Marie-Cecile left yesterday after a short, forty-eight hour visit. She doesn't seem typically French; if there were a House un-French Activities Committee, she'd be called as a witness. She's 70, has bright orange hair, and never slows down. The first time I was ever invited to her house for dinner, she plunked me down in the kitchen, rummaged through the refrigerator, found some leftover pumpkin something, reheated it--and that was dinner. Among her friends, she's known for other, similar quirks. Her gift-giving is notorious. One Christmas, she gave me a washcloth. As it had a ribbon around it, I thought it was an example of inventive packaging, but no, there was nothing inside. Another time she gave me one of her father's used (but washed) handkerchiefs and a pamphlet for Catholic schoolchildren. If it's lying by the door on her way out of the house, it's an appropriate gift.
At her most memorable reveillon for the new year, she gave a large party after having gone through her wine cellar and selected every bottle of wine that she thought had turned or was turning. Every table had four or five bottles that might still be good. If guests took a sip and spit it out, it wasn't that they were wine experts; it was yet another undrinkable bottle. Some tables made it through the whole evening without anything to drink. You gotta love her, though. She's always good humored and absolutely indefatigable, and it was wonderful to have even this brief visit with her. She was in the U.S. with her friend Francoise, whose husband, Etienne, died last year. I had known both of them somewhat years ago in Metz. Etienne, like me, had metastasized kidney cancer. He lived only six months after the diagnosis. I'm not sure whether I found this news discouraging or encouraging.
I first learned French from a very rich half-French, half-Egyptian woman, Mona, who lived in Topeka. Her family lived all over the world and thought she was crazy for choosing Topeka, but Mona loved coyotes and wolves, and during the three decades that I knew her, she always had three coyotes, five dogs, and a cage of rescued doves. In Mona's world, there were two ways of doing things: the French way (as interpreted by Mona) and the wrong way. Americans who learned French, she always insisted, had to refrain from being informal and using 'tu' and instead always use 'vous.' She drummed this into me. When I first met Marie-Cecile's three children, all of them immediately used 'tu' with me. I was older and a professor; Mona would have cringed. But once I knew Marie-Cecile, I knew that formality wasn't part of the routine.
(Mona also taught me say, "Voulez-vous fatiguer la salade?" The first time I used that phrase in Metz, my friends stared at me as if I'd arrived from another century. And to digress even further, anytime Mona saw a woman in a store who had a slight mustache or stray hairs on her arm, Mona would say to the stranger, "I notice that you have a slight problem. I know someone who can take care of all that hair." When the woman would get angry, Mona would blame it on Americans who can't take the truth, unlike the French (or Mona's version of the French) who are honest about such matters.)
It was great to have my two old French friends in Topeka. It was also exhausting, and the last 24 hours with Marie-Cecile were not the best of times for me. Luckily, old friends understand these things.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Frederic is safely back in his small village (population 16) in France, and Marie-Cecile, having spent a week in New York, arrives this afternoon. Both have been to Topeka before. In all, 11 Francais have come to Topeka over the years, and I always want to show them what the Midwest has to offer so that when people say, You were in America and went where?!, they'll have something to answer. I love showing them Kansas City: the Nelson-Atkins, of course, and the Plaza, a drive through Mission Hills so they can see how the 1% of KC live, but also for some of them Worlds of Fun and a Royals game. The French always protest that they don't understand baseball and won't enjoy it--and then have a great time eating junk food, having some beer, and enjoying the spectacle on a summer night. And Lawrence: the KU campus, the Spencer, and downtown, which they particularly like because it feels European with people actually walking Mass Ave. instead of driving everywhere. And Topeka: Washburn, the Capitol (and now once again one can make the scary trip to the top of the dome and walk around outside), the beautiful public library with all its resources and all the people using it.
I used to take everyone to Lindsborg, where we'd stay at the Swedish Inn and then, on Friday night, drive to Brookville, when the hotel and restaurant were still there. The Garden of Eden was always a bizarre treat, and for the French, the Eisenhower Museum had a special resonance.
This time, however, the tourism was a lot more limited. Of course, the point of the visit had changed. Frederic's lover of twenty years committed suicide early this summer about the same time I was diagnosed with cancer. Now the point was just to see each other again, to remember good times. I met both Frederic and Marie-Cecile in 1987, early in my year teaching at the university in Metz. For twenty years after that I spent every Christmas and New Year's with Frederic and his family. The two reveillons were celebrated with huge dinners, many hours spent at the table. Every year his mother, who was in her 80s, and I split three dozen oysters to begin the meal. There was good food, many laughs, and, of course, champagne and presents at midnight. The week here with Frederic was good for both of us, I think.
Still, it is frustrating to be so restricted, to have to interrupt each day with a nap, to be exhausted after a mundane excursion like a trip to the library and the grocery store.
And now it's on to Marie-Cecile, who is 70 (when did all my friends get so old?) but still a bundle of energy. We're stocked up on wine and have a couple of tins of imported foie gras. I'm ready. On y va!
I used to take everyone to Lindsborg, where we'd stay at the Swedish Inn and then, on Friday night, drive to Brookville, when the hotel and restaurant were still there. The Garden of Eden was always a bizarre treat, and for the French, the Eisenhower Museum had a special resonance.
This time, however, the tourism was a lot more limited. Of course, the point of the visit had changed. Frederic's lover of twenty years committed suicide early this summer about the same time I was diagnosed with cancer. Now the point was just to see each other again, to remember good times. I met both Frederic and Marie-Cecile in 1987, early in my year teaching at the university in Metz. For twenty years after that I spent every Christmas and New Year's with Frederic and his family. The two reveillons were celebrated with huge dinners, many hours spent at the table. Every year his mother, who was in her 80s, and I split three dozen oysters to begin the meal. There was good food, many laughs, and, of course, champagne and presents at midnight. The week here with Frederic was good for both of us, I think.
Still, it is frustrating to be so restricted, to have to interrupt each day with a nap, to be exhausted after a mundane excursion like a trip to the library and the grocery store.
And now it's on to Marie-Cecile, who is 70 (when did all my friends get so old?) but still a bundle of energy. We're stocked up on wine and have a couple of tins of imported foie gras. I'm ready. On y va!
Saturday, February 11, 2012
5 or 6 things you should not say to someone who's living with cancer.
Some people who are living with cancer don't like to talk about it. I heard someone on TV a few days ago who refused to answer questions about her cancer because she didn't want to be defined by her illness. That's certainly an understandable attitude, though it's not one that I share (or I wouldn't be doing this blog). I don't think cancer defines me any more than being gay or left-handed does. But it is significant. One morning on April 13, 2010, I was living one kind of life; one telephone call later, my whole life had changed.
So, too, I've discovered a variety of responses to my illness. The most surprising to me are people who I assume know but who say nothing. Perhaps they don't know. Should I bring the subject up? Are they indifferent? Embarrassed? At the other extreme, there are those who ask extremely personal questions, which I'll usually answer for close friends. I'm happiest when people just want to discuss it matter-of-factly and then move on. I realize, though, that it's often a difficult or awkward position for the other person. Still, occasionally, there have been people who say things that seem so strange or inappropriate that I have no idea how to respond. Think of it as adults say the darnedest things--or perhaps as dumb and dumber. For example,
My dentist after a regular cleaning: "Do we even need to make another appointment?"
The same dentist six months later when I did have another cleaning, explaining why I had to take a massive dose of antibiotics beforehand: "We're just being overly cautious, but when you kick [his word], it's more impressive if it says 'cancer' and not 'dental hygiene.'"
After the surgery in May, a very nice physical therapist came to the house twice a week. Once, however, her supervisor came to check on the progress. She talked for thirty minutes, but didn't do any exercises. When she was ready to leave, I asked why we hadn't. She said, "Oh, your prognosis isn't all that great, so I figured you should just enjoy the time you have left."
A secretary (Washburn still uses that designation) with tears in her eyes: "I'm sorry, it's just that you look awful. You look so much weaker than the last time I saw you." (If I didn't look awful before--and I wasn't aware that I did--I probably did afterwards.) The next time I saw her, she was smiling and said, "You look really good." (Great. Stop there.) "You look so much better than the last time I saw you." (Good. Let's stop now.) "The last time you looked like you were at death's door." (Oh-oh. Too late.)
Once in a while, I have brunch or dinner with a small group of people with whom I have almost nothing in common; it's a tradition of sorts, though a strange one. The last time, one guy spent 90 minutes complaining. When he had the floor, he complained. When he didn't have the floor, he interrupted everyone else in order to complain some more. After the meal, he pulled me aside to say, "Since you won't be around to come to my funeral, I just want you to know that I've never been happier in my life."
And finally, at a poetry reading at the university, a student whose mother I've known for a long time said, "I heard about your cancer, but my mom said it's ok. You had a good life." A young colleague who was sitting next to me said, "He's still alive, you know!" But the student was off to spread more cheer. His comment clearly bothered my friend because that night I got two texts about what he'd said, both including the word 'dumbass.'
Some people who are living with cancer don't like to talk about it. I heard someone on TV a few days ago who refused to answer questions about her cancer because she didn't want to be defined by her illness. That's certainly an understandable attitude, though it's not one that I share (or I wouldn't be doing this blog). I don't think cancer defines me any more than being gay or left-handed does. But it is significant. One morning on April 13, 2010, I was living one kind of life; one telephone call later, my whole life had changed.
So, too, I've discovered a variety of responses to my illness. The most surprising to me are people who I assume know but who say nothing. Perhaps they don't know. Should I bring the subject up? Are they indifferent? Embarrassed? At the other extreme, there are those who ask extremely personal questions, which I'll usually answer for close friends. I'm happiest when people just want to discuss it matter-of-factly and then move on. I realize, though, that it's often a difficult or awkward position for the other person. Still, occasionally, there have been people who say things that seem so strange or inappropriate that I have no idea how to respond. Think of it as adults say the darnedest things--or perhaps as dumb and dumber. For example,
My dentist after a regular cleaning: "Do we even need to make another appointment?"
The same dentist six months later when I did have another cleaning, explaining why I had to take a massive dose of antibiotics beforehand: "We're just being overly cautious, but when you kick [his word], it's more impressive if it says 'cancer' and not 'dental hygiene.'"
After the surgery in May, a very nice physical therapist came to the house twice a week. Once, however, her supervisor came to check on the progress. She talked for thirty minutes, but didn't do any exercises. When she was ready to leave, I asked why we hadn't. She said, "Oh, your prognosis isn't all that great, so I figured you should just enjoy the time you have left."
A secretary (Washburn still uses that designation) with tears in her eyes: "I'm sorry, it's just that you look awful. You look so much weaker than the last time I saw you." (If I didn't look awful before--and I wasn't aware that I did--I probably did afterwards.) The next time I saw her, she was smiling and said, "You look really good." (Great. Stop there.) "You look so much better than the last time I saw you." (Good. Let's stop now.) "The last time you looked like you were at death's door." (Oh-oh. Too late.)
Once in a while, I have brunch or dinner with a small group of people with whom I have almost nothing in common; it's a tradition of sorts, though a strange one. The last time, one guy spent 90 minutes complaining. When he had the floor, he complained. When he didn't have the floor, he interrupted everyone else in order to complain some more. After the meal, he pulled me aside to say, "Since you won't be around to come to my funeral, I just want you to know that I've never been happier in my life."
And finally, at a poetry reading at the university, a student whose mother I've known for a long time said, "I heard about your cancer, but my mom said it's ok. You had a good life." A young colleague who was sitting next to me said, "He's still alive, you know!" But the student was off to spread more cheer. His comment clearly bothered my friend because that night I got two texts about what he'd said, both including the word 'dumbass.'
Thursday, February 9, 2012
A list, as in the last post, isn't satisfying when there's no ending, no completion. Life is like a list (cue music from Forest Gump). Like all human activities, indeed all natural activities, there is no shape, no meaning without a beginning, a middle, and an ending. The idea of "eternal life" seems to me not only an oxymoron, but a concept that is unimaginable and, if it could be imagined, undesirable. "Love calls us to things of this world," wrote Richard Wilbur. We have them for a while, and knowing that we won't have them forever provides a welcome rhythm to our lives. So reason #4 for not fearing death is that without that ending, life would have no meaning.
Steve Jobs, in his search for a spiritual lesson, said that he didn't want to think of life as like a computer with an on/off switch. It's not the prettiest of metaphors, but, as all of us know from experience, there is that moment when the switch flips to off. Perhaps more accurately, life is like a rheostat: in the on position, some moments are bright, others dimmer. I try as best I can to keep the light shining brightly. One of the frustrating aspects of cancer is that the disease and the chemo and the side effects often dim the lights when I'd like them bright. Eventually, though, there will be an ending, the switch will descend to the off position: "Put out the light and then put out the light."
In my all-time favorite novel, The Sound and the Fury, Jason Compson is fond of cynical descriptions of the cycle of life. One he does in Latin: Non fui. Sum. Fui. Non sum. I was not. I am. I was. I am not. His cynicism is sometimes amusing, but it's also destructive. If we think of that series, though, not as something to despair over but as simply the way it is, the sequence suggests the beginning, middle, and ending of our journey. The world endured for millions of years when I was not; it will endure when I am not.
Steve Jobs, in his search for a spiritual lesson, said that he didn't want to think of life as like a computer with an on/off switch. It's not the prettiest of metaphors, but, as all of us know from experience, there is that moment when the switch flips to off. Perhaps more accurately, life is like a rheostat: in the on position, some moments are bright, others dimmer. I try as best I can to keep the light shining brightly. One of the frustrating aspects of cancer is that the disease and the chemo and the side effects often dim the lights when I'd like them bright. Eventually, though, there will be an ending, the switch will descend to the off position: "Put out the light and then put out the light."
In my all-time favorite novel, The Sound and the Fury, Jason Compson is fond of cynical descriptions of the cycle of life. One he does in Latin: Non fui. Sum. Fui. Non sum. I was not. I am. I was. I am not. His cynicism is sometimes amusing, but it's also destructive. If we think of that series, though, not as something to despair over but as simply the way it is, the sequence suggests the beginning, middle, and ending of our journey. The world endured for millions of years when I was not; it will endure when I am not.
. . .
Yesterday was a full day, and by 4 p.m., I was pooped. Mohamed had homework, and I hated to leave Frederic alone with nothing to do, so I pulled out a bunch of DVDs of French films. Most were classics (Renoir, Truffaut, Blier) that we had both seen, but one was a French-Candian film, Les Invasions barbares, which I had seen but Frederic had not. It won the Oscar for best foreign film and is described on the case as a "funny look" at clashing cultures. The story centers on a university professor who is dying of cancer, and for the first hour, it is funny. I watched that much with Frederic, but then couldn't stay awake so went upstairs to take a nap (the rheostat was definitely dimmed). The last part of the movie, however, is not funny, and at the end the professor dies. When Mohamed came to wake me, he was worried about Frederic, whom he had found sitting in the near dark with no TV, no music, no book, and no mots croises (I can't figure out how to insert accents in this program). Frederic was beside himself with sadness because of the end of the film and guilt because he had chosen it. He was convinced that I had stopped watching because I couldn't face the movie's end. He had a hard time believing that I like the movie and was simply too exhausted to watch the last part. But I do, and I was. The movie had its inevitable and natural ending.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Yesterday it was time to go to KC for the results of Friday's tests. It was our third trip to Kansas City in four days. Despite the mild winter, the first time there was driving rain (the pun furnished by the cliche), the second time, when we picked up my old friend Frederic who had arrived from France, snow in the air, and the third a very thick fog. We had to get up at 5:45 so that three of us could get ready to leave at 6:45 for the 8 a.m. appointment. Dr. Van, as I've said, takes lots of time, so he's always running behind. Luckily, we were the first of the morning, so he hadn't had a chance to fall behind. The news was good: the tests showed that the cancer was generally stable. The primary cancer in the kidney had grown a very small amount; if the growth continues, perhaps I'll have a simple ablation (burning away) of the growth, but generally for Stage IV kidney cancer, since it's already metastasized to other organs, doctors don't bother to remove the tumor or the kidney itself. The spots in the bones haven't grown, and we'll now reduce the bone-strengthening shots from once a month to once every three months. There are also spots on the spine and in the lungs, but they too haven't grown. Looking over the doctor's shoulder, Mohamed could see on the computer that there are small growths on the spleen, gall bladder, and liver, but Dr. Van didn't mention those, and they evidently haven't increased either. It's always a relief to know that everything is stable, and I don't have to go back for six weeks. Frederic thought the cancer center looked more like a hotel than a medical facilty and was amazed by the joking rapport with the nurse and scheduler.
One characteristic of a university hospital is that there are often interns (residents?) accompanying the physician. I remember Joseph Heller complaining about this and saying that he'd never go to a training hospital again. Dr. Templeton, who did the surgery on my femur, had an intern who was, I think, intimidated by her. When he came alone, he was relaxed and made jokes; when she was with him, he was stiff and sober. The only times I get impatient with the interns have been when they come before the doctor, ask me what seems like dozens of questions I've already answered, and then return with the physician to repeat the process. There was an intern with Dr. Van yesterday, but he didn't say a word. Since there were five of us in the small consultation room, maybe the atmosphere wasn't conducive for questioning, but I was glad I didn't have to feign interest in answering his questions.
It was only 9 a.m. when we finished. We went to the Plaza and walked around a bit, but nothing was open except Starbuck's, so we had coffee. Frederic, my French friend, had a croissant, which made him feel at home, and Mohamed had a pastry. I couldn't eat, since I had just taken the chemotherapy pills, so I just drooled from the sidelines. On the way home, we stopped at a giant Cabela's--not my favorite store, but I thought it would be interesting for Frederic. He was duly impressed. Frederic aime trainer (he likes to take his time window shopping), and I think he must have looked at half of the thousands of fishing rods in the store, and he loved the aquarium and dioramas. I worry that he came all this way and that we're not showing him a very lively time, so at least this was a good stop.
I need to return to and complete my list of the four reasons I don't fear death. Reason #4 is
One characteristic of a university hospital is that there are often interns (residents?) accompanying the physician. I remember Joseph Heller complaining about this and saying that he'd never go to a training hospital again. Dr. Templeton, who did the surgery on my femur, had an intern who was, I think, intimidated by her. When he came alone, he was relaxed and made jokes; when she was with him, he was stiff and sober. The only times I get impatient with the interns have been when they come before the doctor, ask me what seems like dozens of questions I've already answered, and then return with the physician to repeat the process. There was an intern with Dr. Van yesterday, but he didn't say a word. Since there were five of us in the small consultation room, maybe the atmosphere wasn't conducive for questioning, but I was glad I didn't have to feign interest in answering his questions.
It was only 9 a.m. when we finished. We went to the Plaza and walked around a bit, but nothing was open except Starbuck's, so we had coffee. Frederic, my French friend, had a croissant, which made him feel at home, and Mohamed had a pastry. I couldn't eat, since I had just taken the chemotherapy pills, so I just drooled from the sidelines. On the way home, we stopped at a giant Cabela's--not my favorite store, but I thought it would be interesting for Frederic. He was duly impressed. Frederic aime trainer (he likes to take his time window shopping), and I think he must have looked at half of the thousands of fishing rods in the store, and he loved the aquarium and dioramas. I worry that he came all this way and that we're not showing him a very lively time, so at least this was a good stop.
I need to return to and complete my list of the four reasons I don't fear death. Reason #4 is
Saturday, February 4, 2012
We interrupt the enumeration of reasons for a description of yesterday's tests at the Med Center. Because kidney cancer is relatively rare and because the operation on the femur was complicated, with the exception of the radiation, all my treatments, including the surgery, have been/are at the KU Med Center and the related cancer center, which is located just a few blocks from the main campus. It's about a 75 minute drive from my house to either facility, most of it on I-70, so it's only slightly inconvenient, and obviously convenience isn't the most important consideration: having the best doctors is.
The original plan for Friday was the regular three month battery of tests (blood work, full skeletal x-ray, CT scan) plus a shot and then a consultation with Dr. Van, the renal oncologist. But Dr. Van had to reschedule, so that was moved to Monday, convenient because we had a scheduled consult with Dr. Templeton, the orthopedic oncologist on Monday. By Friday, her scheduler had called to say that she would be out of town on Monday, so that had to be rescheduled as well.
Friday we got up at 5:45 so that we could leave an hour later and get to our first appointment by 8. I couldn't eat or drink for four hours before the tests, except for enough water to get down all the pills I take first thing in the morning. (On a regular day, I have OJ, coffee, and cereal, take the first set of pills, then have to wait three hours without eating before I take the chemotherapy and then have to wait another hour before I can eat.) The drive to KC was stressful, and there were unusual Februay thunderstorms, heavy rain, and low visibility. We saw two major accidents, not exactly reassuring. But we got to the Center with no problems and were called relative quickly for the blood work. The phlebotomist (written on his lab coat) was not in a good mood. He seemed to struggle with booting up the computer and getting the correct information and was less than friendly. When he was ready to draw the blood, I said that when I also have the CT scan and will need an IV, they normally put in a port. He said there were no instructions to do that; I said it was the way it was usually done. He repeated that he wasn't going to do it, so I gave up, and he drew the three vials of blood. Because the shot that Mohamed gives me every morning is an anti-coagulant, it's usually necessary to keep the pressure on the puncture a bit longer than usual. The lab tech was having none of that either.
Next I registered for the x-ray and the CT scans. A nurse brought me two bottles of the ionizing drink. The Center has switched from the "smoothie" to a clear, fruit-flavored liquid in attractive bottles that look like supermarket drinks. The drinks aren't horrible (the smoothies weren't either), but they're hardly something you would voluntarily pay for. The nurse told me to start drinking them, but I told her that usually I don't start drinking until after the x-rays because the liquid interferes with accurate x-rays. This seemed to cause some consternation and several phone calls until I heard one of the staff say, "Oh, here it is. I found where he's scheduled for full-body x-rays." By that time, the nurse had told me to go ahead and start drinking, so I had downed one of the bottles. Now she told me to stop. Luckily, the x-rays went ok (unlike the first technician, the woman doing the x-rays was very friendly), and I could then finish the second bottle and have the CT scan (ditto for the friendliness of the staff).
All this was accomplished ahead of schedule, and we were faced with a two and a half hour break before going to the Cancer Center for a scheduled five-minute shot. We decided to try our luck there, so we made the short drive and begged for sneaking us in early. By this time everyone at the Cancer Center knows us, probably because we're an unusual couple: one old and pale and Wasp-ish; the other young and dark and Arab. And we're both gregarious types who joke around with the staff. So by 11, we had completed the day's work. Monday we go back to meet with Dr. Van; two weeks later, we meet with Dr. Templeton.
By this point, I was very hungry, so we met our friend TJ at Stroud's, the famous "home of pan-fried chicken," often mentioned on the Food Network. The original is in North Kansas City, but there is now a branch near the Cancer Center. I don't know whether it was not having eaten for 18 hours or feeling relief that the tests were over, but my appetite, which comes and goes, was definitely in full force. We got a full-order (way too much) of livers and gizzards, the delicious fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and the best cinnamon rolls I've had in a long time. I ate and ate. And I have a great excuse for being a pig: since my appetite is variable, since diarrhea is a major problem, and since it's necessary to keep my weight up, I feel perfectly justified in eating whatever whenever I feel like it. Sure, there was little that was healthful, and sure, I was completely logy the rest of the day, but rationalization worked as it's supposed to.
Taking all these tests doesn't usually make me apprehensive, but for some reason, this time it did, and I didn't sleep well the night before. I don't know whether it was lack of sleep or the very heavy meal, but the rest of the day was a blur. I fell asleep on the way home, I slept after we got home, and I could barely stay awake till 10. But now it's time for the chemo pills, and then only an after hour of that, I can have the cinnamon roll I brought home from Stroud's. That sounds like a good plan to me.
The original plan for Friday was the regular three month battery of tests (blood work, full skeletal x-ray, CT scan) plus a shot and then a consultation with Dr. Van, the renal oncologist. But Dr. Van had to reschedule, so that was moved to Monday, convenient because we had a scheduled consult with Dr. Templeton, the orthopedic oncologist on Monday. By Friday, her scheduler had called to say that she would be out of town on Monday, so that had to be rescheduled as well.
Friday we got up at 5:45 so that we could leave an hour later and get to our first appointment by 8. I couldn't eat or drink for four hours before the tests, except for enough water to get down all the pills I take first thing in the morning. (On a regular day, I have OJ, coffee, and cereal, take the first set of pills, then have to wait three hours without eating before I take the chemotherapy and then have to wait another hour before I can eat.) The drive to KC was stressful, and there were unusual Februay thunderstorms, heavy rain, and low visibility. We saw two major accidents, not exactly reassuring. But we got to the Center with no problems and were called relative quickly for the blood work. The phlebotomist (written on his lab coat) was not in a good mood. He seemed to struggle with booting up the computer and getting the correct information and was less than friendly. When he was ready to draw the blood, I said that when I also have the CT scan and will need an IV, they normally put in a port. He said there were no instructions to do that; I said it was the way it was usually done. He repeated that he wasn't going to do it, so I gave up, and he drew the three vials of blood. Because the shot that Mohamed gives me every morning is an anti-coagulant, it's usually necessary to keep the pressure on the puncture a bit longer than usual. The lab tech was having none of that either.
Next I registered for the x-ray and the CT scans. A nurse brought me two bottles of the ionizing drink. The Center has switched from the "smoothie" to a clear, fruit-flavored liquid in attractive bottles that look like supermarket drinks. The drinks aren't horrible (the smoothies weren't either), but they're hardly something you would voluntarily pay for. The nurse told me to start drinking them, but I told her that usually I don't start drinking until after the x-rays because the liquid interferes with accurate x-rays. This seemed to cause some consternation and several phone calls until I heard one of the staff say, "Oh, here it is. I found where he's scheduled for full-body x-rays." By that time, the nurse had told me to go ahead and start drinking, so I had downed one of the bottles. Now she told me to stop. Luckily, the x-rays went ok (unlike the first technician, the woman doing the x-rays was very friendly), and I could then finish the second bottle and have the CT scan (ditto for the friendliness of the staff).
All this was accomplished ahead of schedule, and we were faced with a two and a half hour break before going to the Cancer Center for a scheduled five-minute shot. We decided to try our luck there, so we made the short drive and begged for sneaking us in early. By this time everyone at the Cancer Center knows us, probably because we're an unusual couple: one old and pale and Wasp-ish; the other young and dark and Arab. And we're both gregarious types who joke around with the staff. So by 11, we had completed the day's work. Monday we go back to meet with Dr. Van; two weeks later, we meet with Dr. Templeton.
By this point, I was very hungry, so we met our friend TJ at Stroud's, the famous "home of pan-fried chicken," often mentioned on the Food Network. The original is in North Kansas City, but there is now a branch near the Cancer Center. I don't know whether it was not having eaten for 18 hours or feeling relief that the tests were over, but my appetite, which comes and goes, was definitely in full force. We got a full-order (way too much) of livers and gizzards, the delicious fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and the best cinnamon rolls I've had in a long time. I ate and ate. And I have a great excuse for being a pig: since my appetite is variable, since diarrhea is a major problem, and since it's necessary to keep my weight up, I feel perfectly justified in eating whatever whenever I feel like it. Sure, there was little that was healthful, and sure, I was completely logy the rest of the day, but rationalization worked as it's supposed to.
Taking all these tests doesn't usually make me apprehensive, but for some reason, this time it did, and I didn't sleep well the night before. I don't know whether it was lack of sleep or the very heavy meal, but the rest of the day was a blur. I fell asleep on the way home, I slept after we got home, and I could barely stay awake till 10. But now it's time for the chemo pills, and then only an after hour of that, I can have the cinnamon roll I brought home from Stroud's. That sounds like a good plan to me.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Reason #3. I'm an atheist. A Muslim friend in Morocco was upset by the subtitle of the blog: Why did I have to be so aggressive about it? Was this a guide only for atheists? (I'm not sure that so far it's even much of a guide.) In part, the choice was, I'll have to admit, a reaction to a specific event: I was watching my favorite morning show, "Up" with Chris Hayes. One of the panelists was a liberal black woman, and I was nodding and agreeing with everything she said when the subject of the death of Christopher Hitchens came up. The panelist said that she didn't understand why atheists didn't just shut up and stop being so in-your-face about their lack of belief. She was a Christian, and Jesus was... On and on she went, and higher and higher went my blood pressure. She didn't see any reason why she shouldn't expound on her beliefs, but those atheists!
Many people have said, "I'll pray for you," and that's fine with me. I know the intentions are good, and we atheists don't have much that's equivalent. "I'm sending you good thoughts (or vibes or whatever)" isn't very powerful. But I've also gotten, "Christ is the Great Physician. You just have surrender yourself to Him" and "Disease isn't real. You can will illness away," and then my response isn't quite so generous.
God, prayer, spirituality, heaven, hell--all are absolutely empty concepts to me. They have no purchase, either emotionally or intellectually. And I find that very comforting. One of Stephen Crane's short poems reads
A man said to the universe
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
"A sense of obligation."
The speaker addresses the universe very politely. With "Sir," he affirms his respect. He's succinct: a simple subject and a verb. He makes no demands, but simply states a fact. (Perhaps he's thinking of St. Augustine's I want you to be.) True, he ends his statement with an exclamation point, the only indication that his emotions are more intense that the content of his remark suggests. And the universe responds with flat indifference. Crane was a PK, a preacher's kid, and there is a certain reactive bitterness in this poem, as in most of his work. For me, though, it what the universe says it is: a fact. It is what it is, and that's that.
Without God, the supposed stages of grieving can be ignored entirely. Anger? There's no one/nothing to be angry with. Bargaining? Ditto. There's no fruitless asking "Why me?" No one will answer, and no answer would make sense.
Life takes meaning from its shape, and the idea of hell and even more so of heaven are beyond my ken. As in so many things religious, Twain got it exactly and hilariously right. What would eternal life even mean? As Wallace Stevens says in one of the most beautiful poems of the 20th century, "Sunday Morning,"
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky.
. . .
Alas, that they should wear our colors there
As Stevens writes in an earlier stanza, if the earth is all of paradise that we know
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
Amen!
On a different topic, tomorrow I go to the KU Med Center for a day of testing. Every third month, it's the complete battery: first blood work, the a full-body x-ray, then, after drinking two bottles of "creamy vanilla smoothie" (a/k/a barium), a CT scan. Then there's a break, followed by the $11,700 bone-strengthening shot (the price went up $500 with the new year). The primary kidney cancer hasn't been growing, nor have I had any symptoms of kidney cancer. On the other hand, the metathesis to the bones has been very aggressive. Here's hoping that the expensive shot is doing its work. On Saturday, my oldest French friend is coming for a visit, and we're looking forward to a week of good food and wine and French conversation. And then on Monday, it's another trip back to the cancer center for consultations with both the orthopedic and the renal oncologists. Some of this schedule sounds more fun than the rest.
Many people have said, "I'll pray for you," and that's fine with me. I know the intentions are good, and we atheists don't have much that's equivalent. "I'm sending you good thoughts (or vibes or whatever)" isn't very powerful. But I've also gotten, "Christ is the Great Physician. You just have surrender yourself to Him" and "Disease isn't real. You can will illness away," and then my response isn't quite so generous.
God, prayer, spirituality, heaven, hell--all are absolutely empty concepts to me. They have no purchase, either emotionally or intellectually. And I find that very comforting. One of Stephen Crane's short poems reads
A man said to the universe
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
"A sense of obligation."
The speaker addresses the universe very politely. With "Sir," he affirms his respect. He's succinct: a simple subject and a verb. He makes no demands, but simply states a fact. (Perhaps he's thinking of St. Augustine's I want you to be.) True, he ends his statement with an exclamation point, the only indication that his emotions are more intense that the content of his remark suggests. And the universe responds with flat indifference. Crane was a PK, a preacher's kid, and there is a certain reactive bitterness in this poem, as in most of his work. For me, though, it what the universe says it is: a fact. It is what it is, and that's that.
Without God, the supposed stages of grieving can be ignored entirely. Anger? There's no one/nothing to be angry with. Bargaining? Ditto. There's no fruitless asking "Why me?" No one will answer, and no answer would make sense.
Life takes meaning from its shape, and the idea of hell and even more so of heaven are beyond my ken. As in so many things religious, Twain got it exactly and hilariously right. What would eternal life even mean? As Wallace Stevens says in one of the most beautiful poems of the 20th century, "Sunday Morning,"
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky.
. . .
Alas, that they should wear our colors there
As Stevens writes in an earlier stanza, if the earth is all of paradise that we know
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
Amen!
On a different topic, tomorrow I go to the KU Med Center for a day of testing. Every third month, it's the complete battery: first blood work, the a full-body x-ray, then, after drinking two bottles of "creamy vanilla smoothie" (a/k/a barium), a CT scan. Then there's a break, followed by the $11,700 bone-strengthening shot (the price went up $500 with the new year). The primary kidney cancer hasn't been growing, nor have I had any symptoms of kidney cancer. On the other hand, the metathesis to the bones has been very aggressive. Here's hoping that the expensive shot is doing its work. On Saturday, my oldest French friend is coming for a visit, and we're looking forward to a week of good food and wine and French conversation. And then on Monday, it's another trip back to the cancer center for consultations with both the orthopedic and the renal oncologists. Some of this schedule sounds more fun than the rest.
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