Enough

I got the call at about 8:30 Wednesday night. As soon as I heard Jacky’s voice, I knew.
"Kevin died this afternoon," she said. "Thank God it’s over."

I heard her catch her breath.

"At least he’s out of pain," Jacky said. Then we spoke for a few moments about what a great guy Kevin was and about how I wished there was something, anything, I might do. Of course, there wasn’t. Jacky cried and I tried not to cry and failed and then we hung up.

You remember Kevin? He’s my friend, the one who came down from Georgia last month so we could go to a Chicago Cubs/Florida Marlins game together. He’s the guy who learned just a few months ago that he had incurable pancreatic cancer.

When my father died about ten years ago, I barely wept. He was ninety and had already had bypass surgery. His death was no surprise. It made me sad, of course. It should have. But my dad’s death made sense, it was part of the natural flow, as proper as a tide or a sunset.

Not Kevin, though. He was too young by far. He left not just his wife but three little boys, the youngest of whom is only three years old, so young he’ll never remember this wonderful man who was his father.

And that’s why I cried when I heard the words. "Kevin died this afternoon." That and because of the truth that he may have been the best friend I’ll ever have and I miss him already, can’t believe I’ll never see him or hear him again, never laugh with him again.

Believe me, I grieve for Jacky and the three boys. I also grieve for me. And, dammit, I feel like it’s not fair and I want to tell God to lighten up. No more pain for a while, hunh?

How terrible is it when a wife finds herself saying, "Thank God" when her husband dies. To find relief – if any can be found – in the truth that "at least he’s out of pain."

Enough, God. Enough, already. Cut us some slack. Kevin’s family. And my friend Brian, the one I wrote about Monday. And Brian’s daughter. My friend Greg who just learned he has cancer. And me, too. And my wife.

Enough for a while.

Giving Up

I’ve known Brian for about a dozen years. We get along because we share a world view that’s either cynical or realistic, depending on your perspective. We laugh at the same things, usually human foibles. The people we know rarely disappoint us by acting rationally.

When I want to let Brian know how much I like him, I tell him he’s the kind of guy I would have gone drinking with back in the day when I used to drink. He says the same thing about me.

In our circle, the compliments don’t get much better or more genuine than that.

Brian discovered he had lung cancer about the same time I did. He had surgery and I remember being jealous because I figured he was so much better off than I was.

How’s that for an outlook? Being envious because a friend gets a big chunk of his lung excised?

Well, I’m not envious anymore.

Brian is not doing very well. He had the surgery but he never really recovered. He was forced to quit work. He lost weight and found it difficult to get around. Of course, drawing each breath was a struggle.

Now he’s on chemo and he’s miserable. He came into a meeting I was at the other day and only stayed about five minutes. I caught him in the parking lot.

"I’m ready to give up," he said. "It’s just not worth it." He was sitting behind the wheel of his car, his head bent, breathing as if he’d just run a mile.

"Oh, Christ," I said. I couldn’t think of anything else. What else could I say? Hang in there? Don’t give up? Life is worth living? None of those statements seemed appropriate.

A little later, when I was home, sitting on the side of my bed, my wife asked me how I was feeling. I tried to answer her and I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I just didn’t know what to say.

"I wish you could talk more about what you’re feeling," she said.

I wish I could, too. And I do try. I tell her I’m sad. I tell her I’m angry and frightened. But those words don’t really convey what I feel. I guess I’m lucky – she and I are both lucky – because if I was really able to tell her what I feel we both might start crying and raging and shaking and maybe never stop.

So I say I’m okay and I say whatever I’m feeling will pass soon enough, but, dammit, there are moments when I’m not at all okay and when the feelings don’t quickly pass.

I’m not okay when I see a friend like Brian because I realize that someday soon I’ll be just like him. Or worse. Maybe, just maybe, I’m closer than I imagine to the point where I say I can’t take it anymore. Maybe I’ll be ready to give up.

There are simply no words I can say or write to adequately describe how that makes me feel. And if I could express those feelings, I wouldn’t because, in truth, you don't need or really want to hear or read those words.

But I’ll be okay. It’ll pass. It always does.

The Blob

I had the first chemo session of my new course of treatment yesterday. I’ll get chemo once a week for three weeks, then take a one-week break, then repeat the cycle, probably for about six months.

It had been several months since my last session. I’d forgotten what it was like to sit in the oncology waiting room early in the morning, one of a dozen or so patients, all of us trying to make believe our lives are somehow normal.

I’ve been on what’s known as a "drug holiday." That sounds like it’s the kind of vacation I might take to buy marijuana, but it’s nowhere near that much fun. It’s a break I was given so my body could recover a bit from the side effects that go along with injecting toxic stuff into my bloodstream.

So there I was, waiting to start my treatment and nodding hello to the other men and women in the room. It’s pretty easy to figure out pretty much where any patient stands in terms of treatment.

The first-timers, especially, are obvious. They’re usually not alone. Most times some family member or loved one sits alongside, not quite managing to look brave. The new patient usually looks stunned, as if he’d opened a newspaper to find his own obituary. There’s a lot of eye movement, looking for an exit, a place to run and not finding a way out.

Most of the patients, by the way, are men. Not many women show up for cancer treatments. I think that’s because until very recently women were not as prevalent in the service so most of the women veterans just aren’t old enough, yet, to have come down with cancer. There are plenty of young women in the hospital. I see them being wheeled down the halls or limping along on crutches or in the mental health clinic looking as if they’re trying to get free of some fear or demon that chased them home from the desert.

It’s also easy to identify the patients who, like me, are in the middle of treatment. Most of us look resigned. We know what’s going on and don’t like it a whole lot but, what the hell, there’s no choice. We know there's not really any hope but we can still fake it. Like me, the others try to present a cheery face. We know enough to bring something to read or a crossword puzzle and maybe a cup of coffee to make the wait more bearable.

There’s a lot of waiting. Blood has to be drawn and taken down to the lab. Tests have to be run. The doctor has to give the okay for the actual chemotherapy and then the pharmacy has to see to it that the chemicals are mixed properly. I guess they can’t pre-mix this stuff. Given enough time it would probably eat its way out of the plastic IV bags it’s kept in. Like the Blob in the horror movie.

Then there are the patients who are near the end of their treatment. Not because they’re getting better but because the road they’re on is coming to a halt. Sure, there may be something waiting on the other side, but this side is about all played out. No matter what your faith or belief the knowledge that you’re near the end can weigh you down.

I didn’t enjoy my time in the clinic yesterday. It was brief. I’m getting what’s known as a "push" – a relatively quick dose of what looks like about six ounces of some clear liquid. As always, the nurses and the volunteers who work in the clinic were wonderful. They know every patient by name and they smile and deliver a steady dose of kindness and real love even as they have to be careful not to care too much.

So, I got my infusion. I left. When I left, I made sure I didn’t look in the waiting room again. It felt good to leave the hurt an the anxiety and the feigned cheerfulness behind.

Now, I’m nauseous. I had the hiccups for about an hour earlier. I've puked a couple of times. But overall I feel pretty good.

Bread

I go to the grocery store every morning. I could, I guess, go once a week or maybe twice like most people do but I like stopping in after I attend the morning fellowship meeting I usually go to. Anyway, it seems as if we’re always in need of something: milk and diet soda and coffee-cream are almost always on the list along with the diet food my wife eats with amazing consistency.

When I was a boy, growing up on Chicago’s south side, my mother often sent me to a bakery for a loaf of fresh bread. I’d run the two blocks from the apartment building my parents owned to 79th Street and turn west to run along the street in front of Our Lady of Peace Church and then cross Jeffrey Boulevard to the bakery.

There was a newsstand on that corner, 79th and Jeffrey, where a short, dark, old man sold the Tribune and, I guess, magazines and cigarettes. In those days, if you were in a car and wanted the newspaper, all you had to do was stop, roll your window down, and honk. Joe, I think that was his name, would fold a paper in half (unless it was Sunday, when the paper was too thick) and run to the car to deliver it, all for a nickel.

I don’t recall the name of the bakery, though I do know it was run by an elderly couple. It seems like all neighborhood stores then were operated by gray-haired husbands and wives who, for some reason, hardly ever spoke to each other. The bakery couple was no exception. They didn’t speak to each other, but they knew every customer by name, even the customer’s children, like me.

It’s funny, I don’t remember the name of the bakery, but I do remember the husband who worked behind the counter seemed always to have flour on his hands. "How can we help you?" he’d ask. I’d tell him I wanted a loaf of white, thin sliced, or of pumpernickel, thin sliced, and he’d slap his hands together and laugh as if I’d just told him the best joke he’d ever heard. "You got it," he’d say. "You got it." And then he’d put a loaf of bread in automatic slicer that fascinated and frightened me.

He knew, somehow, that I loved to eat the end slices from the loaf of still-warm bread as I walked home. He never handed them to me, though. He’d take them, a slice from each end, and wrap them together in paper and hand them to me without a word. Maybe he did that for all the boys who ran errands for their mothers. Girls, too, I guess, though almost every family in our neighborhood had at least one boy big enough to send to the bakery.

The grocery store I go to these days is big and modern. It sells lottery tickets, outdoor furniture, cosmetics, greeting cards, Miami Dolphin tee-shirts, appliances, and other inedibles as well as food and drink. I’m there so often that the women and men who work the front registers know me on sight and always ask how I’m doing. The manager calls me by name.

That’s nice. But what’s really nice is the huge bakery in the back of the store. I stop there almost every day for a loaf of thin-sliced pumpernickel or something called White Mountain Bread. There’s a baker behind the counter, a middle-aged woman named Judy, who always says hello. She knows I like bread thin sliced and knows I like bread warm. She can’t always give me warm bread. I understand that. But when there’s fresh break cooling on racks in the back of the huge bakery she grabs one for me and puts it in a slicer that looks and sounds exactly like the one from Chicago almost sixty years ago.

I asked, once, for the end slices from a loaf of pumpernickel she was slicing and she handed them to me with a smile. I like that. Now she always gives me the end slices of any warm loaf she slices for me.

Isn't that something?

As Good as it Gets

I just got off the phone after talking with my mother. She’s 93 and lives alone in Clearwater, on the other coast of Florida. I call her every day because we love each other and I don’t want, ever, to have to think I missed an opportunity to speak with her.

I told her the news. I had to shout a bit because she’s very hard of hearing, but, after a couple of tries, she understood. My visit with the oncologist this morning went about as well as could be expected. The main tumor, the big one in my right lung, has grown, but only slightly. I go back on chemotherapy in a few days, for a short course with chemical recipe that, I was told, isn’t particularly virulent.

My mom was pleased by the news. So was my wife when I called her from the hospital. My friends will be relieved, I know, when they hear I’m not out of the fight.

It takes me about twenty minutes to get from my house to the VA hospital, driving north on Interstate 95, one of the busiest highways in the country. It’s rare to drive on I-95, no matter the time of day, and not get stuck in some sort of traffic jam.

Today was no exception.

I’m not a very patient driver. I’ve been known to grumble when I’m behind the wheel. Once or twice, I’ve indicated my displeasure with a hand gesture that, I think, is understood in almost any culture.

So, there I was this morning, on my way to have a conversation with a doctor about some vile thing that’s eating me alive from the inside and I was getting angry because… I wasn’t going fast enough!

How crazy is that? How off-the-map senseless is it to be in a hurry to get to a cancer ward? I had to laugh.

So I slowed down and I made it in plenty of time to have blood sucked from my veins and then to hear the news.

On the way home, I didn’t get angry. Instead, I thought of my wife and my mother and of all the people who will be pleased by the news that though the cancer has grown, I am still in the fight. There are a lot of people like that in my life and that’s a blessing. It really is.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to suddenly turn into some saint on the superhighway. I’m not that kind of guy. What I’ll try to do, though, is remember how blessed I am to be able to hear relief in my wife’s voice, and to have the opportunity to call my mother another twenty times or maybe a hundred and twenty times or more than that. I’m blessed to have friends who care – there are a lot of people who don’t. I’m blessed to be able to get stuck in a traffic jam and blessed to be able write these words.

Fear

I went to the VA hospital again today. Nothing serious, I just had to talk to my therapist, Linda Vesley. She and I like each other. We’re friends and I’m glad she’s in my life right now. But that’s a different story.

Today was a routine visit. She always asks how I’m feeling and how I’m getting along with my wife and about work and so on. She’s not a shrink so her insights, while useful, aren’t so much about what makes me tick as what will enable me to keep ticking.

Linda didn’t feel well today. I knew that as soon as I saw her. She was nauseous and achy. In fact, we cut my visit short.

That’s okay because I often don’t know what to say. I’m not real happy but I’m also not real sad. Lynne and I are getting along and – with the help of a new drug – I’m able to write a bit. My main problem is that the Cubs are already down two games to the Dodgers in a five-game series.

Imagine that.

Wait ‘til next year, Cubs fans!

Oh, yes. I did tell her I’m feeling a bit nervous about learning the results of may last CAT scan. I’ll go to the hospital early Monday morning to see my oncologist and get the news. I’ve been having a little pain, so I’m convinced I’m not going to like what I hear. It’s been about nine months, now, since my last chemotherapy, so I figure I’m due for some bad news.

I’m not often nervous when I’m waiting for test results. Once, after blood work and a colonoscopy, I could have sworn I heard the doctor say "liver cancer." I was about half dopey from drugs, though, so I let his comment pass. Later, after the drugs wore off, the only thing I could remember about the test were those two words.

Liver.

Cancer.

Unfortunately, It was Friday evening and the doctor’s office was already closed. I was scared. I was even more scared after I started doing research on my computer and read all about liver cancer.

When the doctor showed up at his office on Monday morning, I was sitting on the ground by the front door, waiting. When I told him why I was there he looked shocked. "No," he said. "No. I told you the scan was clear and the blood work indicated no signs of liver cancer."

I get my test results in writing now.

Anyway, I’m a bit nervous about this last cat scan. I’ll concentrate on the Cubs playoff games Saturday and Sunday, if they make it that far. I’ll watch Notre Dame play Stanford on Saturday. I’ll go shopping and maybe cook a small roast on Sunday. Lynne and I will go for a drive and maybe I’ll go to church with her on Sunday. She likes when I do that, though I think God doesn’t pay much attention to me since I’m not a regular.

Then I’ll get the results Monday morning. I hope Linda, my therapist, feels better by then. Just in case, you know. Just in case I need her.

Go Cubs Go

The last time the Chicago Cubs played in a world series was in 1945, the year I was born. In that series, the Cubs lost to the Detroit Tigers. Now, they have a chance to appear again.

I’ve been a Cubs fan since 1968 when my first wife, Patti, and I moved to Chicago so I could attend drama school at the Art Institute. In those days, we lived in an apartment close enough to Wrigley Field that we could hear the cheers or groans from the ballpark. In 1969, I went to every home game as the Cubs led the national league until the last month of the season when they went on an epic slide.

I always said I wouldn’t die until two things happened. The first was that Notre Dame had to once again win the national championship. The second was that the Cubs had to take home the World Series title.

Notre Dame is doing pretty well so far this season. They’ve won three games and lost one. They’re fun to watch and to root for, but they have little chance of winning the championship.

The Cubs had one of their best years ever this year. In Wrigley Field they were almost unbeatable. Tonight they play the Dodgers and they’re expected to win. In fact, for the first time in a long time, many people think they have a real chance of winning the whole shooting match.

Wouldn’t that be something.

On balance, though, I guess the cancer can’t kill me this year – at least it can’t kill me if I’m going to see Fighting Irish as champs.

Meanwhile, I’m going to watch the ball game tonight. I know it’ll bring back some of the best memories I have. Memories of sitting along the third base line, eating peanuts and hot dogs and cheering and groaning along with thousands of other fans.

I’m surprised how often I find myself feeling and thinking like I’m still that twenty-something guy sitting in the stands with a whole world of possibilities in my hands. I’m surprised when I look in the mirror and see myself so old.

I do have a lot of great memories though. Memories of climbing Mount Fujiyama and of anchoring my sailboat off a tiny island in the Florida Keys and watching in wonder as a million tiny shrimp turned the waters around me neon green with phosphorescence. I’ve loved and been loved. I’ve held a son and grandson. I’ve traveled most of the world on business or as a serviceman or tourist. I’ve had wonderful times and even sad times I wouldn’t want to forget.

These memories make the growing older easier because without one, I couldn’t have the others.