As I've mentioned in a number of "Seidman posts," I have seen in the Seidman waiting room--in the Seidman hallways--people varying widely in gender, age, race, ethnicity, people who are suffering far more than I have. My turn is coming, I know, but since this dark journey began in June 2005 (when I had my cancerous prostate gland surgically removed), I have not really suffered in ways I routinely see when I'm at Seidman. To see people struggling to get inside the building--canes, walkers, wheelchairs--or held by loving friends or relatives is not a sight easily dismissed or forgotten.
It's humbling, believe me. And profoundly moving.
I am still able to do many of the things I love to do, and though I miss doing--so much--some of the things I can no longer do (jog, ride my bike, hop in the car and drive to Oregon, etc.), I remain grateful that I can still walk (carefully!) over to the coffee shop to pick up my Daily Dose, can still read and write, bake sourdough bread, take a jaunt with Joyce (as we did last night) down to Szalay's Farm & Market for some fresh corn and other produce, stream some films and TV, enjoy encounters on Facebook with people from all over my life (from junior high to now), keep in touch with a dear friend and his wife here in Hudson, host porch-visits (masked/socially-distanced) with our son and his family, laugh and talk and think with Joyce. How can I complain about any of that?
As I wrote here yesterday, I have been on a med (Lupron) that has altered my life significantly, and yesterday I started a new one--Xtandi. It's been in my system less than a full day, but, so far (cross fingers) I don't really notice much of a change. A few more "sweats"--perhaps a bit more dizziness (hard to tell). But this morning I did not wake up feeling profoundly altered.
Fear, of course, has been a fell companion through all of this. But after some time (and procedures) passed, I realized that I just have to do it. Sure, I still dread going down to Seidman for a nuclear bone scan, a CT scan; I do not look forward to monthly blood draws--nor to the waiting for the results.
But I realized I can't let fear debilitate me even more than the disease does.
I understand perfectly well that I am running out of options. When this Xtandi fails to accomplish its mission (reduce my PSA--the chemical that the cancer now produces), the next step is chemo. There are no steps after that. And because I have known quite a few of you who have endured chemo--and because I have seen people at Seidman having treatments--I realize what the procedure will likely do to me, as well.
And as for writing about it? And publicly so?
I write--as I've said here before--because it helps me to externalize the damn thing. To take it out of me, place it over there, examine it. I find it truly does relieve some pressure.
And, as I think I've mentioned among these posts--probably more than once!--I've been greatly inspired by a number of writers who have battled the Reaper with a quill.
Poet Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935), three-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, lay dying of cancer in a New York hospital--and while he was alert, he edited the proofs of his final book, King Jasper (1935).
Years later, in 2009, the great novelist/essayist/playwright/poet John Updike also lay dying of cancer in a Massachusetts hospice facility, but was writing and editing the poems that would compose his final volume, Endpoint and Other Poems, 2009.
I ain't no Robinson, no Updike--but I do see them as models, as inspirations. Keep doing what you love to do until you no longer can--that's the message to me from their final days.
And though I think (hope?) my "final days" still lie a ways down the road, I continue to try to emulate those two--not in the quality of work (can't do that!) but in the determination to clutch life until it flings my hands away.
**
And profound thanks to all of you who have responded so kindly to my recent medical posts. Each of your words is a salve.
A beautiful post, as usual.
ReplyDeleteWhen I go to the breast health center for my quarterly (now every six months!) visits to my oncologist, I am always struck by the same feeling: the women sitting in that waiting room are usually there for mammograms or for a biopsy. They are frightened and what they are frightened of is what I went through. I survived their worst fear, and although my stage 3 cancer could come back at any time, I'm still here! It just makes me feel so strong and empowered to be successfully dealing with the thing that so many people are rightly so afraid of. And you, Daniel, are still here, living through what is for many people their worst fear - stage 4 cancer. I can't tell you how much strength I draw from seeing you deal with living-with-active-cancer. It lets me know that even if my cancer comes back, a beautiful life is still available for me. I hope you can allow yourself to feel as bad-ass as I and so many people see you as.
Blessed be!
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