I miss him.

I used to run.  I loved running.  Perhaps I miss this most.  Most because it was a constant all through my life.  I used my legs and my wind to carry me through sports and high school, onward to college and collegiate sports and afterwards through every aspect of life that came.  I played sports after college, in the air deprived land of Boulder, Colorado, readying to practice law.  I played sports after law school, finding rugby as a welcome diversion for my competitive needs.  It provided me with a group, a team, a family. I met my wife because I could run and play.  Nothing bad ever came out of lacing up my shoes and heading out for a run.  Countless playlists were labored over so that running would be effortless and joyful.  Heat was embraced, I loved the sweat that beaded up and cooled my skin during summer months.  Cold was respected and enjoyed, chasing frosty exhales as sounds became crisper and the roads more solitary.

My body remembers running.  Muscle memory, I suppose.  If I close my eyes and breath with intent and see my self stride off into easy job, my body relaxes.  It’s as if, the memory itself is still a happiness, a catharsis.  I try to not categorize the various and numerous things which I have lost, either through inability or lack of desire or oppressive barriers such as pain or nausea or risk.  But, running always creeps in.  Regret and remorse have not yet partnered with these memories.  I can still enjoy the residual memories, like a negative for those of us over 40.  I can still feel my legs stretching, my lungs never full, always able to gulp in the cottony air ever-present before me.  My body, as currently composed, is fat, and spasms and is fragile.  It breaks and splinters with regularity.  But the mind remembers the memory of this running, and just does not believe the contradiction that today’s mirror presents itself with.

I think I’ll change the mirror.

Bones should not look like they fell in glow in the dark paint. Each little lightbulb on those ribs is well known to me…. Declaring a prior broken rib and perhaps a soon to be fracture again. However, G-Diddy declares that this is a “good” bone scan, showing not much progression since last scan, during late summer. The issue, it seems, is the liver. That enormous slimy organ. Seems we have a little bastard trying to assert itself. Being as bold as measuring 3.5 cm, this little asshole has a few groupies of various millimeter dimensions clamoring for attention. So, onward to navelbine. Goodbye Abraxane, I feel like I hardly knew ye. Goodbye fair treating gentle Abraxy (my little nickname for this dear friend). Goodbye ye of letting my hair grow to KDLang length, of letting my skin heal and stop sloughing off, of letting me go to work, and do a trial, and share many moments of happiness with the wife and child. Most importantly, that. It is all about achieving that, at the end. So, here we come navelbine…. May u be an assassin to anything untoward, I’d like to keep my hair, but not a deal breaker. The weight loss you advertise would be welcome. The wife and I are rooting for you Navelbine! We have a vacation to attend!!! We have pictures and moments and laughter that have not yet been had. Give unto ceasar!

I was trying to think of a better title, something clever.  Then, it occurred to me, the truth is really just about all one needs.

First, lets acknowledge the trend….  I had my third infusion of Doxil yesterday.  Annnnd, once more, here I sit, 233am in the morning, because I feel awake and want to keep hold of that feeling for a little bit longer before the inevitable fatigue grabs me for bout a week.  The second infusion fatigue didn’t last as long as the first, so I am hopeful that this time is less still.  No problems with the administration of the Doxil.  However, when they went to access what is supposed to be my oh so convenient port, it seems that my body had decided to encase, from inside, the little fucker.  So, some sort of Fibril Sheath grew over, around, in, I really don’t have a grasp on this one, and prevented the “oh so convenient port” from being, well, convenient.  Because, after approximately a dozen flushes of saline to pop it out, and then having me lay flat and cough, and then bend over and cough while pushing saline, it would not clear.  So, we then have to administer some sort of “roto rooter” chemical into the “oh so convenient port” and let it sit there for one fucking hour to dissolve my mighty Sheath.  Resistance is everywhere.

So, let’s talk poop.  When my cancer figures its way around whatever drug we are using, I predictably start getting little broken/fractured ribs, pains in back, tiredness.  Usually, these happen with no discernible moment of detection.  Mostly, I just seem to wake up and notice that it hurts to breath or lift anything or sneeze.  

However, I think it was March, maybe April, and I was driving home from work, which is an hour away.  About halfway home, it suddenly occured to me, with a clarity that only these special moments can bring, that I had to poop, right fucking now.  Like, at least a full minute before I wrote that there sentence,  “I had to poop right fucking now.”    The goal, the shining beacon of hope, is my first floor half bathroom.  My body goes into hero mode…..  every muscle that is available to voluntary control is deployed to CLENCH!!!!!!    I leave my right foot relatively undeployed to allow braking and acceleration of the car.  My ears and eyebrows are flexing upwards, towards heaven, to encourage the poop sliding further and further down my large colon to reverse its course and move up… UP!!!!   My butt and back and torso are clenched in such a way that I image professional body builders would give me a knowing nod and wink.    My thighs clench “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!!!”    Small droplets of sweat have formed on my brow…. I take this as encouragement because perhaps, just perhaps, I will dehydrate before my sphincter expels this devil train.  Constipation viewed as a welcome defense.  

Waves of treason spasm from my butt as those forces which seek to expel will not abate.  But, this is my line in the sand.  I will make it to my wee half bathroom with this poop still lodged in my ass if it is the last thing I do.  THIS IS A TEST OF WHO IS BOSS!!!!!   Do we let the shit set the tone or do we clench down and say not today, el shito, NOT TO-FUCKING-DAY!!!  This moment become a microcosm to me of life itself and the mighty battle against metastatic cancer.  And, Mister, Cancer is getting its ass clenched today.  My driveway is….. right….. there…..

Now, I think it is fair to imagine that a body clenched in a sitting position might have certain difficulties in becoming upright.  I sort of stumble out of the car and do the “she looks like she has pole up her ass” walk to the door, unlock the door, and scurry step to the little half bath…. I AM GOING TO MAKE IT!!!!!!!!!  

I sit and in that moment of pure, unadulterated joy, I unclench every muscle in my body to let the sweet release happen in a cacophony of joy and….     WHATTHEFUCK IS THAT AWFUL POPPING SOUND AND PAIN RIGHT BELOW MY LEFT BOOB??? OHMYGOD I’M GOING TO HAVE TO CALL THE AMBULANCE AND I CANT GET OFF THE TOILET…. OHMYGOD…. IS THAT SMELL FROM ME….. OHNO…. CAN I WIPE MY JUDAS TREASONOUS ASS BEFORE THE AMUBULANCE GETS HERE????  HOW CAN I KEEP THIS SECRET FROM THE WIFE SO THIS ISN’T TOLD AT THE NEXT FAMILY EVENT.??????   WHY IS THE DOG TRYING TO PUT HER HEAD IN MY LAP????  BAD DOG BAD DOG!!!!   OK, the pain is subsiding a little bit….   nothing is sticking out…  I can move a bit….  

And, eventually, I was able to leave the bathroom with a modicum of dignity, if not an intact rib.  And that, is how one should never underestimate the power of poop.  

Well, I suppose I should actually write down the little snippets of thoughts, or moments of outstanding clarity that really should just be shared with others, or my clever insights into disease and life that if only others could read, would make them that much more able to handle their own inconviences and “life bumps.”

But I don’t think folks really learn that way.  I never did.  I could hide really well from people who where sick when I was young.  I can still do a pretty good job of that now… although, I will say I’ve come along way in that department.  Some of that is through my own rumination, a lot is through the example of the wife.  She has certainly taught me much.  

We just had a Judge die, I think of pancreatic cancer.  I don’t think he had it long, or knew about it long.  By all accounts that I am aware of, he was exceptionally private about his illness.  But he was out numerous Fridays, which I always like to think of as the working folks day for chemo.  He became very pale, and lost his hair.  Everybody in his court would notice his appearance and wonder, and assume, and then to a person comment on how nice, and pleasant and professional he was in court.  On one hand I admire that, on the other hand, I wish he had been more open about what he was going through….. if only for selfish reasons.  He  had this, (again, I believe it was pancreatic) exceptionally aggressive cancer manifest itself and overtake his person in a very short fashion….   perhaps a year?  

There was also just a woman who belonged to our pool, 44 years old, who died suddenly of a heart attack.  44.  I’m 48.  Selfishly, I seem to always compare my illness to these examples and then contemplate who has/had it better.  Which is why I write this shit here……   My first remembrance of doing this was when Joe Berg was beheaded by terrorists and it was filmed and I made the mistake of watching it…. it wasn’t too hard to find on the internet… some 15 years ago…   and i though, my god, I may have cancer, but I have not been beheaded in such a horrific manner (I’m not sure what method of beheaded would not be horrific…   guillotine less horrible than manually with a knife???)….   When a Syrian refugee child washed up dead on beach after his boat sunk, I thought, I may now have metastatic cancer, but I have lived into my late 40’s….  I was not drowned as a child after being forced to flee my home…   

So, is this wrong? To constantly calibrate myself this way?  I have been formally diagnosed with stage IV cancer since September 2012.  So, 5 years is coming up this September.  5 years.  Used as such a marker in so many studies, in so many statistics, in so much evaluations as to whether a drug or a treatment is “effective.”  Has some treatment, has some drug, helped get a patient to 5 years survival rate.  When I was 34 and primary cancer, and they talked about 5 years survival rates, I was part outraged and part incredulous.  What does a 34 year old care about 5 year survival rates… when you are THIRTY FOUR FUCKING YEARS OLD!!!  

Now, I’m 48, stage IV, and coming up on 5 years…. and feeling like its a worthy milestone.    I’ve been very tired the last few months… exceptionally so after my first treatment of Doxil a month ago.  Doxil is my first IV chemo since I was diagnosed in 2012… I was on Xeloda for about the last year, and it seemed to do well… brought my markers down from over 600 to under 200… but then, as the disease is want to do… it adapts, figures out the drug, and continues to be… well…. cancerous.  With me, it seems to be predictable in that ribs break…. aches and pains get worse….. and I feel…. less.  Maybe because my body is fighting it on a level I can’t articulate or understand?  Don’t know.  But, the “plan” than becomes to find another drug and carry on, soldier, carry on.

I had my second infusion of Doxil today.  And it’s now 1130pm at night and I haven’t gone to bed.  The first time I had Doxil, last month… I had difficulty with the drug…. there was actually a code yellow when they started to push it through the port.  Which means that about 12 different nurses and doctors descend upon you on the floor and flush your port and administer different drugs and benedryl to try to reverse the feeling of tightness in your chest that seems like you will shortly not be able to breath.  Thankfully, this time was boring and uneventful.  But, I haven’t gone to bed… I was so tired last time for about 2-3 weeks that I think I’ll just stay up until four days from now, and maybe if I don’t go to sleep, then I can’t wake up and be so tired for 3 weeks?  Sound reasonable?  What?  What’s that you say?  That’s poppycock?  That’s silly talk?  Perhaps… and I am getting a wee bit sleepy…..  

Speaking of comparison to those who had it worse than me, and give me perspective…. One of those souls that had it worse has been redeemed…. placed back into the world of the living…. snatched from my sadness  and punted from nightmares…..  I was recently watching a documentary on the making of “Faces of Death.”  If you remember this movie, you will know exactly the scene I refer to when I say, “the monkey scene.”  I have, for the past 30 years been traumatized by that scene and they cruelty that we can inflict.  However, during this documentary they were interviewing the director, and discussing how some of it was real, and some was fake.  The director explained that lots of industrial accidents and car accidents were real, because they could obtain footage and pictures from those events.  However, the scenes of murder… AND THE MONKEY SCENE… WERE FAKE!!!!  FAKE FAKE FAKE!!!!  That monkey presumable lived a long natural life after his brief acting career, dying peacefully some many years later surrounded by love and bananas.    Is this not the most amazing disclosure!   I mean, what else from the eighties was faked!!!????    

Dr. G-Diddy says that the knife sticking out between two ribs right below my sternum is probably a “pain flare.”  

Ah.  Such a remark reminds me of my dear friends in California who refer to their mountainous miles long hills they like to ride their bikes over as “rollers.”   As in, “oh, the route is pretty flat, just some rollers.”   When, interpreted out of California-speak into proper New Jersey speak: “you better lube your ass pretty well with junk jam because you are going be going straight up the side of a fucking mountain for about 4 hours.”   Rollers.  I can not properly articulate the rage that phrase puts me into when spoken by a South Californian… oh, wait, I’m sorry, a “SoCal” rider, when referring to the ride of the day.  Of course, the amazing creativity and artistry by me in utilizing the word “fucker” “cocksucker” and “motherfuckercocksucker” when trying to get up a “roller” is never realized by others, because I am too winded and usually on my back next to my bike collapsed on the side of the road to actually have enough air to utter the words.  

So, when Dr. G says “pain flare”, I imagine it has such a nice, fluffly, cutesy stuffed animal intonation to it.  “pain flare.”   Flare.  Like, flair on a Friday’s servers uniform.  Or, Ric Flair.  Or, the attitude exhibited by Evel Kneviel.  Kinda cool, and shiny!   Just like a roller.  It’s all fun and cutesy, and neat-o, until you’re Garmin has shut off because you can’t even maintain 5 mph on the incline, and you come out of your seat to peddle and you still can almost not keep the bike going forward, so you decide to stop for a minute, but you are going so slow, when you finally realize you want to stop, you realize you can’t get your foot unclipped soon enough and you just fall over on your side.  People passing are only concered about the condition of your bike.  And, I think they really mean it when they assert they “WERE NOT LAUGHING AT YOU FALLING, BUT INSTEAD, WERE LAUGHING AT SOMETHING THEY JUST REMEMBERED HAPPENED AT WORK.”  

My daugher turned 10.  I have made it to my daugher being ten!!!   WOOPWOOP!!!!  My wife and I saw her participate in her winter concert tonight.  She played the violin, which she has been practicising for 2 months, she sang in the chorus, and she narrated, or MC’d, during the chorus portion.

It was spectacular.  I’m not sure either my wife or I knew what to expect, because, let’s keep it real here, kids who have only played the violin for 2 months have a certain, shall we say, “quality” to their playing.  Violin is not a forgiving mistress, and she suffers no beginners.  However, the orchestra sounded like symphonic genius.  They were a well polished, jingle belling maching.  And their angelic voices soared right through the hearts of every parent and guardian and interested party there when their chorus reminded us about the pure joy of silver bells and rocking around the Christmas tree.   We thoroughly enjoyed the entire performance.  It was a special performance, perhaps all the more special, because we were not expecting something so enjoyable.  I pause to reflect, should my sweet pumpkin ever read this, to note that I have NEVER NOT COMPLETELY BEEN ENTHRALLED AT EVERY LIVE PERFORMANCE SHE HAS PARTICIPATED IN.   But, again, let’s lean in and share a little thing we call honesty….   we all know that our own children are goddamn brilliant savants in whatever performance we are bearing witness to.  However, it is only with committment, resiliance and fortitude that I am able to sit politely through the completely mediocre performances of every one elses child.  However,  tonight, the entire ensemble plugged into that sweet spot where they just nailed it.  Wifey and I were just floored and filled with pride. And, did I mention that she spoke wonderfully, and articulately and with poise when she performed her narration duties?  The acorn has not falled far from the tree with the wee pumpkin.  And not my tree, the wife’s tree.  She stood in front of about 400 people and spoke strongly and clearly and performed her lines.  At 10!   Just amazing.  

Wifey speaks all the time for work. And she is good at it.  What makes wifey and a double threat, is that she is good at it, AND will practice with focus.   And to see wee sprite with the same blossoming talent is just fucking cool.  

I have come up from a dive with no air in my tank.  This, for a diver, is a major embarassment.  Actually, you probably shouldn’t be diving if you come up with no air in your tank, and there was not a mechanical failure.  

I was looking at a little shrimp.  It was about half inch long, and hiding down in some coral.  I had been heading upward, to begin my safety stop, and I noticed that folks were gathered around a piece of coral, and pointing.  My thought process should have gone thusly:  you are running out of air, you can not breath underwater, you should no longer be underwater.   Instead, my thought process went thisly:  critter!!!!!      I tried to get a picture, and then resumed my heading upward to 20 feet.  I started upward with about 400 psi in my tank.  If you are a diver, you are shaking your head and whispering: “dumbass.” You really shouldn’t head upward with less than 1000, although, sometimes we play with these numbers, depending on the depth and length of dive.  I was ascending from a dive that had been deep enough that I absolutely needed a safety stop for 3 minutes.  400 psi is really not adequate to ascend to 20 from 40/50 (after having already come up from deeper), hang out for 3 minutes to offgas, and then slowly ascend to the surface, hopefully with some air to expand the BCD and bob if the boat is not right there.  I was lucky in that it was a static, or moored, boat.  I did my 3 minutes and then came up right at the ladder to the boat.  I like to keep the regulator in my mouth until I am entirely on the boat, in case I should fall back in after I have taken off my fins.  As I broke the surface of the water, I felt that it was a very difficult pull on the regulator, and then, as I put my foot on the bottom run of the ladder to the boat, there was nothing there to pull from.  The tank was bone dry.  Whimsically, I can say, I got my moneys worth on that tank, and why should I come up when I still have air on my back.  But, this was extremely reckless and dangerous, a point that wasn’t as poignant as it could have been, because of my safe return to the boat.  But, often the boat is not there.  If I have nothing in the tank, you have to inflate your BCD manually.  You are a smooth, tuned machine under water, with proper buoyancy.  However, on the surface, you have about 50+ pounds of metal and equipment on your person.  If you can’t get that BCD inflated, you can get pretty fatigued trying to tread water at the surface with that kidna weight.  Especially if your boat is off picking up other divers.  

Other than never coming up with less than 500 PSI back onto the boat, I’m not sure this event is taken as seriously as it should be by me.  I’m even trying to write about it to impress upon myself how close this was to potential calamity.  But, maybe it’s not so different from events we undertake every day, only more memorable to me because it occured under somewhat infrequent circumstances.  I only get to dive about 10 – 15 days a year.  Yet, I drive every day, looking away from the road for a variety of reasons while hurtling over the speed limit.  Deer are constant.  The roads are windy and narrow and one lane each way.  It is of constant happenstance that circumstances don’t align from these less than perfect actions on my part to coalesce into tragedy.  It’s a random chaos just accepted by us all.  We could randomly be felled by freak horrors every day, yet they so infrequently happen that they are of no moment to us.  We are truly shocked and affected everytime a 4000 lb car drifts over the yellow line into the other line, striking a car head on and killing a mother or child or nun.  Yet, even though  an army of tort attorneys will try to convince us otherwise, often times this is just random bad luck.  

We don’t accept random bad luck in our society.  There is always a why, or  a how, or a who done it.  And if there’s not, we’ll assign it.  It’s her fault, his fault, the bar’s fault, society’s fault, the churches fault, nature’s fault. But, sometimes, a tree just falls suddenly and kills someone walking underneath it that had only been walking there at that time because she was going door to door collecting cans of food to donate to the needy.  

I have stage IV cancer and it’s no ones fault, and it doesn’t really matter the who, or the why or the how.  I keep wondering if there is a deeper lesson to be learned, that the closeness of being 60 feet underwater with no air, and no ability to do a safety stop shouldn’t make me pause more.  But it doesn’t.  I now try to be committed to coming up on the boat with at least 500 PSI (well, at least 300), but, if I’m being honest, I’m still going back to see the critter.