him. Or, with my luck, he’d bite me.
That’s the way it goes.
But I forced myself to get up and dressed. I had to. I had an appointment with my therapist at the VA, a block of time when I could go tell her – her name is Linda – how miserable I was, not so she could cure me but simply because I need someone to hear me moan and groan.
Before I headed for the hospital, I stopped by the fellowship meeting I go to each morning. The meeting hadn’t started, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and said hello to a couple of acquaintances. I lied when somebody I don’t really like about asked me how I was feeling. "Wonderful," I said. "Everything is just hunky-dory." I didn’t care if he heard what I muttered about him under my breath.
After I walked out, I sat in my car for a moment drinking my coffee. As I was sitting there, a white car I recognized pulled into the space next to me. It was a friend who just came down here from New York to spend a couple of weeks in his vacation home.
I was glad to see him. About six months ago, he was hospitalized with kidney failure. I’d been in touch, so I knew he’d recovered, but this was the first time he’d been in town since then.
Jim, that’s his name, is about as different from me as it’s possible to be. He’s big and I’m not. He’s serious and I’m not. He’s a conservative Republican and I’m a liberal Democrat. He was an army ranger in Vietnam while I was demonstrating against the war on the streets of Chicago. He was a command-level police officer in New York City while I was…well, you get the idea.
You’d think we wouldn’t get along, wouldn’t you? But we do. He and I have only known each other about three years, but when he’s here I see him almost every day and when he’s up north, we stay in e-mail contact. We’re comfortable in each other’s company.
There is, though, another area of disagreement. He’s a hard-core Roman Catholic and I’m a used-to-be Catholic. He goes to mass a couple of times a week. I drop into the Episcopal Church a couple of times a year.
Jim really believes in the power of prayer. I pray, but it’s more like an insurance policy for me. I’d hate to die and find out I was wrong.
Jim told me a long time ago that he would pray for me every day. When I heard he was sick, I started praying for him every evening. My prayer probably isn’t as formal as his, but I don’t think that much matters. I believe God doesn’t worry too much about formalities and if He did he’d probably be too busy to help Jim or me.
Anyway, when Jim saw me this morning he laughed. "I see we’re both still on this side of the grass," he said. "it looks like the prayers are working."
I guess that’s right. And that makes me happy. As soon as I saw him, I was able to smile. The day was suddenly made better.
Friendship is like that, isn’t it?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Life Story
I’ve been working on a memoir for about two years writing in roughly two-hour chunks as often as I’ve felt up to it. I wrote it through, then rewrote and rewrote again. Now the writing is pretty much done. My wife edited it and now a friend of mine, himself a fine writer, is helping me polish.
I don’t know if it will sell or if anybody outside my immediate circle will ever read it. I hope so. I think any writer who is content writing into a black hole is probably not much of a writer.
I often tell a story about a famous writer at a cocktail party. I’m not sure who it was, though I usually say it was Faulkner. Anyway, this famous writer was at a cocktail party when a woman approached. "I should write my life story," she said. Every writer has heard that line. "I should write my life story, it’s really interesting."
"Madam," the famous author said, "most people think their life stories would make a good book. In truth, most life stories don’t even make interesting sentences."
I agree with that idea, so I was hesitant to write my own story. It does seem a bit presumptuous, doesn’t it? But a couple of people who work in publishing suggested I give it a whirl, so I decided I would. I’m calling my memoir Low Bottom Alky. That’s a term for alcoholics who end up on the streets, losing just about everything. The book is really the story of my drinking career and what has happened since I got sober. The first part of the book is a lot longer than the second.
I sent the book to my editor-friend yesterday. All except the last chapter. That’s the chapter that tells of this current bout with cancer and how I’ve dealt with the disease. I’ve written that chapter but I’m just not ready to let it go.
You see, I’m really not sure how to end the story. Oh, I’m pretty confident that I won’t start drinking again. That just doesn’t seem to be much of an option. But beyond that, I’ve no idea what will happen.
I’ve written more than a dozen biographies for young adult readers. I never wanted to write about someone still living. I’ve always been afraid that as soon as I wrote the life story of some famous, living person they’d do something terrible that made the book worthless.
Years ago, I met Marjory Stoneman Douglas, the famous environmentalist. She was 99 years old at the time and she impressed me so much I determined to write her life story. I didn’t want to start, though, until she died. I don’t know for sure what mischief I thought a centenarian could get into, but I didn’t want to take the chance. And, darn, she just kept living and living and living. She didn’t die until she was 107. As soon as I saw her obituary, I started writing.
The end of her book was, I thought, particularly moving. I hope the end of my memoir is as well. I just don’t know when and how it will come, do I? I may live for another two years. I may not make it until the new president gives his State of the Union Address.
Hey, there could be a miracle, right? I don’t think that's going to happen, but it is possible.
Wouldn’t that be something to write about?
I don’t know if it will sell or if anybody outside my immediate circle will ever read it. I hope so. I think any writer who is content writing into a black hole is probably not much of a writer.
I often tell a story about a famous writer at a cocktail party. I’m not sure who it was, though I usually say it was Faulkner. Anyway, this famous writer was at a cocktail party when a woman approached. "I should write my life story," she said. Every writer has heard that line. "I should write my life story, it’s really interesting."
"Madam," the famous author said, "most people think their life stories would make a good book. In truth, most life stories don’t even make interesting sentences."
I agree with that idea, so I was hesitant to write my own story. It does seem a bit presumptuous, doesn’t it? But a couple of people who work in publishing suggested I give it a whirl, so I decided I would. I’m calling my memoir Low Bottom Alky. That’s a term for alcoholics who end up on the streets, losing just about everything. The book is really the story of my drinking career and what has happened since I got sober. The first part of the book is a lot longer than the second.
I sent the book to my editor-friend yesterday. All except the last chapter. That’s the chapter that tells of this current bout with cancer and how I’ve dealt with the disease. I’ve written that chapter but I’m just not ready to let it go.
You see, I’m really not sure how to end the story. Oh, I’m pretty confident that I won’t start drinking again. That just doesn’t seem to be much of an option. But beyond that, I’ve no idea what will happen.
I’ve written more than a dozen biographies for young adult readers. I never wanted to write about someone still living. I’ve always been afraid that as soon as I wrote the life story of some famous, living person they’d do something terrible that made the book worthless.
Years ago, I met Marjory Stoneman Douglas, the famous environmentalist. She was 99 years old at the time and she impressed me so much I determined to write her life story. I didn’t want to start, though, until she died. I don’t know for sure what mischief I thought a centenarian could get into, but I didn’t want to take the chance. And, darn, she just kept living and living and living. She didn’t die until she was 107. As soon as I saw her obituary, I started writing.
The end of her book was, I thought, particularly moving. I hope the end of my memoir is as well. I just don’t know when and how it will come, do I? I may live for another two years. I may not make it until the new president gives his State of the Union Address.
Hey, there could be a miracle, right? I don’t think that's going to happen, but it is possible.
Wouldn’t that be something to write about?
Monday, September 29, 2008
Soda Bread
I’ve been part of a writers’ critique group for a dozen years or more. There are half-dozen of us, give or take one or two, depending on our schedules. We meet once a month, always at someone’s home, and read and critique some of our recent work.
Sometimes it’s not a lot of fun to be part of a group like this. Egos can clash. Feelings can be hurt. If, as sometimes happens, you’re forced to sit and listen to really terrible writing at every meeting, violence may ensue.
I’m lucky. The group I’m in is comprised of writers who’ve already published or who deserve publication. We’re good for each other.
I haven’t been able to attend every meeting over the last year or so. Sometimes chemo has gotten in the way and sometimes I just haven’t been up to it. But these friends have steadily let me know of their love, with phone calls and e-mails.
I went to a critique group meeting yesterday. There were only a few of us there: Sylvia and Linda and Donna and Peter and me. I was asked to read first. So I did. A couple of sections of the memoir I’m working on. And then we talked. Sylvia told me how much she’d learned about me by reading this blog and by hearing parts of my story. Donna and Linda and Peter agreed. They told me they were happy I was finally opening myself up a bit.
I know I’ve spent most of my life not disclosing anything real about myself. Some of that is cultural. Irish men aren’t known for sober displays of emotionalism. It’s easier to hide behind a façade of toughness or to tell a joke or sing a song or just act as if it – whatever it is – doesn’t really matter.
Some of it is because there’s some stuff that’s always been too painful or embarrasing.
But I realized as we talked yesterday that I was glad I’d found a way to open up. This is new for me, but it’s okay. It’s not so bad having people know how I feel, that I’m afraid or sad or happy or whatever. As important as these people – Sylvia and Peter and Donna and Linda – have been to me they’re more important now.
We snack at these meetings. Yesterday, there was cheese and fruit and crackers. Since it was Linda’s birthday, there was a cake. And before I left, Sylvia gave me three small loaves of Irish soda bread.
I’d never eaten soda bread until I met Sylvia, who’s from Ireland. My mother didn’t bake much. Only an infrequent pie or one of her noteworthy cakes that always seemed to be listing slightly to port or starboard after they were iced. She didn’t bake bread because that wasn’t something one did with one’s rare leisure time. When she was a girl, baking bread was a time-consuming and necessary chore. Buying bread already sliced from a bakery was, for her, the beginning of women’s liberation.
Anyway, I’m not used to soda bread, but I love it. Served with what the Irish call a thick "lashing" of butter it’s good enough to make me close my eyes. I had some this morning for breakfast. And as I ate it, I thought of the group and of how lucky I am to have these friends and of how it’s really okay with me that they know more about me than they used to.
Sometimes it’s not a lot of fun to be part of a group like this. Egos can clash. Feelings can be hurt. If, as sometimes happens, you’re forced to sit and listen to really terrible writing at every meeting, violence may ensue.
I’m lucky. The group I’m in is comprised of writers who’ve already published or who deserve publication. We’re good for each other.
I haven’t been able to attend every meeting over the last year or so. Sometimes chemo has gotten in the way and sometimes I just haven’t been up to it. But these friends have steadily let me know of their love, with phone calls and e-mails.
I went to a critique group meeting yesterday. There were only a few of us there: Sylvia and Linda and Donna and Peter and me. I was asked to read first. So I did. A couple of sections of the memoir I’m working on. And then we talked. Sylvia told me how much she’d learned about me by reading this blog and by hearing parts of my story. Donna and Linda and Peter agreed. They told me they were happy I was finally opening myself up a bit.
I know I’ve spent most of my life not disclosing anything real about myself. Some of that is cultural. Irish men aren’t known for sober displays of emotionalism. It’s easier to hide behind a façade of toughness or to tell a joke or sing a song or just act as if it – whatever it is – doesn’t really matter.
Some of it is because there’s some stuff that’s always been too painful or embarrasing.
But I realized as we talked yesterday that I was glad I’d found a way to open up. This is new for me, but it’s okay. It’s not so bad having people know how I feel, that I’m afraid or sad or happy or whatever. As important as these people – Sylvia and Peter and Donna and Linda – have been to me they’re more important now.
We snack at these meetings. Yesterday, there was cheese and fruit and crackers. Since it was Linda’s birthday, there was a cake. And before I left, Sylvia gave me three small loaves of Irish soda bread.
I’d never eaten soda bread until I met Sylvia, who’s from Ireland. My mother didn’t bake much. Only an infrequent pie or one of her noteworthy cakes that always seemed to be listing slightly to port or starboard after they were iced. She didn’t bake bread because that wasn’t something one did with one’s rare leisure time. When she was a girl, baking bread was a time-consuming and necessary chore. Buying bread already sliced from a bakery was, for her, the beginning of women’s liberation.
Anyway, I’m not used to soda bread, but I love it. Served with what the Irish call a thick "lashing" of butter it’s good enough to make me close my eyes. I had some this morning for breakfast. And as I ate it, I thought of the group and of how lucky I am to have these friends and of how it’s really okay with me that they know more about me than they used to.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The View
My wife and I are fortunate. We live in an apartment overlooking the Lake Worth Lagoon, in Florida. The lagoon is part of the Intracoastal Waterway on Florida’s east coast. When we look out the sliding-glass door that serves as the eastern wall of our living room, we can see the lagoon and beyond that the barrier island just south of Palm Beach. By straining just a bit we can see, beyond that narrow island, the vast sweep of the Atlantic Ocean.
People travel hundreds, often thousands of miles and spend a lot of money to see the view we can see every day of the year. The few visitors we have always, or almost always, stop to look out the window, remark about the beautiful view.
I’m spoiled.
I’m so accustomed to the view that days or weeks go by without my looking out the window. I walk across the living room with my eyes open but unseeing. In the three years we’ve had this apartment I’ve only sat on the balcony outside that sliding glass door, looking to the east, a half-dozen times, no more than that.
That’s a shame.
Before I got sick, I used to be too busy. For months and months I was too busy to look out the window. I sat at a computer day after day writing an average of 2,000 words each day. A million words every 18 months, give or take 100,000 words or so.
Now I can barely stand to work more than a couple of hours at a time. I’m just too tired. And still I have to remind myself to look out the window.
This morning, when I took the time to look I saw an osprey soaring right at the level of our sixth-floor apartment.
I’m going to look more often. I promised myself. Why not? I can’t work so I may as well enjoy myself.
People travel hundreds, often thousands of miles and spend a lot of money to see the view we can see every day of the year. The few visitors we have always, or almost always, stop to look out the window, remark about the beautiful view.
I’m spoiled.
I’m so accustomed to the view that days or weeks go by without my looking out the window. I walk across the living room with my eyes open but unseeing. In the three years we’ve had this apartment I’ve only sat on the balcony outside that sliding glass door, looking to the east, a half-dozen times, no more than that.
That’s a shame.
Before I got sick, I used to be too busy. For months and months I was too busy to look out the window. I sat at a computer day after day writing an average of 2,000 words each day. A million words every 18 months, give or take 100,000 words or so.
Now I can barely stand to work more than a couple of hours at a time. I’m just too tired. And still I have to remind myself to look out the window.
This morning, when I took the time to look I saw an osprey soaring right at the level of our sixth-floor apartment.
I’m going to look more often. I promised myself. Why not? I can’t work so I may as well enjoy myself.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
About two-and-a-half years ago, I was told I have inoperable, stage-three lung cancer. At the time I was advised that patients like me usually last about two years, so I’ve already outlived my prognosis. During this time, I’ve tried not to focus all my attention on the disease that’s going to end my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not by nature a very upbeat kind of guy. But I refuse to live what’s left of my life in my grave.
Like other people, I wondered, often, what I would do if I got a death sentence? Now, I’m learning. And make no mistake, that’s what this is. The doctors can keep me alive for awhile and except for the tiredness and the nausea from chomotherapy my life isn’t bad, yet. But, hey, it’s coming to an end. And it’s ending no matter how much I rely on the good-old American belief that all problems can be solved with a can-do attitude and a cheery outlook and a touch of Yankee know how. If that was all it took to survive cancer, chemotherapy centers and radiation centers and cancer wards could be used to house the homeless. No, this is a reality I can’t be outrun. Short of an honest to God miracle, terminal cancer is final. But I refuse to think about that. I refuse because I believe the way I die is more important than my death. Believe me, I’m frightened sometimes, and angry, and worried about what will happen to my wife, or all the other things you might imagine, but I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to let the cancer beat me until I can just fight no more. If I feel strong enough or healthy enough to, heaven help me, make love with my wife or maybe go sailing one last time or lose myself in Pavarotti’s "Nessun Dorma" a few more times or get to watch another season of Notre Dame football, I want to be able to enjoy it.
I’m really not brave. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, in the dark, and I can’t breathe from the sudden fear. I’m afraid that when I’m dying I’ll turn into a weeping mass of pleading humanity. I’ve been promised that I’ll get pain-killers and that’ll be kind of nice, I think. I like the idea of taking morphine without having to worry about becoming addicted…hell, that’ll be off the table, won’t it?
It helps that I know just how blessed I am. I'm a sober alcoholic, sober for a little more than 13 years. I was what's known as a low-bottom alky: one of those guys you see lurking under bridges or in alleys, the kind of guy who cleaned the gin-mill toilet for a couple of beers and who followed his thirst to places I never thought I'd end up. Now I'm sober and though I'm deadly sick I'm able to treasure every day.
I wish I could live longer. But I can't. And then I remember what I thought when my oncologist looked over the top of his glasses and told me I had terminal cancer. I remember thinking, Man, I’ve had a hell of a ride. A lot of pain, but it was worth it.
Like other people, I wondered, often, what I would do if I got a death sentence? Now, I’m learning. And make no mistake, that’s what this is. The doctors can keep me alive for awhile and except for the tiredness and the nausea from chomotherapy my life isn’t bad, yet. But, hey, it’s coming to an end. And it’s ending no matter how much I rely on the good-old American belief that all problems can be solved with a can-do attitude and a cheery outlook and a touch of Yankee know how. If that was all it took to survive cancer, chemotherapy centers and radiation centers and cancer wards could be used to house the homeless. No, this is a reality I can’t be outrun. Short of an honest to God miracle, terminal cancer is final. But I refuse to think about that. I refuse because I believe the way I die is more important than my death. Believe me, I’m frightened sometimes, and angry, and worried about what will happen to my wife, or all the other things you might imagine, but I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to let the cancer beat me until I can just fight no more. If I feel strong enough or healthy enough to, heaven help me, make love with my wife or maybe go sailing one last time or lose myself in Pavarotti’s "Nessun Dorma" a few more times or get to watch another season of Notre Dame football, I want to be able to enjoy it.
I’m really not brave. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, in the dark, and I can’t breathe from the sudden fear. I’m afraid that when I’m dying I’ll turn into a weeping mass of pleading humanity. I’ve been promised that I’ll get pain-killers and that’ll be kind of nice, I think. I like the idea of taking morphine without having to worry about becoming addicted…hell, that’ll be off the table, won’t it?
It helps that I know just how blessed I am. I'm a sober alcoholic, sober for a little more than 13 years. I was what's known as a low-bottom alky: one of those guys you see lurking under bridges or in alleys, the kind of guy who cleaned the gin-mill toilet for a couple of beers and who followed his thirst to places I never thought I'd end up. Now I'm sober and though I'm deadly sick I'm able to treasure every day.
I wish I could live longer. But I can't. And then I remember what I thought when my oncologist looked over the top of his glasses and told me I had terminal cancer. I remember thinking, Man, I’ve had a hell of a ride. A lot of pain, but it was worth it.
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