Category: Cancer Journey

Positively Connected

“Suffering is necessary until you realize it is unnecessary.” Eckhardt Tolle

Our personalities and sense of self do not stem from our opinions. Not even in our age of entitlement formed through the public ramblings of one single ego-driven tectonic plate moving dictatorial notion. Important, no doubt, to someone impressive to all their tweets and likes command. Of course, every human being beginning at birth has a perspective. Narrow though a newborn’s and pickled though an alcoholic’s – and no single moral standard claims any higher reaches than another. Despite what seems evident to me, there still exists a subsection of hostility driven people, trapped in a prison of anger. Their approach to the world carries an unwavering intent to cause suffering. Yet, we are all responsible for our own suffering as well as responsible for suffering in the world.

So how can this be possible?

I can choose to live as a source of conscious positivity. A great example to illustrate Richard Feynman’s excited and animated discussion of how rubber bands work. Feynman explains in this must watch video by the BBC, how atoms jiggle when excited by other atoms in some way. If I recall one example is a racketball hitting the court. The jiggle created by the contact of bouncing a ball hitting the boards, which ever so slightly increases the heat in the floor because the ball is moving faster than the floor. The measure of increase in temperature then becomes a proof of energy transfer at a molecular level. The floor’s atoms are disrupted by the ball hitting it and that is not even the point although voila, his excitement creates a curiosity in us and an excitement about learning. Similar to positive consciousness of living in the presence of now.

Pedestrian example…notice on days when you’re in a bad mood how others pick up on your negativity and they respond negatively to you in kind? Perhaps you’re driving more aggressively because you spilled coffee all over your car and now speeding over the roads towards a meeting 15 minutes delayed. I can simply arrive at the meeting a bit late, calmly and apologize with a smile. Certainly my reception may start cold, but my cheerfulness and tenacity inevitably override my unfortunate tardiness. My associates’ experience a graceful and present human being and eventually respond in a like manner. I guarantee someone else in your meeting went through a similar situation at some point in their lives. Maybe even that very day. They will remember only what you tell them to remember – meaning how you transfer your energy to the human beings with whom you’re engaged – positive or negative.

Perhaps on my drive I make a negative detour and make myself even later by running a stop sign and getting a ticket. Instead of ruminating and becoming angrier, instead of cursing my spouse or partner, the inanimate coffee, my boss, the other drivers…so much negative energy transference I create in a single drive into a small blip in the course of my life. Why?

Think about it this way perhaps. An opinion in your consciousness when applied to others sets the alarms off, erupting in arguments allowing negative energy to break into your positive space, like a thief. If I view others as equal – no matter their origins and opinions – with an open heart and mind and listen, we find ourselves in positive space with diverse rich colorful discussions, opening minds and knocking on doors rather than knocking them down.

This in 52 years? I earned the understanding of this concept and I’m not sure it’s something I even learned at all. In fact it’s more a feeling in the spiritual sense, than knowledge or a meaning in the mind. Here’s my confusing formula for you science types:

“Now” = what is, what’s gone and what’s going to be. It’s a triplicate paradox – ergo, appropriately, a “tripledox.”

To review how I got there and why that crazy logic train makes sense to me. Some days, my words refuse to connect to any discernible emotional or mind state – or anything I believe worth the investment of my time to sit down and pick up a pen and a piece of paper. As I wrote that last sentence, I realized that is the very worth my time, even if no one else ever reads what my thoughts became. And that’s not why I’m writing. In this moment when the past present and future dance together forever entangled in an infinite ring, what I write becomes very important. Not necessarily to you the reader. (If it does, how Cool is that? We connected.) I write for my physical, spiritual, and mental health.

My connection of mind to pen and paper help me plough through the work I must do to live. And it’s all work right now. I wish I could say differently. But this as all things must pass. Like a fart. Or a tailgating asshole. Or depression. Or bad weather.

And with that, I loathe waking up sometimes. You mean…Princess Positive? Miss Merrymaker? Lady Laughsalot? Moi?

Even hypocritical me. I get so angry I just want to fall off the flat earth and pound hard on the door of the universe – I bet Monty Hall answers and asks me about which door I choose. I say “all three” because you can do what you want in alternate dimensions. Or just because I want to see silver taffeta curtains opening like birthday gifts in my next reality tunnel where I win lunch with Douglas Adams, Dick Feynman, along a three piece lounge set from mid-century modern Michigan circa 1950. Did I digress? Yup. Sorry. And no the women I’d want to lunch with us remain with us. Diverse dream meals-r-us.

In the past 48 hours…

I’ve thrown up, thrown upset crying fits, tossed annoyed looks at The C. Twisted myself emotionally, felt alone, experienced the panic of financially worry about my healthcare, and I can’t get any good deli anywhere in San Jose. But this, too, shall pass. I realize I am where I am because I must be here. And there’s no way to go it alone given the stress of a change of residence and my enemy, thy name is stress. See, I’m dealing with this fucking liver metastasis at the moment. My veins and arteries have no blood count, and my bones work overtime at night so I can’t sleep. I have no appetite, no energy. No visitors. No shit. Lost 25 lbs. not a recommended diet, kids. I’ve had a bad week. It’s hard saying goodbye to everyone and everything all the time. But I can’t linger in this space much longer.

Open all three doors, or Monty gets it – and I’m not in the mood to make a deal. But I will say with the saccharine sweetness of a diabetic candy and the artifice of the broiled roast chicken brown skin from a tanning bed light, you’ll want to go plant wild flowers and kiss your loved ones all on the forehead, and hug your annoyed cat. Or slobbering dog, if your so inclined.

P.S. Another tale of opinions pissing on the heads of others: It would have been my mother’s birthday on the 31st. I wasn’t given any chance at closure because my aunt and brother decided I didn’t get to say goodbye to Elaine Rothman Kaminsky Tramonte. So laughs on them, she’s not gone to me. She’s around telling me I look fine stop worrying, wiping my face with a wet index finger (eww), hugging me, telling me how I’m her beautiful girl. How proud she is of me. And for all the shit our lives dumped in our laps, she was my mother. She loves me. I’m her first born, her daughter. Because they didn’t want me to upset her. How do you keep a child away from a parent, even as she aged I was still her angel, her shayna maydelah, Esther Williams, “mouth”, and the other 100 nick names she bestowed upon me – and she was my mammelah, mah, mom, mommie, my mom.

Flawed. Forever part of me. Forget? Never.

Never, never, never give up.*

Christmas 2017

In the spirit of enjoying my newly found power of living in the now, and not over thinking my tasks or decisions too much, I find a listing worthy of our time and  instead of sitting home asking what to do and not doing much together, we decide it may be fun to head out to see a film. We drop our imaginary swords after a weekend of tension and melancholy leading up to today, Christmas Day.  After purchasing our tickets online, we slipped out of the garage with plenty of time to spare and without the usual tension causing any arguments. So without a hitch, we went out with a playful, familiar affection for one another.

I didn’t allow myself to over think what needed doing, and it all got done. I found myself grateful and comfortable as we drove the quiet holiday road, listening to Mozart. I am more home focused  these days as my current course of chemotherapy has caused my blood cell counts to decline. Compounding this, The C suffers from depression thats holds him locked in our house nearly  every day, sleeping more than he’s awake.

But tonight once he finished dressing, he smelled clean and crisp and looked really handsome and I told him so.  With patience he waited for me downstairs while I took a deliciously steamy hot shower, one of life’s little delicacies and a major privilege of living in a first world country. I dressed up a little bit for him, but for myself mostly.  As someone with gender altering breast cancer, I recommend it highly. If you don’t really feel like getting out into the public, dressing up and putting on a little makeup can help your inside rise to the occasion outside.  It doesn’t hurt, whether you have hair or not, gained or lost weight, became flat chested or had reconstruction, try it. I find needed confidence and The C says, babe, you look really hot. Grin. Blush. He playfully, but gently so as not to mar my transluscent skin, pinches my ass and impish grins and says, what? as I squeal “oh, don’t!” And we get moving to the film.

The Darkest Hour starring Gary Oldman, who by the way OWNED the role of Churchill, engaged us from beginning to closing credits. Big new bonus feature, there’s now reserved seating recliners to kick back and put your feet up in, leather ones, too.  My inner marketeer assumes this phenomenon arose from a study about what makes people stay home instead of going to the theater to see a film. My conjecture: the study found people dreaded mortgage size snack bills and horribly unsanitary cloth-covered, ass numbing seating, originally designed for the Spanish Inquisition’s torture chambers. I can just see the PowerPoint presentation designed to sell the plush, button operated gluteus maxims warming cuddle machines to the theater chains’ operations management. (PowerPoint brain IS akin to chemo brain. I suffered both and the similarities are uncanny.)

Anyway,  The Darkest Hour covers Winston Churchill’s first month to his wartime appointed Prime Ministership governing Great Britain. He’s refused to lead his nation into a seriously precarious position of becoming like France in an act tantamount to surrender. Indeed, he would have accepted this fate had he allowed former PM and war cabinet member Chamberlain’s cowardly and first choice for the prime ministership, Lord Havilland to drive a country into a state that neither man was strong enough to lead. It turns out Chamberlain had only months to live having been diagnosed with cancer.  Me. Havilland drove his agenda as well as the King’s and persuaded Churchill to allow a seat at a table for one, at the so-called peace treaty with Hitler via Mussolini. History would be changed forever, and for not only Great Britain, but for all of Europe. There’s a surprise mini arc in the action that I’ll not give away but you’ll know why if you see the film.

Prime Minister Mr. Churchill, ravaged by lack of sleep and terrible indecision, finds himself unable to conjure the words for a speech he must deliver to the House of Commons regarding the decision to fight or to act with cowardice and surrender.  In an impulsive move, he leaves his chauffeured car running into the station and takes a train, something he’s never done, to Westminster and goes, so to speak underground. There he finds strength through listening to people’s emotional cries of “victory!” in the train car. Men and women who rightly are stunned by the presence of the PM and who represent a cross section of his constituency. Churchill initially went underground looking for a match to light his cigar, but emerged into the rainy day not only with the light for his oral fixation secured but enlightenment for his immanent oration. He finds answers he needs in that moment without over thinking his decision, in the hearts and minds of his beloved nation’s people.

I won’t spoil the ending, but we all know how the US for five long years allowed the punishing of our strongest world ally. Roosevelt got the blinders off very late in the war. Yet Churchill gave many European people hope for a future not ruled by tyrants. Without the navy but with his inspiration his ability to launch an entire force of civilian boats, to rescue 300,000 troops – the entire British military force stranded on the coast of France – waiting for help from across the English Channel.  Those boats were not captained by soldiers, but by regular people brought together, finding strength and bravery from deep inside their hearts and souls. Such bravery exhibited on so many levels boggles the mind and I need more time to digest the strength employed by everyone involved from the King of England, to Churchill, to his wife, to his supporters, and to the boats men living up above the White Cliffs of Dover.

I get chills thinking of the scene. It’s not a film full of CGI or big blasts or comic superheroes or special effects. It’s all in a short time with small spaces containing big exhibits of strength and bravery. Churchill knew that bravery comes not only from a wellspring inside, but from the community with whom we share a common connection. In his case the whole of Britain, in my case a small subset of the blogosphere. 

I know I represent a small subset who communicate via blogs. Here I find the brave and the vulnerable and in turn, this frees me to shed my own fears.  When someone stumbles into a post or poem of mine, and finds my “confessions” supportive,  the support I need comes easily.

At the beginning of this circuitous confessional, I found strong brave ties to a man I never knew. My relatives emigrated to the United States via Ellis Island in New York.  I am here because my great grandparents had the forethought to safely move our families out of the USSR, away from the tyranny that would slaughter Jews by the hundreds of thousands. Because of their courage I never will know  the atrocities of a true bloody ground fought war on a grand scale or the ensuing post traumatic stress disorder of an entire nation.

But we all fight our own wars don’t we?

I feel like my body is a country, my cancer, Stalin and  Hitler (Shitler?), the ground troops like my immune system, and my spirit like Churchill himself. Never, never, never give up. Victory is the only option, cried Churchill to the House of Commons that afternoon. From that scene on a wide screen was another brave heart who imbued in my spirit the strength of the lion himself long gone to find the One universal truth. He showed us the wisdom to listen, not just orate beautiful monologues that drown out the strength of other men and women, be they big public figures or new mothers with babies or blue-collar bricklayers from London.

Or even the small voice of a blogger in Silicon Valley, echoing words into the great web of the unknown. Too much drama? Nah, #fuckcancer.

Son of a Canferatu

Chasing me for almost three years, could Canferatu possibly close in on me, catching up in an average game of cat and mouse? Struggling to stay away from its heinous blasts of hot, narciferous breath, of the damp bone cold green-gray living-dead body, or the gnarled knuckles arthritic and exposing curled, long encrusted finger nails? I feel trapped inside the generic walls and barely concealing privacy curtains of many scenes of many hospitals. Canferatu pushes up against me and wants to bite me. I know how to handle a vampire, the kind of film legend, of the horror genre and less pathos imbued Dracula from the infamous oeuvre by Bram Stoker. The stuff of romantic legendary fictional bumps in the night.

Yet I, perhaps as a pathetic stand against my fiend, yet not so unlike Lucy who loses her life to kill Nosferatu, hold up some garlic I found buried in my backpack. (I’d have made a great Let’s Make a Deal contestant but not a great paperback heroine, I’m afraid). I duck under Canferatu, reeling from my video game style one-two punch, leaving the cold, putrid huffing breath, which smells like rotting animal meat. It’s ugly pointed fangs still glisten with the blood of his latest victims. I chuckle to myself.

I stroll nonchalantly in through the emergency room security and then sliding door cutting the air full of concern and the permanent infirms the temporarily injured with their and brain damagingly bored visitors. Some of the older women and men, the infirm, sit in tubing laden wheelchairs made of slings strung on metal pipes while the young sat on parents or in strollers with their curious eyes peering out wide with fever or fear, over annoying masks. Can anyone see their own illness monsters sitting in their laps, hanging from the ceiling above, doing high wire acts? Illness monsters turn to look me over, their zombie-like stares piercing my heart, and I pull a gleaming arrow from my backpack and shoot the largest dumbest monster through the eyes. They look at my tired face. “Unimpressed,” said their gazes. Descending a flight of brightly lit, stone cold stairs, I trip on the last step and land flat on my face. I look up to see several helping hands reaching out to get me back up on my feet down in the basement on the #oncology floor.

My partner, and his insistence, ripped my crying annoyed body from my comfortable bed into the car. He took me to Stanford Medical Center’s emergency room. #Metastatic #breast-cancer, that strange body snatcher, moved into my corpus and took up residence squatting in a few choice properties – now my liver on its menu. I could take up residence as a Buddha statue on a Tibetan shrine, my abdomen distended with 10 pounds of fluid, yet again.

My intestines crushed inside the cavity wall, and pinched by tiny cancer seedlings floating in the fluid and causing a kind of neurological short circuiting. The long trip, of both small and large tubing, suffers from incredibly slow transit and now an infection near my stomachs dumping valve, my ilium. By the light of the TV on with no sound on, the watery fluid, extracted by my awesome Dr. Brian, assisted through the night by Nurse D, who has a contagious laugh and keeps me pain-free, with her big smile and easy manor. Then, as the gastric acid moved down from my esophagus, back into its rightful home in my stomach.

I find myself actually hungry after a month or two of chicken soup and not much else other than the allusive matzoh ball (thank you Gunther’s Deli San Jose) or more common creature comfort, the wonton. Not having eaten for a lunar day, I’m very hangry (hungry + angry) by the time I’m able to eat anything at all. We arrived at 1:00 pm today; by 7:00 pm pacific, I fill with boredom, pain, and weariness from a day-long wait, interspersed with ugly, unwarranted comments and curses from my partner, a three year long depression sufferer.

Apparently, ascites build up and potential infection where they found a thickening of my bowel in the very same spot of my abdomen where I complained to my oncologist of constant pain. A pain level so fiercely off the charts, its feeling replaced organs and tissue about eight weeks ago.

No sleep and no change of clothing, no toiletries, no cat, not much of anything anywhere like home and of course no partner to hold me or wipe away any fears with a quick flick of the wrist. I’m complaining now rather than feeling the grace of life, in the now, where I am. I am grateful and very fortunate for my complete access to skilled nurses, doctors, and support staff.

That said, what company’s geniuses made this radically uncomfortable hospital bed? From the designers of, Hospital Gown, opening in the back for no real reason and showing the crack in your ass for over a century, comes new Z-Style Forward to the Past Torture Bed, now with patented bubble wrap technology in our extra, extra thin mattress. They tell me it’s for insuring patients do not get bedsores. And I’m exhausted from the bangs and inane noise coming from the room next to the one I share with a woman who speaks only Spanish and requires LOUD translators. Although she can apparently read the room service menu and translate it back to Spanish to order breakfast. She also gave me her cold so I’m running about a 99 degree fever and feeling flu-like symptoms.

Over the next few days my oncological team wants to remove, without prejudice, any remaining stuff in my sore, distended guts – still experiencing “slow transit.” Slow transit, an intrastate train system outside the country of Switzerland, where measurements of timeliness literally are marked to the 10th of a second. On time. I wish for a magic metamorphosis of my slow guts into a fast Swiss Train version.

Guts. Hmmm, apparently my friends and family admire my spiritual resilience, my steadiness and guts in the face of scary situations, and in particular, my over the age of consent blue humor. How much can my good qualities can stretch today? And so, I remain, my dear blog reader or two, your friend, in a sad state of Sick, in country called Illness, in a loud windowless room with Canferatu scratching on my door. He scares me nearly to death with oddly scented train cars and unpredictable time table based on non-Swiss random intervals.

I smell nice however, I’m not shooting with much accuracy, these days, either. From Werner Herzog’s remake with Klaus Kinski as Nosferatu, based mostly on the silent Murnau adaptation of the Stoker novel, I leave you with a quote, and one that says maybe it’s not Lucy with whom I should resonate, but the monster himself:

To be unable to grow old is terrible… Death is not the worst…

My phone call to Cancer’s customer service

A transcript of my imaginary phone call to The Cancer Store’s unhelpful desk. While the veracity of these two seemingly innocent characters is dubious, the names are changed to protect their identities, so by reading any farther, you waive your rights to any legal action should they bear any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead.)

Cut into conversation in progress between an agent the Cancer Store (CS) and dissatisfied client (Me):

Me: No, I ABSOLUTELY HATE having metastatic breast cancer. (Blows nose, whimpering)

CS: Mmmm hmmm. (Background sound: filing fingernails)

Me: Can I return it, please?

CS: Our product works very well, right? (Smug, mocking)

Me: This product works exactly as it should, yes indeed, too well. Although, I really hate the overall ownership experience. (Getting tense)
CS:(silent)
Me: Where do I send it back?
CS:(silent)
Me: Hey look, I don’t appreciate your attitude. Ridiculous! The total cost of ownership adds up to an exorbitant amount of money. I can’t see the value in a million plus dollars a year to treat it. And it never shuts up. Keeps me up all night, doesn’t let me hold a full time job…and it’s wrong, all wrong. I want my life back not stupid Cancer!
CS: (Yawns audibly, sniffs) Yep. Umm hmm.
Me: Well, I can’t afford it and it really just doesn’t fit me at all. So I’m sending it back.
CS: Did you receive our free sample and try it? (several people giggling call now on speakerphone)
Me: Yes, but I swear I never asked for it. (Begin tears)
CS: Ma’am for the last time, it IS all your fault. Of course you deserve it. Don’t you remember the time you stole Barbie clothes on Easter from a drugstore open on Easter when you were nine years old? (Uproarious laughter from crowd of people on speakerphone)
Me: Is that when I picked it up? I would think…
CS: Really? You would think? (Sarcastically sounding like the Charmin Toilet Paper man)
Me: Look! I learned my lesson and that was over 40 years ago! I was a child. This doesn’t seem fair. The cancer I got just keeps growing, and somehow no one could even detected it for years. Now, it runs off and hides from treatment. I would never order a generic anyway…I would ask for it by name brand, not just generic C A N C E R. (Spells out Cancer, desperation in voice)
CS: Oh dear, you have the wrong department, I need to put you on an eternal hold in which you will hear only dead silence. What stage did you purchase, ma’am?
Me: Stage 4, well I didn’t purchase anything at ALL! That’s the reason why I called your so-called service department in the first place. (Sounding triumphant)
CS: The number 4? As in metastatic cancer? I only show “lobular breast cancer” on our order form, miss. You may have to speak with a supervisor. Please sit silently on hold for the rest of your life.
Me: Wait! WAIT!!! What did you say? Wrong department or you’re getting your supervisor? Hey!
CS: Both. Oh, wait before I put you on hold, would you mind taking a survey to help us improve our service? And we are running a special on chemotherapy from the creators of your cancer epidemic! We’d be thrilled to help you with your treatments in a lifetime contract service plan. Don’t worry we kill 113 people from Metastatic Breast Cancer every single day!
Me: You have got to be kidding me!
(Clicking noise followed by dead air, Cancer customer puts phone on speaker phone but cannot hang up… fast forward to surreal scene of a bedroom 50 years in the future to the skeletal remains and hair on the floor of my former physical self, as the new demolition boats come to tear down the now oceanfront house, in San Jose, California.)
The End

Canferatu, The Monster at My Door

WARNING: I’m going to bitch a little. Maybe a lot. I admit, I’m in pain of several kinds and with facing #chemotherapy again, and the evacuation of a total of 10 liters of ascites  fluid from my abdomen adding 20lbs to my stomach and causing my body not only discomfort but all kinds of fun side effects including severe constipation. Ascites meanders through the abdominal cavities, which fill up with the remains of a body’s lubrication in the peritoneum, leaving less room for the organs including the intestines. See the container of yellowish fluid above? That’s one of four two-liter bottles removed from my big round belly three weeks ago. Additionally, I had four and a half more liters removed yesterday.

My body had enough room for food for first time in three weeks, long past a bad case of being “hangry” (hungry-angry). My prescious neighbor and dear friend Lisa, made me simple soup of chicken broth and won tons. The hunger with which I ate it rivaled Henry VIII mauling a turkey leg as he’s so often portrayed. I’m feeling like total shit right now, no pun intended. I feel physically and emotionally wrung out. I appreciate your patience and please know I do not mean to condescend: I’m just kick off my big girl shoes and put on my fuzzy slippers and whine.

#Stage4cancer brings to mind a place a B movie might portray, as you’ve probably noted in some of my other pity party posts. In my latest film, my 1960s MST3K worthy vampire hell ride, Canferatu. Canferatu is an inescapable, slow yet fast paced vampiric monster approaching magically everywhere I turn. Chills run down my spine as I hear the ugly abhorrent thing rapping, scraping on my door. I realize it’s only the wind picking up, frightening me as a tree branch runs its claws along the windows of my imagination,

Am I dreaming in color of the darkest places my consciousness has to offer on tonight’s mind menu? No. No horror film, no inadvertent wind blown tree debris, and definitely not a B movie. Reality sets in at some point between, “are you fucking kidding me?” and the desert test of an atom bomb blowing up underground and taking out a life I once knew. A life defined. One with possibilities of working full time, seeing friends, hearing from family, trips and travel, and a whole lotta love. As unsalvageable though your existence may feel at this very moment – if you don’t have stage 4 cancer consider all systems pretty good, if not fantastic!

I feel awful when I can’t feel much empathy for people with controllable, curable diseases who do nothing to seek out readily available medical attention. Even when the hands of help reach out to them to provide everything they require to find a healthy self, they choose to lie down in puddles of self created doom and pity. As I approach the diagnosis’ three year mark at stage four, I become more hardened to their plights. An empath, I know that their pain is very real pain. I know it’s as real as the device you’re reading my post on, yet I see possibility and hope. Depression and anxiety sufferers see darkness visible. As I scratch and scrape to stay alive and keep Canferatu from sucking me dry, my partner has the audacity to pull at my heels and bring me tumbling down with him into the black box he lives in day after day. And night after night without so much as a kiss or a hug anymore.

It all feels so very unfair. I want to make it all just stop because this simply cannot be real. Like Canferatu. What kind of unique inequity caused these circumstances in which I face my end of life head on while he faces his future head down? For three solid years, I represent the root cause of every single one of his problems. These days I’m overly embarrassed to even suggest sexuality as a topic to discuss. Who would embark on a talk to let him know how I don’t want my end of days bereft of human touch?

When my psyche owns up to having grace enough to know when to get off this crazy thing, I will, but I love him enough to have hope and to stay.

There’s days when his light comes on and his blue eyes sparkle and shine like two stars in the sky. Come on you, just wake up and shine with me for a little while and let’s shut this nightmare down. Coupling up begins, but never ends, with sex. Love in all its permutations requires an orchestration of high and low and mid range notes all syncopated in time, day in and day out. However, there’s a time not too far away when the cortisol highway in my body caused by the stress of this heinous cloud raining down on us both will end, as highways all must. I’ll have to leave him sitting here alone. If he refuses to seek help he so desperately needs much longer, I’ll miss him, and I wonder if that heartbreak is enough to cause a whole new cortisol highway to open up, allowing my cancer to take me over and cause a horrible, unintended wreck.

Does cancer extract my heart from my body for study by science and remain in a clear beaker like the one holding the ascites on some dusty shelf behind an outdated computer book from 1999? My loneliness and frustration are at an all time high. Can you tell? No, I have nothing he can gain from and to his mind, all he does is give and I cannot bring anything worthwhile to the relationship anymore, so why don’t I stop fucking up a good thing and just shut up?

Okay.

Cancer, My Jailor

Born with a scream, die with a whimper. Between those bookends, the self somehow develops. Perhaps it’s because we exist at the bottom of an empty well, waiting for the drenching rains of knowledge to float us up and out of the darkness. The more I know, the less I know, yet the more I’m told. How unsatisfactory.

Do you somehow quench a long thirst, find how to know yourself, somehow climb out of that well to find your soul?

Probably not. And not exactly where I’d hoped to wind up at stage 4 of my life. No, not like a pitcher winding up on a baseball mound, but wind up the ends of a life spent pursuing “right” actions. By ingesting information, sharing love, giving as fully as possible, I found no answer to my great questions. And if the unknown creates a thirst, I remain in a state of dehydration. My consciousness lacks something, and I belive I’m not yet done.

When I’m alone with my thoughts, I know there’s not anybody else who exists outside of my mind. Am I fearless in my self-consciousness if this doesn’t scare me? Descartes be damned with your cogito ergo sum, and screw the existential problems of a Danish prince or a French novelist who’ll always be a stranger to me.

On the eve of attending the week-long Cancer Help Program at Commonweal Commonweal Cancer Help Program I sit on a bed surrounded by words, paper, buttons, beads, clothes, books, and thoughts instead of someone else. The embarkation of discovery. What’s bothering me about this cancer thing?

I’ve lost my freedom. My free will in some sense. Thinking about my health, my ability to work, earn, travel, run, freely move about the world as I have for decades, I gave my freedom to a disease that’s beginning to travel around my body again. Now my liver and onto chemotherapy and other fun stiff drinks Stanford has in store when a changed me drives back over the Golden Gate Bridge next Sunday.

Walt Whitman said it far more concisely so I’ll leave him to you and say, “adieu.”

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools;
Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it, to another not having it;
Wisdom is of the Soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities, and is content…
– Walt Whitman