kudos

We're home.  

Time to breathe deep and remember, starting with much kudos to those listed below, and many others who we will never know.

• To the friends and neighbors who provided loving Thunder (he's our cat) care, and filled our refrigerator with grains and vegetables and jars of organic kosher chicken soup (if that doesn't cure cancer...);
• To those who took shovel and snowblower to our driveway; 
  
• To new and old friends in New York who shared time, meals, and laughter with us during Rich's hospital stay;
• To the amazing people at Miracle House;
• To the staff at Memorial Sloan Kettering, whose care, compassion, and competence exceed just about every institution I've known;
• To Rich's colleagues who sent him a box filled with CDs and DVDs of "Fawlty Towers" and "I Love Lucy" and other comedic greats;
• To all who called, wrote, visited, and kept us in their lives.

And the list could go on and on, gratitude without end.  None of these efforts may be enough to "cure" Rich (except for the chicken soup...) but they're more than enough to make this life beautiful.

Candace

frequent surgery card

Patiently sitting in the pre-op cubicle, his clothes whisked off and his vitals recorded, Rich and I discussed the possibility of the hospital introducing a frequent surgery card, just like cafes, where ten cups of coffee entitles the buzzed-up drinker to an eleventh at no charge.  The temptation is to order the pricey exotic options -- supersized cappuccino, amaretto-chocolate latte.  But Rich and I almost always ask for the usual:  Cafe au lait (for me); basic black, leave a little room for milk (him).

Why can't hospitals can do the same?  Especially for frequent theatre-goers (of the cut-me-open sort).  After five surgeries (these are, after all, even more expensive than lattes), get a gratis treatment of choice, anesthesia included!

Rich is getting close to having a full card, returning to New York in less than two weeks for another hit of surgery, this one going into the dura in a chase after the wandering chordoma. 

Unfortunately, when the bonus kicks in, he can't stick his basic black, leave a little room for milk.  He may have radiation one more time, but this time the dosage formerly spread over 40 days will be shot into him in a week.  And the chemo options are even more unimaginable -- and guaranteed to give a bigger buzz -- than an amaretto latte.

For now, we're going home.  To get ready for the next time.

Candace

worser and worser

Although Rich is recovering magnificently from Wednesday's surgery, looking amazingly fit and walking multiple laps around the hospital halls, all is not well.  Fact is, we're in reverse.

Last night's MRI revealed a bulge in the dura (inner, hard part of spine) that the neurosurgeon doesn't like (neither does Rich).  Is it merely scar tissue, or chordoma tumor (very rare to be growing this way), or another sort of tumor?  Another surgery, perhaps as early as Monday (!) may be required.

I'll stay in touch.

Candace

have a good night, sweetie...

...so said the bus driver tonight as I exited, heading home from the hospital.  I'm not going to my home, of course, but to a rented apartment while Rich recovers in the hospital.  And Rich is not exactly recovering, either, as the surgery sucked out more cancer, this time a bit higher up the spine (C1 and C2, to use Rich's precision).  The recovery is from this surgery, so he can have more surgery, more toxic chemicals, more (perhaps) radiation.

So I can say many more times, "have a good night, sweetie," and he will be next to me, not in a hospital, and together we will be home.

This hurts so bad.

Much appreciation to all for thoughts, time, love shared -- 

Candace

latest dance

We're on a bus, headed south. On Wednesday, Rich will once more will have surgery to remove an overachieving tumor that just doesn't get the message.  Because it has been only three months from the previous surgery, we're not happy.

I'll stay in touch.

Candace

slow blog

Yesterday an article in The New York Times profiled a few advocates of "slow blogging."  This is the opposite of the normal rapid-fire, bypassing the brain-editor blog.  I thought slow was the norm (I don't read many other blogs). 

Blogs, the article went on to say, are now considered too slow.  They can't compete with Twitter (?) which I have never looked at, or Facebook, which I have, briefly, after saying "yes" to becoming a friend.  After a week or so, I removed myself, needing to consider what "friend" now means.

Apparently, the point of Facebook is to acquire hundreds of friends who will buy us virtual presents, send us virtual congratulations, and share with us their latest undigested triumphs and tragedies.

It isn't all bad, of course.  Connecting is nice (I'm happy you're reading this).  But this isn't friendship, not when the relationships are treated as another commodity to acquire, preferably in quantities that will impress our "friends," proving that we are worth something as human beings.

Sigh.

I'll take slow.

Candace

I didn't know it would feel this good.  

Four years ago, I remember where I was during the last presidential election.  In New York, where Rich was recovering from his first chordoma surgery.  Stopping by my favorite patisserie, I ordered croissants to go; a gaunt young man, in black, was carrying away two large coffees.

"Bush won," he explained grimly.

I smiled.  

Who cared?  My guy won!  All was well!

Not quite, I knew that.  But if I narrowed my focus on my life, my loves, my world...I would survive.

And so Rich has, I have, this world has.  But now we can do more than survive.  We can heal.  As long as we don't expect miracles from our new leader, because gods always disappoint and then we get angry and waste our energy trying to figure out why the creature we created doesn't satisfy.

But we don't have to disappoint ourselves.  

Candace

As some of you may know, the Chordoma Foundation is a recently-created charity whose goal is somewhat similar to the Ford Foundation.   Both were created to give something away -- Ford (who owes its existence to murderous treatment of workers) now provides money to assorted worthwhile projects.  Chordoma Foundation needs money given to it, so it can destroy the reason for its birth.

When millions are in the midst of war, starvation, torture, and when our world aches all over -- my feelings are mixed about a foundation seeking a cure for a relative handful, even when the person I love more than anything is in that handful.

To whom do we give our resources?  Can we triage love?

I don't know.

Candace

cancer patriotism

Four years ago, after the last presidential election, I met a friend for lunch, our first sit-down conversation in a couple of years.  Catching up, she spoke about her separation from her husband, his faults, her suffering.  I heard all of this before.  And because Rich was just recovering from his first surgery,  I wasn't, perhaps, as empathic as I could have been.

"It's all because of Bush," I said, jumping into the monologue.  "Rich's cancer.  Your marriage."

Thoroughly apolitical, she looked at me as if my head were on backwards.

"You're joking," she said.

"Well, a little..."

This wasn't the place or person, and I wasn't sure what more I could have said.

But I've been thinking about this.  A lot, recently.

And I wasn't referring to politics reflected in a confused and cracked health care system (my proximate concern) and economic struggles (a cause of her marital conflict).

It's that, little fish that we are, we all swim in the same big ocean.  And I'm getting scared of what's floating by.

I'm scared of anger, arrogance, greed, delusion.

In other words: Patriotism scares the shit out of me.

Except that patriotism has another definition.

Barack Obama calls it "empathy."  This fits nicely with the Dalai Lama's suggestion for true peace:  "I destroy my enemies when I make them my friends."

Marshmallow-headed liberalism?

No -- a solution.  That even the most "patriotic" and "conservative" have enacted, over and over. Our heads spin backwards trying to keep track who we should love (or at least make a favored trading partner) and who we should kill.  Russia?  In my lifetime, an enemy who became a friend and is now an acquaintance. China?  Ditto.  Similar reversals between the United States and Germany, Japan, Vietnam...you get the idea.

The current Republican team, in office and seeking office, doesn't get that their view of patriotism is a cancer, not any different from that snuggled in Rich's spine except that Rich's treatment is more painful and uncertain of success.  

Cancers don't realize that their neighboring cells -- enemies! -- are really their friends.  Cancer wins when their enemies/friends lose. 

Then, everyone dies.

I don't understand, but I can't despair.

Candace

"Yoga is life."  

So said my teacher last week, and while layers of meaning can be unwrapped, our discussion focused on what should be obvious.

Each session begins slowly, then accelerates as we move forward, back, twist, in and out of pain and fear and blocks -- ouch! -- and realize at some point "I can do this!" and "life is so good" and end with deep rest.

A typical day, isn't it?  Start slowly, pick up speed, bend in ways usual and new, say ouch once, twice, many times; then end in a place we have never been before.

And this happens every day, but illness is an excellent magnifying glass.  I have no doubt that there is life after death.  It's today.

Candace

no vowels

Two nights ago I had a dream.  I had written a play without vowels.  Each performance, the cast would decide what to say, not knowing, of course, how the other characters might respond.  "Lvd," for example, might morph into "loved," "lived," or "livid."  Comedy, tragedy, or simple confusion might result.

Some of you might know that Biblical Hebrew was once such a vowel-free language, before the spoilsport scholars added their jots and tittles, morphing divine ambiguity into human certitude.  As the history of religion has proven, there's neither fun nor safety in that.

Rich's adventure in Tumorland is, perhaps, the source of my dream.  I'm following him into a land where the jots and tittles are missing, and this leaves lots of wriggle room.  Too much, sometimes.  For how long will the surgery still the tumor?  Is another round of Sutent worth the discomfort and risks?  Will the "new normal" be better than the old?

Improv -- here we come!

Candace

a hundred years

Rich says he's not sure if he can go alone to a couple of his New York medical appointments while I meet a friend at my favorite pastry shop.  It's two weeks in the future.

"That's a hundred years from now," I say.

Or, he says, what about tomorrow, will I have the energy to take a shower ---

"A hundred years from now."

Okay, what about doing the laundry after breakfast --

"Fifty years."

There's a terrific feeling of relief in all of this.  Everything is a hundred years away. Who knows what can happen between now and the next moment?  Another crack of the neck, another rash, another bout of exhaustion -- or, a reversal of it all.  Or, at least, relief from imaging what could happen next, and when, or even why.

Candace

a quiet room

I'm writing this in the library, in the "quiet" room.  People have difficulty with this, I notice.  They whisper in voices that, as a background hiss, are more interruptive than out-loud speech.  They rustle newspapers. They're not aware that, coming and going, they're noise-making machines.

Right now, I'm craving silence, rest, peace.  A month or so by an ocean, my only obligations to write, walk, write -- a fantasy.

I'm here.  Most of the time, with Rich, who now that the steroids have worn off is realizing he really does need rest more than work, and lots of food (emphasis on sweet re-charges), and trying to make sense of itchy rashes and pops in his neck and extremity pain.

So I listen, I shop, I cook, and try to re-charge.  Rich's job is harder, and there's no fantasy to follow.

Candace

dinner at the pom pom diner

Nine of us examine the menu.  

One of us has a plastic tube snaking down his leg, encased in a bandage from knee to ankle.  He's in town to get rid of his bladder cancer and kidney blockage.  He looks fit and says he's feeling fine.

Another walks in supported by his cane and his wife, and quietly sits in the booth, re-adjusting to the world.

Our host orders a hamburger (make it medium-rare) with a side of fries and a bottle of root beer.

"I tried being a vegetarian for a week," she says.  "I found myself looking for pieces of meat buried under anything."

Still, she wants to pretend she's eating wholesome.

"Do you have whole wheat rolls?" she asks the waitress.

"You're too far down the road," I say.  "Go for it."

What the hell, she agrees.  White is fine.

I order two wraps to go, one for me, one for Rich.  An hour ago we arrived from the hospital, back at Miracle House, my home in New York for the past week.  Rich can't walk the two blocks, yet, but it's a wonder that he survived this most recent war on his body and, well...looks normal.  

This meal is free, provided by donations.  What we have in common, at this table, is serious surgery (liposuction gets no points here) or loving those who are being treated.  Our host is a Miracle House volunteer, setting a tone of kindness combined with laughter.  Lots of laughter amid "isn't this a small world..." exclamations.  

Strangers, but we discover we know the same people, went to the same schools, or once lived within a few blocks of one another.

What makes us laugh, though, is something deeper.  We're all facing something incomprehensible, terrifying, sad -- but underneath it all we've found the buried piece of meat that we're craving.

What the hell.  Why settle for a morsel, here or there?

We're too far down the road.

We're going for it.

Candace 

 

morning tea

I'm still in bed when the phone rings.

Rarely is this a reason to smile.

"Come," Rich says.  "I'm in so much pain."

I start babbling, saying I just woke up, I'll be there as soon as I can, what's going on...but he already is disconnected.

I brush my teeth, quickly wash, put on yesterday's shorts and T-shirt.  Forget the shower.

But I don't forget to open my tea packet, boil water, add milk, and sip my morning mug of english breakfast.

The best antidote to insanity, I think, is to fake normalcy through a daily practice (see Gus' comment).  

And an image used by Thich Nhat Hanh comes to mind.  

Look at a tree, he says.  In the breeze, its leaves and branches swing this way, that way.  These are our emotions, going here, going there, directed by an outer force.  To a tree, this is normal.

Now, look at a mountain.  Solid.  A storm may chip off an edge here or there, but the mountain knows its strength.  To a mountain, this is normal.

Life is more fun as a mountain.  The emotions will pass.  The pain will (it did) pass.

And the tea was good.

Candace

  

this isn't normal

These days are not normal.  I eat food from Rich's hospital tray.  I awake, go to the hospital, do nothing all day and am exhausted by the end.  I listen to the neurosurgeon say Rich is doing well, even though today Rich was pumped full of painkillers that I thought were sold only on the street and, still, they don't make him happy.  They don't "kill" the pain, either.  Pain, or its relatives, keep coming back.

But Rich must get well.  So he can return to the chemotherapy and get sick again.

This can't be normal.

And then I get on the bus and am surrounded by conversations -- mostly on cell phones -- that have absolutely nothing to do with any of this, and I want to shout, don't you know that nothing you're saying matters?

Maybe normal isn't worth it.

Candace

a miracle, again

More rare than the possibility of cancer vanishing is the acquisition of a reasonable rental in New York City.  And this we found, an apartment available for cancer patients post-hospital and for a "capable adult caregiver" (that's me, I'm faking it) while patient is in hospital.

So, a miracle.  Again.

From the Latin miraculum, "object of wonder," a miracle is neither a supernatural event nor a product of faith.  It is experiencing life as pure wonder, freedom, and freshness in every moment.  That's it.  

From this point of view, we've had a wonder-filled weekend.   I had some time away, enjoying a lazy afternoon with a friend at a winery cafe overlooking the lake; together we've hiked and picnicked and been supported by many, many kind thoughts and offers of housing and cat care and visits while in New York.

Again, thank you.

Candace

a long day's journey...

On Tuesday we traveled to/fro New York City, a 20-hour day.  This is what happened.

We arrive at Memorial Sloan Kettering.  

We wait.  

Other customers file in and out, with staples atop their skulls, in wheelchairs, on crutches.  Rich still looks way too healthy to be here.  He's also the only guy wearing a tie.

A date for surgery is fixed.  29 August, next Friday.  Unknown what will be affected, and what functions Rich will lose by then.  Each day gets worse. 

Then, downtown to Memorial Sloan Kettering's midtown branch.  

We wait.

We gobble our take-out lunches (we've been awake since 4:30 -- that's A.M.).  From a pretty good salad bar, I have broccoli rabe, quiche, spinach pie, garbanzos.

Rich tries to schedule the required pre-op tests before we leave today.  Not easy, sent from one floor to another, but he's a pro at this.

Finally, the tests begin, and Rich will be occupied for about an hour.  I check my backpack at the front desk where a genuine human being takes the bag, and smiles, and calls me sweetheart, and said go for a nice long walk, don't worry.

I do, but I'm fading.

Back in the waiting room (yes, that is what they call it), I realize I need food, any food.  I rip open the free bag of pretzels and fill a styrofoam cup with hot cocoa.  Salt and sugar and I'm good to go.  

We wait.

For what, I ask Rich.  We have an appointment with the oncologist overseeing the drug trial, which Rich is now off, or will be off as soon as he finishes his current supply of $7,000-a-month pills (paid for by the drug folks).

It's getting close to leave time, we have to catch our bus, and not many folks are still waiting.  I almost open a conversation with a burly fellow wearing a somber expression and reading Robert A.F. Thurman's book, "Anger."  Maybe we can chat about Buddhism, I think, then think again.  Too risky.  Maybe he hasn't absorbed the book's message, yet.

Neither have I, at this moment.

For what are we waiting?

Finally, after several prompts by Rich, we are admitted.

Let's resume the chemo after the surgery, the oncologist says.

Why, I ask.  Why not wait and see if growth resumes, since chemo's efficacy is unknown and is otherwise poisoning Rich.

Okay, says the doctor.  That's a possibility, too.  

We stop and buy bread and focaccia for the return trip.

I really want a beer, or wine, or sleep.  

Most of all, I want to go home.  With Rich.

Candace

Wh

Pre-op tests,

Then, pre-op tests.

growth

A brief update.  Rich's scan earlier in the week revealed growth in the tumor.  

Not nice.  

The plan, as of now: Go to New York on Tuesday, meet with neurosurgeon, and set a date for "decompression" surgery.  Then, recovery; perhaps followed by chemotherapy, although no chemo has been shown effective against chordoma.

Meanwhile, we eat blueberries, drink wine, and enjoy the last days of summer.

Candace

asparagus

Few people with illness of any sort, especially cancer, seem able to avoid the curative urges of friends and family.  Rich's latest received helpful hint:  Eat asparagus.  Or, more precisely, puree canned asparagus (are you sick yet?) and ingest several tablespoons a day.  In a few weeks, you will be cancer-free!  One of the cited proofs is that the author of the article (who never had cancer) has consumed a daily dose of asparagus, and he still doesn't have cancer.  Amazing.

I'm not one to worship science, but -- why are we humans so fearful of what simply is, and eager to swallow anything that will avoid "is"?

A final note:  In Traditional Chinese Medicine, "Chinese Asparagus" is an ancient, well-used tonic.  Perhaps this is the source of the "asparagus cure" rumor.  The difference, though, is this:  TCM practitioners emphasize healing over curing, and this never fails.

Candace

life is (good)

Not too long ago, T-shirts began appearing with an image of a happy guy golfing or lazily sitting in an Adirondack chair or hiking, accompanied by the message, "Life is good."  As if there's an alternative point of view.

Well, maybe.  A suggestion:  "Life is."  A complete sentence without "good," which implies that life could be otherwise.  

From the outside, sure.  Bad weather, bad pain, bad parents, bad children, bad government...but inside, what changes?

Candace

splinched

Those of us who have read the Harry Potter series are familiar with the word "splinched."  Those who haven't probably have a sense of what it's about; it sounds the meaning.  Briefly, it is this: Wizards and witches are capable of moving from one place to another by focusing on the place they're going, really want to go there, and soon they're there.  

At first, Harry and his friends at Hogwarts don't execute perfectly.  They arrive at the new place, but leave behind a piece of themselves.  Legs and arms of the neophytes remain, while those with more experience arrive missing a finger or two.

I realize that splinched is a normal condition for me -- you, too?  "Moving on" to a new life is not the same as "escaping."  Who I once (thought) I was still is in me, and so wherever I am today, I am not fully here.

Maybe I don't really want to be here badly enough.  Or maybe I haven't yet seen anyone who isn't splinched -- this seems a "normal" condition.

Time to move on.

Candace  

thunder

Thunder is now sleeping.  He's a cat, and he does this well.  His other skills include purring, eating, purring, eating, and looking out the window and wanting to kill, for the fun of it. There's a lot of human in him, except his fur is prettier.  And once we have some confidence that he knows his home base, he can go out and start munching the neighborhood mice and maybe put a scare into our neighbor's yappy dog (Thunder's a big guy).

I don't always have kind thoughts.  This is why animals are superior, in some ways:  They don't pretend.

Thunder joined us  two weeks ago, a 4-year-old stray from the local shelter.  He chose us, and his name happened, but a relevant reference comes from a Peter, Paul and Mary song, Day is Done.

...is it the thunder in the distance you fear

will it help if I stay very near.

.....

all will be well when the day is done.

Rich's arm is weakening.  Sutent is doing nasty things.  He is waiting for results from latest MRI.

We're not afraid of thunder.

I am afraid when the day is done.

Candace

waiting

First, we wait for the train.  Cancelled.  It's six degrees and we're getting frozen.  Back to our home-away-from-home to pack up some bread and cheese.  We won't have time for lunch, if the train comes.

Return to train station.  It's now after twelve.  Rich's appointment at MSK is at 1:30, but the earliest we can now arrive is 2:30.  He calls.  It's okay, they will see us whenever we arrive.

Announcement.  "Train 62 will be arriving 19 minutes late."  Another announcement, then another, each pushing back the time.  Others leave.  Fifty minutes late, the train arrives.  

I need the bathroom.  The door is stuck.  I finally flag the conductor.  His key gets stuck, too.  Finally, door opens, and I'm careful not to close it.  

But from here on, the train is express.  We eat our batarde, our cheddar cheese, and drink our water.

We arrive by three.  I phone a friend and say our planned meeting that afternoon is off.  Maybe next visit.

We watch the others waiting with us, and talk to some.  She's on her sixth version of chemotherapy.  He is trying to rest on the sofa while his wife and mother and three young sons share a pizza.

Looks good, Rich and I agree.  We're hungry.  We drink the waiting room's coffee and eat its pretzels.

Good news.  This is what matters.  Almost surely not neurological, we are assured.  Rich's leg pains may be sign of blood clot, so will have scan this week to rule out.  Otherwise, just another body ache.

Maybe. 

We buy two slices of pizza and eat on the train.

By nine we're "home," in front of a log-filled fireplace, drinking beer, and snow is falling.

That night, we sleep deeply.  A good day.

Candace

six word memoir

Perhaps you've seen them.  Six word memoirs, written by the famous and not.  I've reviewed some, and the majority could be classified as "bittersweet."  Not quite "life sucks," and not "oh, what a joy!"

Last night I thought about this, instead of sleeping. Rich is on a downward slope this week (it's snowing as I write, so please forgive the ski imagery) and this wakes me up. Maybe it's a cold he can't shake that's draining him, or maybe the new pain in his calf is the sign we haven't been waiting for.

The memoir title that emerged:  "Eat. Sleep. Wake Up.  Not Now."

Another trip to NYC in two days.  Rich says he hopes he can walk.  The world is shrinking.

Another memoir title:  "I Lied.  Chordoma: Not a Dance."

Candace

calendars

To know something about the life of others, look at their calendars.  I'm not speaking about content; the calendar is sufficient.  

Myself as example.  Growing up, all the calendars in our apartment were of the free religious genre, supplied by a funeral home (in truth, what better reminder could there be of the preciousness of each day?)  

Over the years, the themes of my calendars have been various religions and feminist and humorous.

But this year, none of them would satisfy.  I am weary of observing a particular year and numerous holidays that only remind me of what I don't believe.

So I found a blank calendar.  Really blank.  In its grid I can fill in my own days, dates, year, holidays.  If I wish, I can ignore weeks and months.  

How it's working:  Each week, as I fill in the days and date (I haven't been able to skip any so far, which says a lot), I must think:  What is my rhythm?  What is important?  Of what am I aware?

I haven't yet renamed the days or months, or filled in my own holy days.  

But this I know:  I am free -- not the calendar.

Candace

not good news

So it wasn't a bagel.  The news from our trip to MSK is this:  Deeper growth of tumor in spine.  This may, or may not, explain Rich's increased arm pains.  Advice from the neurosurgeon is to keep on with Sutent until pain increases or migrates elsewhere.  This presents Rich with the choice of hypochondria or awareness when transcendence would be preferred.

Candace

it's a bagel

Good news:  The latest MRI shows no growth in Rich's tumor.  In fact, the local radiologist hints in his report that this may be scar tissue, it doesn't seem to be acting like a tumor...which confirms my suspicions.

It is a bagel, coated with cream cheese and muenster, gone awry.  The cure?  A homeopathic application of mini-bagels, lightly coated with butter or cream cheese.

Could it thus be possible that Bagels are Evil?

If so, soon we shall find a few believers, then it will be proclaimed from pulpits, and soon politicians will compete with their bona fides on who is tougher against bagels, and accuse their opponents of waffling (another good breakfast food):  "You ate bagels in college!"

And their opponents will waffle back:  "Well, we chewed, but we didn't swallow.  And of course we shouldn't allow our enemies to acquire bagels for their own evil purposes."

Have an imaginative week --- but don't believe anything you think,

Candace

zen garden

I have been playing with the thought of creating a small Zen garden, either outdoors or in our home.  Such gardens are Buddhist in origin, and 1,000-plus-years-old.  As many reading this probably know, in appearance they're simple, with minimal ingredients:  Rocks, sand, a few green plants, perhaps a stone lantern or statue.

The point of such gardens is not "decorative," but about going to the contemplative heart of our existence, expressed in the creation of the garden, in its maintenance, and in its quiet "being with."

So I was surprised when scanning the Web to find that you can find instructions to build a Zen garden at the big box stores, or order desk top models to relieve "executive stress" (add a fisherman for only $3 more!)

First reaction:  "Abomination!"

Second reaction:  "Why not?"

Most of us, after all, are not Buddhist monks or professional gardeners, but we want a taste of the beyond and of beauty, so why not play with sand and rocks?  And invite a fisherman, too.

Happy gardening,

Candace

 

pilgrim with no destination

Better to be a pilgrim without a destination than to cross the wrong threshold every day. -- Sy Safransky, editor, The Sun Magazine.

What Sy Safransky is describing is his decision to leave a job that was sucking at his life, and then borrow fifty dollars to start up a magazine that, quite possibly, no one would read.  But thirty years out, both he and the magazine are alive.

Some would say he was brave, others would say foolish.  But, really, he had no choice.  

Illness forces us to go out the door and hit the road.  It doesn't matter what is making us sick:  A tumor, a job, a relationship.  When we move on, where we end up matters far less than knowing we won't be returning to where we were.  In this, there is excitement, danger, and the hope that others will be reading our lives.

Best to all,

Candace

gone hunting

Once I had a friend who owned a high-end second home in a semi-rural area. When it came time for renovations, she contacted a local contractor of good reputation.

Too late.

"I made all the money I need this year," he said. "I'm going to my hunting cabin. Be back in the spring."

She was first astonished, then contemptuous.

"People here have no ambition," she concluded.

I concluded he was alive, and she was jealous.

About the missing months here: I had made all the blog-world words I could for the year, so went hunting for rest and revival.

I think it worked.

For those wondering where Rich, my beloved Chordomite, is: Still on Sutent with apparent benefit. The tumor shows some signs of dissolving, and no new clinical indications of growth. We continue to travel monthly to Sloan Kettering for check-in, Rich has added physical therapy to his daily regimen, and we look forward to another year of no growth.

Best to all --
Candace