Food

I’ve been receiving chemotherapy for almost three years now. This means I get chemical mixes shot into an "injection port" stuck beneath my outer skin about three inches below my right clavicle every so often.

One of the side-effects of the last couple of the chemicals I received – at least in my case – has been an almost complete loss of appetite. For about six months, food I knew to be good, food I had cooked for years, suddenly tasted bad or strange or just nasty. Spaghetti…roast beef…cheeseburgers…cheese and crackers…salmon…bacon and eggs…almost everything I’d long enjoyed simply tasted like garbage.

I was given medicine to build my appetite. It didn’t work. I tried eating things I’d never liked or never tried before, hoping something would be edible. It wasn’t.

The one thing that remained wonderful to me was chocolate. So I drank chocolate nutritional drinks and chocolate milk shakes. I ate candy and cake and chocolate donuts. I believe, truly, if it hadn’t been for chocolate, I probably would have croaked already.

Still, my eating was bad enough that I lost weight. Always slim, I dropped down to about 140 pounds.

Then, about two months ago, things got worse. I wanted nothing to eat. Exhausted, I spent most of my time in bed. I had to force myself to chew food and take drinks that almost always turned me nauseous. I dropped down to lower than 125 pounds.

Suddenly, though, things started to change just a few days ago.

It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemo. I guess that improved my outlook and my appetite. Suddenly, I wanted to eat. Peanut butter and banana and marshmallow sandwiches and eggs and chili and bowls of cereal and (of course) ice cream and sundaes and energy drinks. I ate more already this morning than I usually ate in a full day. I have more strength, more desire to stay out of bed, even a desire to walk. Not only that, but I’ve gained about three pounds in the last three days.

Not bad, hunh?

Now, I’m planning on making a nice dinner for Lynne and myself to enjoy tomorrow. It will be Sunday, so that’s the right thing to do. Maybe a standing rib-roast with roasted spuds and fresh asparagus. Maybe fresh flounder I cook a special way with onion and lemon. Maybe lamb chops. I love those. Maybe duck or chicken. Who knows?

I may as well eat whatever I want tomorrow. It’s been a long, long time since I really looked forward to a meal.

Then, Monday morning, very early, I have chemotherapy again. After a three week break.

Damn. I know I’ll puke before I leave the hospital. I know I won’t want to eat. I have to thank God, though, for the last few days. I hope I can repeat them about three weeks from now.

Liberal

Liberal
I’ve been a liberal all my life.

I am liberal because that’s the way I was brought up. My dad was a working man and a union official. My mom – the daughter of a working man and union president – worked as a teacher and belonged to the teacher’s union. All my uncles and aunts were liberal. Most were unionized.

My mother – still alive – is more liberal now than ever. My brothers are liberal. Their wives are liberal. Our children are liberal.

I really like President Obama. I feel as good and positive about America’s leader as I did when John Kennedy was elected. Better than I have since then.

It’s been a long time. I was in the Air Force, stationed in Japan, Just 18 years old, when JFK was shot. I’d spent the night in Tokyo, heard of his death on a radio, and knew I had to head back to the base. I took an elevated train from the city to my base in Tachikawa and on the trip every Japanese man and woman who saw me bowed low and said how sorry they were.

Amazing. I remember weeping and flags at half mast and watching the funeral on television and rerun after rerun of the killing in Dallas.

I’d not voted for JFK. I was too young. But I sure loved his style and what he stood for. Rights for American people whose rights were being denied. Opportunities for all Americans. Increased support for arts and cultural activities. Of course I loved his Irishness and his Catholicism and his wife, Jacky.

I didn’t really think much about political action I could do until I got out of the service in the midst of the war in Vietnam. I fell for Robert Kennedy, was one of the ex-servicemen who marched in huge anti-war parades in Chicago. I turned into a hippie with a chest full of anti-war pins and hair past my shoulders. I demonstrated against the war and for equal rights for everybody. I started voting and voted liberal.

For years after the two Kennedy brothers were killed and Dr. Martin Luther King, it wasn’t much pleasure to be a liberal. I know there were a couple of democrats in the White House, Carter and Clinton. In fact, though, most of the power was exerted – often illegally – by Nixon and Ford and Reagan and Bush and Bush.

I wasn’t terribly active most of the time. But I did follow politics and I did vote every time I could.

Voting for Obama was one of the high points of my life. I’m glad my cancer hadn’t killed me and that I was up to casting my vote. I watch him every day and basically think damn near every move he makes is ideal. Of course he makes mistakes. Everybody does. I’m willing to place a big bet that he’ll not start an illegal war. I bet he will do something to make the tax system a bit more sensible and try to get health care for people like me and educate children and all the other stuff he talks about.

My cancer seems stronger these days and I feel weaker. I still hope I live long enough to see the Cubs win the World Series (this year) and Notre Dame win a major bowl game (early next year). I’m not sure I’ll be able to. I’m aiming at some closer targets, now.

I’d really like to see Obama name a winner to the Supreme Court. I think it would be great if he named a woman. And especially great if the woman was Latin. But I really want a liberal. A young one. Maybe we’ll be able to regain a court that makes some sense.

I’m not really going to be overjoyed when I’m in my death bed but I’d feel a hell of a lot better if the court was moving in the right direction.

God

I go to a sobriety fellowship meeting almost every morning. I’ve been sober for a long time so I don’t really have to go. I go because it’s habit and I enjoy myself, mostly.

At each meeting, there are prayers.

The Serenity Prayer at the beginning. The Lord’s Prayer at the end. In between, lots of stuff about God’s will and counting on God for help.

It is supposed to be okay if you don’t join the prayers or talk about God because the fellowship doesn’t demand religious belief. If you don’t join in, though, you better be prepared for some people to look at you as if you are committing some kind of terrible sin.

I don’t join in and hold hands during the Lord’s Prayer any more. I haven’t for a couple of years. It’s not because I don’t believe or don’t want to be social. It’s because my immune system has been weakened by chemo and I’m afraid of holding hands with some alky I’ve never seen before.

I do believe enough to pray, my own way.

Listen. I like to think I’m an intelligent fellow. I’ve been told I have a high IQ. I was invited to join MENSA a few decades ago. Unfortunately, at the time I was in this place where they kept me behind a whole bunch of locked doors so I couldn’t really get to a meeting. Still, I’ve always considered myself bright.

Right now, though, there are times when my mind seems incredibly slow and my thinking incredibly shallow. I can blame that slowness and lack of depth on the handful of drugs I take every day and on the chemo.

There’s one good thing about this slower mind of mine. I can read the chapter of a book, enjoy it, then go to sleep. When I wake, I can pick up the book, look at the chapter I just read and remember none of it. So I can read it again. And enjoy it again.

I can save tons of money simply reading the same book over and over again.

Anyway, I have come up with a belief in a Higher Power. I have to say, however, that my Higher Power belief is a bit different from other beliefs I hear spoken about in fellowship meetings. My mental shallowness probably has a lot to do with this.

I was raised Catholic. My dad went to mass and communion almost every day of his life. We went as a family each Sunday and Feast Day. I was an altar boy and believed enough to consider becoming a priest for a while. I stopped thinking about a life of chastity when I was in the seventh grade. I saw a girl with remarkable breasts in the school library. About eight years later, the same girl – Patti – and I would marry.

Anyway, I practiced Catholicism until I graduated from high school and enlisted in the Air Force. Then, I simply stopped. I went to one mass in Japan, with girl I liked. Dropped in on a Buddhist Temple or two for the same reason. I visited a Baptist service in Texas and didn’t like it; went to a couple of mostly-black churches during my hippie years. I don’t remember thinking much about God in all those years or all the years I drank.

Now I do.

First, I need to be honest about my belief. The God I believe in doesn’t really have a name. If you want to call God something, "God" is about as good as it gets. But I don’t think you need to refer go God as "God" to get attention. "Help" or "Hey You" are probably acceptable.

The first times I prayed as an adult were in the earliest days of my sobriety. My sponsor – a kind of guide in the fellowship – told me he thought it might be a good idea if I asked a higher power for help. He told me how he did it. He was sober 30-something years at that point, so I paid attention.

I lived alone, but I was afraid someone would see me pray, so I prayed in the shower. "God," I said, "I don’t know if I believe in you. I don’t know that you’ll help me if you’re listening. But Jimmy told me I should pray. So I’m praying. Help."

That’s what I said. And something happened. I didn’t drink. I stayed sober.

When I think of God, I remember those simple prayers. I imagine God as an old guy (sorry, I can’t imagine an old woman God). The guy I think of resembles Monty Hall, long-time host of "Let’s Make a Deal." And his deal is simple. If I do one simple thing he asks me to do, I win everything. If I don’t, a lose everything.

And the thing I’m supposed to do is lead a life of service to other people. It doesn’t have to be "uniformed" service like that performed by the religious crew in "Guys and Dolls" or big-deal service like that done by Francis of Assisi. It can be smaller than the stuff done by television evangelists. It can be so small only I know about it and maybe the person or institution I'm serving.

It works. Sure, sometimes I’m not of service – I do something to hurt someone or maybe cheat someone – but not often. And when I do, I try to fix it.

Usually, I do what Monty Hall wants me to do. I make a deal. I offer service. And in return, he, God, makes my life okay (most of the time) and, as a consequence, I don’t really fear death. Not at all.

It just makes sense to me. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me after I die. Maybe nothing. Or maybe – and this is what I think – I’ll return to be part of the undefinable power that created everything damn near an infinity ago. I’m okay with that.

I’m also guided by the great, deep, philosophical argument presented by Blaise Pascal. It’s bit fancier than my Monty Hall approach, but not really much.

You see, Pascal said, if God really does not exist, it makes no difference at all what you believe. If you bet there’s no God, and you win, you win nothing. If you bet there is a God, and you lose, you lose nothing.

If, however, there is a God and you bet he exists, and he does exist, you win eternal happiness.
Of course, if you bet there is no God, and he does exist, you lose, you lose everything.

Therefore, the safest, most meaningful, most profitable bet is to put all your money in Monty Hall’s hand and bet in the existence of a higher power.

That’s what I do.

Oh, yes, there were a lot of people praying that I’d get good news from my cat scan a few days ago.

I didn’t get "miraculous" news, but I got pretty good news. The main tumor has grown, but just slightly. It could have been much worse. I thought it would be. I’m starting a new kind of chemo.

I guess the prayers didn’t do any harm.

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.

Thanksgiving

Lynne and I watched The Fantasticks the other night. The movie starred Joel Grey and a cast of unknowns. She didn’t care for it. I did.

About 40 years ago, when I applied for entrance to Goodman School of Drama in Chicago, I had to perform a soliloquy and sing a song, solo. For the soliloquy I chose the St. Crispen’s Day Speech from Henry V. As tough as I think I am, I still choke up every time I read or hear that speech. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers….

I sang two songs. Not because I’m a good singer or because I enjoy singing. I sang two songs because I’m a terrible singer and I hate singing. I figured singing two songs terribly might gain me some points for courage. I guess they did, because I was admitted to Goodman.

The songs I chose for my audition were On the Good Ship Lollipop, made famous by Shirley Temple; and Try to Remember¸ from The Fantasticks. I chose the first because it didn’t require much in the way of vocal range. I chose the second because it was so mushy and popular (this was, after all, 1967) that it could hardly be sung to ill effect.

I also loved the song. I still do.

I’m thankful I’ve been given the opportunity to remember, to reflect, as I have since my illness was diagnosed. That’s what I’m truly thankful for on this Thanksgiving. The time I’ve been given.

I know I have a list of blessings too long to count, but this opportunity to look back, to remember, is an immense gift in that it enables me to make some sense of a life that was, in truth, not very well lived. I’m thankful for that.

I complain. I piss and moan, as my father would have said. And some days it’s justified. But the value of each day I have – to reflect, to feel joy or sadness or pissy or whatever – just can’t be overstated.

Of course, I’m thankful for Lynne’s love. For my mother’s love. For the presence in my life of my brothers and my two sons and their wives and my truly beautiful grandchildren. I'm grateful for friends who care, and there are more than I deserve. And I'm grateful and all my other blessings.

But this time I've been given is the real blessing. Because the time is what affords me the opportunity to remember, to express my love as best I can, to give thanks, to take what steps I can to leave something of value behind.

So I’m grateful.

Dinner at 8

Lynne and I rent movies from an outfit called Netflix. It’s great. I order the movies – in DVD format – online. They’re delivered within a couple of days. We watch, then ship them back in prepaid envelopes. There’s no hassle at all.

The movie selection Netflix offers is fantastic. Last night, for instance, we watched "Dinner at 8," the comedy that hit movie screens in 1933, smack-dab in the middle of the depression. The cast included Marie Dressler, John and Lionel Barrymore, and Jean Harlow.

Much of the acting is dated. There are a lot of contrived poses, larger than life gestures, and exaggerated facial expressions. Still and all, it’s a wonderful movie.

The story centers around a couple’s plans to host a fancy dinner party for a visiting British Lord and Lady. Invited guests include an aging actress (Dressler), an alcoholic actor (John Barrymore), and Harlow as wanna-be socialite from the wrong side of the tracks. Nothing goes right, of course, hence the laughs. Dressler is outrageous.

What really makes the movie great, though, is its topicality. The rich have fallen on hard times, work is hard to get, the market is in the tank and it’s impossible to borrow. At the same time, the rich, the well-off, continue living as if there’s no such thing as a charge for services rendered.

In the film, Oliver Jordan (Lionel Barrymore) is the head of a bankrupt shipping company. Despite a heart condition and the threatened takeover of his company by a louse played by Wallace Beery, Oliver is able to don a tux and to entertain his guests at a party he can’t afford. His daughter, oblivious to dad’s needs, worries only about breaking up with her boyfriend so she can carry on with the alcoholic actor. His wife has all her focus on the guest list and the aspic centerpiece.

Sound familiar? It should. All the characters in Reagan's selfish America – made even more toxic by the worst president in the country’s history – were represented in this movie filmed 75 years ago, at the time of the nation’s last economic nightmare.

The movie had a happy ending – except for everybody but the actor who killed himself. Even his wasn’t too bad, since he had time after he turned on the gas to pose himself under a spotlight. Oliver didn’t die of a heart attack. The company was saved. Beery was thwarted. The wayward daughter went back to her boyfriend. All was well.

Of course, that’s a movie. Here’s hoping things work out as well in the real world.

In any event, watching Marie Dressler play Carlotta Vance took me out of myself, and that was welcome. At the movie’s end, Harlow’s character, an empty-headed beauty, tells Vance she’s reading a book that predicts that machines will soon replace working men and women. After a classic double take at the news that the blonde can read a book, Dressler looks her up and down and tells her that she’s sure that Harlow had no reason to fear being replaced by a machine. It’s worth watching the movie just for this one scene.

The Vote

I’ve just passed a milestone in my experience facing terminal cancer, one of the three goals I gave myself when I was first diagnosed.

I think I’ve mentioned that I want to live long enough to see the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame win another national championship and to watch the hapless Cubbies play in a World Series.

While the football season isn’t over, the Irish have already lost three games. That means they’re out of the hunt.

The Cubs were eliminated from the playoffs in the first round. So, as I have my entire life as a Cub fan, I just have to wait ‘til next year.

My other goal was to vote in one more presidential election before I shuffle off to someplace where attack ads are not allowed. (They won’t be in heaven, I figure, and as far as hell is concerned, even Beelzebub must be tired of them by now.) Anyway, I mailed in my absentee ballot a couple of days ago. So I’ve accomplished that one.

I promised myself I’d stay away from politics in this blog. Not because it isn’t important but because I have a tendency to rant. That comes, I know, from being the son and grandson of Irish political junkies, union guys and organizers who found their survival linked to politics and politicians. My Grandfather, Mike, and my dad, Patrick, both saw "No Irish Need Apply" signs and both, with the help of political muscle, fought to work and ultimately became homeowners able to send their kids to college. No surprise, then, that when I was a kid, we breathed politics. We didn’t have a television then, so I didn’t know who Howdy Doodie was but I knew about FDR and Ike and Keefauver and Mayor Daley and about Eamon DeValera and Michael Collins and the hard men of Ireland, too.

So, poliltics were important in my house and are still. But I’m not going to say who got my vote.

Suffice it to say I figure this is the most important election of my lifetime. It’s also the first time I’ve really been excited about casting a vote since 1968 when Bobby Kennedy was killed and I marched aginst the Vietnam War on the streets of Chicago. That should give you a hint.

I’m going in for chemo again tomorrow. I know I’ll be ready to puke by the time I leave the hospital. I’ll also be tired. But I’m going to sleep all day and mainline compazine if I have to so I can stay awake and watch the election returns tomorrow night. My 93-year-old mother – who curses like drunken mariner when she talks about the current political scene – says she’ll stay up all night if she has to, praying the right man wins. If she can do it, so can I.

That’s how important this is, I believe. And I’m thankful I had the chance to cast one more vote. And if things go the way I hope, I'll hang on for Inauguration Day.

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.

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.

Birthday Party

Early yesterday, I had to go to the VA for a cat scan. I was afraid, this time. I’m usually not but the last one I had showed my main tumor had grown a bit. This time, I fear, the news will be worse and then it’ll be time for chemo again. That's if I’m lucky.

Before the scan, I had to drink some barium. The last time I had one I drank banana-flavored barium. It didn’t taste too bad. This time, just to be different, I tried vanilla flavored. It wasn’t as good. Usually, the barium doesn’t bother me but yesterday, for some reason, it made me nauseous. Maybe because I was afraid.

After I came home, my wife – Lynne – and I celebrated her birthday. She loves presents as much as a little girl. When she opens a gift, her whole face lights up. Sometimes she giggles.
Buying her a present is always fun, always a pleasure, because I know how happy she’ll be, no matter what the gift.

Yesterday, she got clothes, a couple of necklaces, and a jazz CD from her sister, Jennifer, who lives in Richmond. I gave her a purse and a hat and dress she’d picked out. Her father gave her a check. She used a little of that money to buy herself a pair of shoes. I don’t think a man would be very happy if he got a pair of shoes as a gift. I guess that’s because to most men buying shoes is like buying tires for a car. More necessary than pleasurable. Lynne, however, loves shoes the way I love sailing.

I gave her three cards: two funny ones including a card with a picture of a monkey inside. For some reason, she loves monkey-pictures as much as shoes. The third card was mushy. It talked about love and how happy she’s made me and then said something about how I hoped we’d have a hundred more birthdays together.

When she read that card, she cried, just a little, but enough to let me know she cared.

After my nap, we went out for a late lunch in honor of the day. We didn’t go to a fancy place, just a seafood restaurant we both enjoy.

I couldn’t help myself. I kept looking at Lynne all during the meal. Every time I looked, she was smiling, her eyes were bright and she was beautiful. Happiness is like that. It’s attractive.
We ate fresh fish and then Lynne ordered chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce, a special birthday treat. Again, she was happy.

During the meal, while we ate and she got chocolate sauce on her chin, we didn’t talk about the cancer, or the cat scan, or the fact that I was still nauseous from the barium. We didn’t talk about the truth that – despite what the mushy card said – we weren’t going to have a whole lot of birthdays together.

I’m glad we didn’t talk about that stuff. It was nice to be free of the cancer for a bit, to take a break, to have lunch with my wife and see her smile.

Pain

Every time I go to the VA hospital these days I’m asked to rate my pain from one to 10, with one being no pain and ten being a lot of pain. Most days I’m not in pain, so I just say "one" and the doctor or nurse who asked nods. When I’m in pain, I’m not sure what to answer. I’m not sure because I don’t know how bad pain has to be to get a "10" rating. Since I’m not sure how bad pain can get, I can’t even guess what a "4" rating is like, or a "6" or any other degree.

About eight years ago, when I was getting post-surgery chemotherapy for my colon cancer, I was hospitalized because of a particularly nasty chemo side effect. When I went to the ER, nobody asked how much pain I was in. I guess because I was moaning and groaning too much to answer. I would have said "10" because when that pain started, I figured it couldn't get any worse. When a nurse offered me morphine I almost licked his hand like a happy and thankful puppy.

Now, though, I’m not sure if that pain was worthy of the top rating. I think not. I think there’s pain a lot worse than that. And I’m not happy about that.

I’m in pain today. Not bad. I’d give this pain of mine today about a "two" rating.

I don’t like to tell my wife when I’m in pain like this. I figure if it doesn’t register on my face, it’s not worth bothering her. It’s not bad enough for me to go to the hospital, so there’s really nothing to be done, is there? And I don’t want to worry her. I also don’t want to have to keep telling her I’m okay every time she asks.

The only reason I bring it up is because I always think this pain is a hint of what’s down the road, some kind of message to keep me from feeling too sure of myself. And it works. Most times I’m sure I can take whatever lies ahead. Yo! take your best shot, cancer! Or, as someone famously said, "Bring it on!"

But then when I get these pains it reminds me that I really don’t know what number 10 pain is like. I have a feeling it’s going to be pretty bad. And that scares me. I’m thinking of asking my wife to leave me alone when the pain gets real bad. I don’t want her to have to experience it. But I guess that’s not fair, is it?

Anyway, I’m not going to tell her I’m in pain today. She won’t go on line until tomorrow or the next day, I think. She’s got too much to do. So by the time she reads this, if she does, the pain I’m in today will have passed so we’ll be able to forget about it. At least for now.

Lookin' Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who am I kidding?

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

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

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