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