Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt -- marvelous error! -
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Antonio Machado
Monday, December 26, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Holidaze Reminder
“Of one thing I am certain, the body is not the measure of healing – peace is the measure.” ~ George Melton
I love this quote. It rings true, and I'd never seen it before. So, I read the rest of the article and I liked it, too! Here is an excerpt from Traditions of Healing Rituals, Wendy Stargr, elephantjournal.com:
I love this quote. It rings true, and I'd never seen it before. So, I read the rest of the article and I liked it, too! Here is an excerpt from Traditions of Healing Rituals, Wendy Stargr, elephantjournal.com:
"Training one’s mind in gratitude is perhaps one’s most worthy pursuit and guaranteed to heal one’s holiday emptiness. In fact, there is no other single human emotional quality that has the power to completely reinvent how you perceive your life and open a door to contentment and abundance. Many of the oldest secret societies in the world have gratitude built into their foundational belief systems. It takes practice if you are not accustomed, but gratitude is how happiness feels when it is imbued with wonder.
The most meaningful gifts at this time of year can’t be bought or even given; they are the transformation that happens in us when we are open to receiving. As a chronic giver, this ability to receive is a fledgling chick just learning to fly in me, but I now understand that letting go of how I think things should be and listening deeply to what is right in front of me is almost always a gift that I would have entirely missed in the past. When we get stuck on how life’s offerings (and you can expand that to include people and stuff) don’t match our expectations, we literally turn away from the love and pleasure that is ours. I see it happen every day; we refuse to be loved when it doesn’t look the way we want it to. Celebrate life this holiday season by allowing and receiving life’s gifts in front of you. Practice releasing your thoughts and preconceived ideas when you open a gift and listen for what might be deeply hidden in the gift in front of you.
All of this healing might make you bold enough to attempt the deepest giving of all- Forgiving. This is when we accept that we won’t get a better past and when we finally understand that the only one being harmed by the grudges we hold are ourselves. Forgiveness, in many ways, is the ultimate act of receiving. You finally free yourself from carrying around the baggage of emptiness filled with justifiable injury and disrespect that might never get proper acknowledgement. Forgiveness is a chance to see beyond what we have always known and create room to get a glimpse of a universe still unknown to us. In these moments, we can drop the stories that have defined our holiday memories for so long."
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Of Platelets and Glad Tidings
I do NOT have to go in for another blood draw today! Yay!
Did I mention they took a second draw last week while I still had the infusion line in? Well, they did. It was the end of a long day and I left before the results came back. Then Dr L and I played phone tag: He left a message that he wanted to talk to me about my second blood draw, and that it was not an emergency. In return, I left him a message giving him permission to leave a more thorough message on my voicemail. That did not happen.
I called this morning, and he got back to me. The second platelet count was much improved-- not perfect but closer to the low-normal range where I have been hanging out for sometime. (Turns out platelets can do a little trick called "clumping" where they hide out in clusters, which makes the count look lower then it is.)
Initially, he advocated for going ahead with another blood draw today, just to see where things stand. I told him that I was not sure if he knew that I tend to be an extremely difficult poke, that my arm was black and blue from last week's attempt, and that while I would certainly do it if he thought it was necessary, I would prefer to save myself and everyone else the trauma if it was not. He was glad I brought it up and said in that case, we could let it go until my next visit to Celilo, the first week of January.
To my mind, the best news is this: I am getting better at respectfully standing my ground and asking for what I want from my medical team without working myself into a snit because they do not remember or already know what I know about my body, my situation, and my preferences. I am able to be a more competent member of my own team, in a way-- to be more responsible about how I participate and less panic-y and judgmental about how others participate.
I suspect the flip-side of the coin of old-fashioned blind-trust in doctors is this: the desire that one could or should be able to have such trust. We invest them with such authority in part because we wish their expertise gave them the ability to give black and white answers to our urgent health questions. Yeah, that would be nice, but that just ain't the way things really work. That's not anybody's fault. That is just how things are.
When we don't like something, we look around for some one to blame. That's kinda how we humans are built. But we don't have to play out that scenario. And if we look more deeply, we might be able to see that every one of us has to deal with things-as-they-are and not things-as-we-wish-they-were.
Recognizing that feels kind of grown-up to me. As we grow up we have to give up some of the magical thinking that someone else has all the answers and can swoop in and save us. That can be hard to give up on--- especially when we are faced with large, complex, scary issues like life and death. But the more we can do that-- give up the us-v.-them attitude-- the more we can base our understanding on reality itself-- rather then on the reality we wish we had.
All this talk of reality is making my head spin. Think I'll take a break and put some lights on the Christmas tree. Best wishes, everyone.
Did I mention they took a second draw last week while I still had the infusion line in? Well, they did. It was the end of a long day and I left before the results came back. Then Dr L and I played phone tag: He left a message that he wanted to talk to me about my second blood draw, and that it was not an emergency. In return, I left him a message giving him permission to leave a more thorough message on my voicemail. That did not happen.
I called this morning, and he got back to me. The second platelet count was much improved-- not perfect but closer to the low-normal range where I have been hanging out for sometime. (Turns out platelets can do a little trick called "clumping" where they hide out in clusters, which makes the count look lower then it is.)
Initially, he advocated for going ahead with another blood draw today, just to see where things stand. I told him that I was not sure if he knew that I tend to be an extremely difficult poke, that my arm was black and blue from last week's attempt, and that while I would certainly do it if he thought it was necessary, I would prefer to save myself and everyone else the trauma if it was not. He was glad I brought it up and said in that case, we could let it go until my next visit to Celilo, the first week of January.
To my mind, the best news is this: I am getting better at respectfully standing my ground and asking for what I want from my medical team without working myself into a snit because they do not remember or already know what I know about my body, my situation, and my preferences. I am able to be a more competent member of my own team, in a way-- to be more responsible about how I participate and less panic-y and judgmental about how others participate.
I suspect the flip-side of the coin of old-fashioned blind-trust in doctors is this: the desire that one could or should be able to have such trust. We invest them with such authority in part because we wish their expertise gave them the ability to give black and white answers to our urgent health questions. Yeah, that would be nice, but that just ain't the way things really work. That's not anybody's fault. That is just how things are.
When we don't like something, we look around for some one to blame. That's kinda how we humans are built. But we don't have to play out that scenario. And if we look more deeply, we might be able to see that every one of us has to deal with things-as-they-are and not things-as-we-wish-they-were.
Recognizing that feels kind of grown-up to me. As we grow up we have to give up some of the magical thinking that someone else has all the answers and can swoop in and save us. That can be hard to give up on--- especially when we are faced with large, complex, scary issues like life and death. But the more we can do that-- give up the us-v.-them attitude-- the more we can base our understanding on reality itself-- rather then on the reality we wish we had.
All this talk of reality is making my head spin. Think I'll take a break and put some lights on the Christmas tree. Best wishes, everyone.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Another Day at the Ol' Cancer Center.
Today Lori came with me to hear what Dr L had to say about switching me from Arimidex to a new hormone drug... What is it they say about best laid plans?
Yesterday I noticed that my appointment card listed Dr L at 10:00 and then chemo. I don't have chemo. My infusion, Zometa, is not a chemotherapy drug. I figured it was just a mistake--but it is the kind of mistake that could really freak some people out!
Plus, I need to arrive about an hour before my Dr appointment so the nursing staff can insert my IV and draw blood for labs. If I show up at the time listed as my "Dr appointment" on the card, it can really mess up every one's schedule for the day. (I know, because it has happened.)
I point these things out the the receptionist when we arrive (a little after 9 am). She asks to keep the card to show to the director, saying they hope to find a better solution for these kind of mix-ups between the front desk and the treatment areas.
I go on into the infusion room, set up my ipod, earbuds and laptop and do my best to zone out while the poking ensues. It is a tough one this morning. I have not found any sure fire way to make it easier. Being hydrated helps, having a puff right before helps (but I don't want to do that if I plan on any medical discussions with the doc!), but nothing helps every time. One just does the best one can before during and after the ordeal. I can tell you it is not easy on anyone.
Lori joins me in the exam room and meets Dr L (aka Doogie Howser) who tells us that since I am tolerating the current med (Arimidex) so well, and it has had such impressive results on my liver lesions, he now thinks we should stay the course --at least until we get the next set of scans (in January-- they happen about every 3 months) before we look at switching to the new med (Aromasin).
Well, there's a surprise. But OK.
Back out to the infusion room. We must wait while they finish running my labs before they can give me the Zometa. A couple of staff people stop by to ask about my getting Reiki today. (I had stopped at the downstairs information desk on my way in and requested a Reiki practitioner come up to the infusion room to treat me whenever one arrived. I don't know if this new notoriety is because of that or from my phone calls to the Director and the Spiritual Care people after last month's Reiki fiasco.)
Lynn, the Director-- with whom I had a conversation last month about creating the possibility of quiet in the infusion room-- tells me they have ordered noise canceling head phones. A good start. Not one but TWO Reiki practitioners come by to work on me-- one before the infusion arrives, one after. The Reiki people thank me for raising a squawk. It seems it was helpful.
Nina comes by at the end to say hello and we talk again about the work we imagine being part of together, exploring pyscho-spiritual-social approaches to healing-- methods that focus not so much on "cure" per se, as on finding meaningfulness with whatever circumstances life throws our way, including illness and loss. The current model of battle for victory over disease can prevent us from being present to the life we have right now. I do not know that either Nina or myself are patient people by nature, but we are learning. Slow, patient, steady. It is a long slog, but it is good to have partners in this endeavor.
One step at a time, baby, one step at a time.
My blood work comes back showing my platelets are low. My white and red blood count is fine. Maybe this is some freaky occurrence? The Dr wants me to get another blood draw next week just to keep an eye on things. Maybe this is why I am especially bleed-y when they take out the IV today? Maybe it explains my tiredness the last couple of days? I do not know. I need to do a little more research on this low platelet phenomenon.
But I do know that after a bowl of Tom Kah soup and a whirl around K-Mart and Home Depot (Need new curtain rod!) Lori and I both arrive back in Hood River, about seven and a half hours after we left, totally pooped. One step at a time, people.
My (mostly) remodeled house is (mostly) painted (interiors, anyway)-- but there is plenty left to clean/recycle/toss/re-arrange /etc before my holiday company arrives, and I am just going to have to pace myself. Do not hurry, do not tarry. Tomorrow is another day.
Yesterday I noticed that my appointment card listed Dr L at 10:00 and then chemo. I don't have chemo. My infusion, Zometa, is not a chemotherapy drug. I figured it was just a mistake--but it is the kind of mistake that could really freak some people out!
Plus, I need to arrive about an hour before my Dr appointment so the nursing staff can insert my IV and draw blood for labs. If I show up at the time listed as my "Dr appointment" on the card, it can really mess up every one's schedule for the day. (I know, because it has happened.)
I point these things out the the receptionist when we arrive (a little after 9 am). She asks to keep the card to show to the director, saying they hope to find a better solution for these kind of mix-ups between the front desk and the treatment areas.
I go on into the infusion room, set up my ipod, earbuds and laptop and do my best to zone out while the poking ensues. It is a tough one this morning. I have not found any sure fire way to make it easier. Being hydrated helps, having a puff right before helps (but I don't want to do that if I plan on any medical discussions with the doc!), but nothing helps every time. One just does the best one can before during and after the ordeal. I can tell you it is not easy on anyone.
Lori joins me in the exam room and meets Dr L (aka Doogie Howser) who tells us that since I am tolerating the current med (Arimidex) so well, and it has had such impressive results on my liver lesions, he now thinks we should stay the course --at least until we get the next set of scans (in January-- they happen about every 3 months) before we look at switching to the new med (Aromasin).
Well, there's a surprise. But OK.
Back out to the infusion room. We must wait while they finish running my labs before they can give me the Zometa. A couple of staff people stop by to ask about my getting Reiki today. (I had stopped at the downstairs information desk on my way in and requested a Reiki practitioner come up to the infusion room to treat me whenever one arrived. I don't know if this new notoriety is because of that or from my phone calls to the Director and the Spiritual Care people after last month's Reiki fiasco.)
Lynn, the Director-- with whom I had a conversation last month about creating the possibility of quiet in the infusion room-- tells me they have ordered noise canceling head phones. A good start. Not one but TWO Reiki practitioners come by to work on me-- one before the infusion arrives, one after. The Reiki people thank me for raising a squawk. It seems it was helpful.
Nina comes by at the end to say hello and we talk again about the work we imagine being part of together, exploring pyscho-spiritual-social approaches to healing-- methods that focus not so much on "cure" per se, as on finding meaningfulness with whatever circumstances life throws our way, including illness and loss. The current model of battle for victory over disease can prevent us from being present to the life we have right now. I do not know that either Nina or myself are patient people by nature, but we are learning. Slow, patient, steady. It is a long slog, but it is good to have partners in this endeavor.
One step at a time, baby, one step at a time.
My blood work comes back showing my platelets are low. My white and red blood count is fine. Maybe this is some freaky occurrence? The Dr wants me to get another blood draw next week just to keep an eye on things. Maybe this is why I am especially bleed-y when they take out the IV today? Maybe it explains my tiredness the last couple of days? I do not know. I need to do a little more research on this low platelet phenomenon.
But I do know that after a bowl of Tom Kah soup and a whirl around K-Mart and Home Depot (Need new curtain rod!) Lori and I both arrive back in Hood River, about seven and a half hours after we left, totally pooped. One step at a time, people.
My (mostly) remodeled house is (mostly) painted (interiors, anyway)-- but there is plenty left to clean/recycle/toss/re-arrange /etc before my holiday company arrives, and I am just going to have to pace myself. Do not hurry, do not tarry. Tomorrow is another day.
Friday, November 11, 2011
I Am a Lot of Things
And by that I mean that I am experiencing a lot of emotions right now. And that I am aware that, like Whitman, "I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes."What brings this on?
Well, I went to Celilo this week for my monthly check in. Having discussed the (very good) results of my CT scan during last month's visit, I figured this one was mostly a matter of getting the IV needle into a vein (not always easy) and then enduring an hour in the noisy infusion room because I forgot to bring my ear buds.
Wrong!
Turns out the CT scan results I discussed with Nina last month were preliminary-- the full report came in to the new oncologist (Doogie Houser or Dr L) after my visit. Oh. And the full results? Not so good. Did Dr L speak with you? Ah, no. He needs to speak to you. Oh. Okay. Nina gets the young Dr and they both stay for our discussion.
There appears to be some new bone metastasis in my sternum. Oh. And even though everything else looks pretty good (liver mets continue to shrink, etc) these new mets make Dr L think we should change hormone therapy. To something called Aromasin.
As the name implies, it is another aromatase inhibitor-- same "family" of meds as Arimedex. It has a "steroidal element" that changes the pathway it takes to get into the cell. Which Dr L hopes might make it more effective against the bone mets. Other then that, it would likely have similar side effects as what I am already dealing with on Arimedex.
There is no hurry to switch, they know I like to research and think on these things. At my request, the three of us to go into Dr L's office to see the actual pictures of the latest scan. Dr L wants to make sure I understand that he is NOT a radiologist-- his ability to point out to me just exactly what we are looking at is limited. I ask if it is possible for me to look at the images with someone who is skilled at interpreting them. Yes, of course, he'll call the HR hospital and arranged a meeting with a radiologist for me.
And he did! That was Tuesday and I sat down with Dr. Terry Finstad in HR today.
Quothe the radiologist, "I don't know why more people don't ask to do this..."
Me, "I don't think most people even know they can ask."
But as you well know, gentle readers, I like information, and as a hippy-dippy mind-body-spirit person, I like to give myself visual images to work with-- plus I ain't afraid to make what some doctors might consider to be "unusual" requests.
What do the pictures reveal? As often in medicine, things are not as black and white (in this case, literally) as they might at first appear. Yes, there are clearly little white glowing spots (indicating growing bone-- that's the form of bone mets I have)-- but if we go back to the images from three months earlier, hmmm, it does look like there might be evidence of these same little spots-- not as glowing, not as clear, not as white-- even back then. So are these NEW mets? I ask. Hard to be certain. They are clearly more developed mets. But they are still relatively small-- I could fit two of them on the fingernail of my pinkie.
We can clearly see some increase in the size of the bone mets inside my L1 and T8 vertebrae. We discuss how these are well within the shape of the vertebrae itself-- not threatening to protrude into my spinal column, and cause other problems. And since this mets does not eat bone away, the danger of fracture due to metastasis is low. Perhaps the clearest difference we see between scans is the evidence of the diminishing lesions on my liver. That is good news.
So do I change meds? Good question. The radiologist isn't sure what he would do himself. Regardless of whether these mets on my sternum are brand new (which seemed to be the deal-breaker for Dr L) it looks like Arimedex is currently failing to totally inhibit my bone mets (what is less certain is that it ever did), but it has been effective against the liver mets... So, do I change meds? I don't know.
I don't wanna. But I think that is largely because I don't wanna entertain the idea that the current medicine is no longer stopping the cancer in its track. I want it to work. Period. I wanted to be one of those people who spend ten or twenty years on a single hormone drug before they have to change up-- or before they die in their sleep from old age... Let's face it, I don't wanna have cancer. Butcha do, Blanche, ya do!
Amazing how quickly we put that kind of thing behind us if and when we can, and how shocked we are when it pokes up to the surface again. OH, right. I still have stage four cancer. This rug can get pulled out from under me at any time. True for all of us, yes, but, um, one would think it is a little less easily denied for someone like me. And one would be WRONG!
I am shocked. Really shocked. I am shocked to feel like death has landed on my doorstep all over again. (As if I should be immune, like I gave at the office or something.) And I am gob-smacked to realize how shocked I am. Kinda a double whammy.
I can barely put one foot in front of the other. Or maybe it is more accurate to say I can ONLY put one foot in front of the other. Before sending me back out to the infusion lounge, Nina reminds me that this "change" in some ways doesn't mean much of anything-- I still feel well, that is what is important, that is the actual reality--- and I am still doing remarkably well. Under my circumstances. Yes. Okay. Thanks. I will think about all this and get back to you. One foot in front of the other.
Okay. But I am still dying.
Okay. Yes. Everything that lives will die and I am not immune to that. Like Beckett said, "You are on earth. There is no cure for that." One foot in front of the other.
The rest of the day goes by. I am sure I will tell you more about my time in the infusion chair, about stuffing my ears with Kleenex and wrapping my head in my scarf to try to drown out all the noise while I get a Reiki treatment from the gifted practitioner I had to rustle up out of hiding in the basement (!). Oh, yes, you will hear more on that, rest assured.
Driving home I am newly touched again by how beautiful this world is, how lucky we are to live in it-- however briefly. How could I forget that? How could my view become so limited so quickly? Does it really take such a graphic, in-my-face reminder of impermanence to get me to let go of the small stuff and be grateful for the much bigger world I live in? Maybe so. Maybe that is part of our human-selves, our smaller selves, part of what Sobonfu would call our "meat suit," which can so limit our vision of reality.
The Yoga Sutras talk of mistaking unreality for reality and the impermanent for the permanent. Yeah, we do that. I do that.
I spent the next day reading in my bed, hanging with my dog, nursing my newly rediscovered mortality. Ouch. It is a tender spot. I have not felt ready to talk about it. I have been chewing and stewing and just being with it on my own. I am sorry if I have offended anyone by breaking this news in blog form, but I am still feeling kinda quiet about it. But I do not feel robbed. I feel reminded of how much abundance is all around me.
I have some decisions to make about my medications. I will do some more research and some more thinking. It is not an emergency. It is just the next step.
There will be a step after that. And a step after that.
Please do not worry about me, my friends. I am still here. And I still have some shit I wanna do... And I guess, if that is the case I got some doing to do.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Squirrely
Yup. That is how I feel these days. Downright squirrely.
And by that I mean? Jumpy and distract-able, like I don't want to be here, exactly, but I do not know where I do want to be, or how I would get there from here, so I would rather just take this day and obliterate it. (My favorite forms of obliviating being reading, napping, watching HULU... anything but engaging in my life.)
I know that the answer to this predicament is start anywhere, but that is so just what I don't want to do! I know am spinning in the hamster wheel of my own GD mind. But knowing all that does not, unfortunately, free me from it. And I've learned that I can't just push my way through-- that only ends in stuck-ness + self-hatred. So. I decided I would out myself by writing about this most uncomfortable spot.
Urgh! The thought of it makes me feel sick. But here goes:
Let's start with the word choices I made above: Obliterate and obliviate. Pretty powerful and destructive sounding. What do they mean, exactly?
It turns out that there is a good reason spellcheck objects to my use of obliviate: It is a new word --coined by the Harry Potter books!-- meaning (just about) what you think it does: a spell that makes one forget. Its origins reach back to the ancient (13th c) word, oblivion, meaning:
All righty, then. Any questions?
At this juncture in our narrative, we have landed in a very old and dark place in my psyche (and, thank you, yoga, buddha, jesus and all other powers for good that be, at least I am now aware that I am not alone in this place) where my deepest desire is to disappear, which carries with it overtones of both being utterly destroyed and being forgiven. The question is not why this desire is planted in me. We can ask, but really, any answer we might find is beside the point. And the point is? Live Through This. Do not be dead to this. Even this darkness is a part of being alive. Lean into it. Learn to not reject my own rejection.
Such a hat trick.
It ain't easy. And whenever I've done it before it is only after exhausting all other options. Because it is painful, so painful, to feel one's own rejection of life, a gift one feels unworthy of receiving. Is this the seed common to depression, distraction, addiction, self-loathing-- and to all the many ways those play out in the lives of human beings?
I don't know.
What I know is this:
This is all happening in the hamster cage of my mind. And I do not have to believe everything I think. If I can change my mind-- Poof! -- the whole world changes.
And #2: I have been thinking of a poem by Tess Gallagher ever since I started writing this post. It is called If Poetry Were Not a Morality. It is always tricky to quote part of a poem and ask it to stand in for the whole, and I suspect it is actually a sin to try to explain the missing part--- so, I urge you to click on the link and read the whole thing yourself, if you are interested. You will not be sorry.
But I will leave you with #3: This showed up in my inbox thanks to Rob Brezsny's Free Will Astrology Newsletter. He credits Jennifer Welwood.
And by that I mean? Jumpy and distract-able, like I don't want to be here, exactly, but I do not know where I do want to be, or how I would get there from here, so I would rather just take this day and obliterate it. (My favorite forms of obliviating being reading, napping, watching HULU... anything but engaging in my life.)
I know that the answer to this predicament is start anywhere, but that is so just what I don't want to do! I know am spinning in the hamster wheel of my own GD mind. But knowing all that does not, unfortunately, free me from it. And I've learned that I can't just push my way through-- that only ends in stuck-ness + self-hatred. So. I decided I would out myself by writing about this most uncomfortable spot.
Urgh! The thought of it makes me feel sick. But here goes:
Let's start with the word choices I made above: Obliterate and obliviate. Pretty powerful and destructive sounding. What do they mean, exactly?
It turns out that there is a good reason spellcheck objects to my use of obliviate: It is a new word --coined by the Harry Potter books!-- meaning (just about) what you think it does: a spell that makes one forget. Its origins reach back to the ancient (13th c) word, oblivion, meaning:
1. The state of being completely forgotten or unknown.And obliterate?
2. The state of forgetting or of being oblivious.
3. Official disregard or overlooking of offenses; pardon; amnesty.
1. Destroy utterly; wipe out.
2. Cause to become invisible or indistinct; blot out.
All righty, then. Any questions?
Turns out my word choice reveals my state of mind far more nakedly then is really comfortable. (Ah, yes, note to self: Please Remember-- that is why I write.) Uh, and why exactly am I even thinking about sharing this on the World Wide frikkin' Web? Oh, yeah, in case it may be of service to others... Okay. Here we go.
At this juncture in our narrative, we have landed in a very old and dark place in my psyche (and, thank you, yoga, buddha, jesus and all other powers for good that be, at least I am now aware that I am not alone in this place) where my deepest desire is to disappear, which carries with it overtones of both being utterly destroyed and being forgiven. The question is not why this desire is planted in me. We can ask, but really, any answer we might find is beside the point. And the point is? Live Through This. Do not be dead to this. Even this darkness is a part of being alive. Lean into it. Learn to not reject my own rejection.
Such a hat trick.
It ain't easy. And whenever I've done it before it is only after exhausting all other options. Because it is painful, so painful, to feel one's own rejection of life, a gift one feels unworthy of receiving. Is this the seed common to depression, distraction, addiction, self-loathing-- and to all the many ways those play out in the lives of human beings?
I don't know.
What I know is this:
This is all happening in the hamster cage of my mind. And I do not have to believe everything I think. If I can change my mind-- Poof! -- the whole world changes.
And #2: I have been thinking of a poem by Tess Gallagher ever since I started writing this post. It is called If Poetry Were Not a Morality. It is always tricky to quote part of a poem and ask it to stand in for the whole, and I suspect it is actually a sin to try to explain the missing part--- so, I urge you to click on the link and read the whole thing yourself, if you are interested. You will not be sorry.
But I will leave you with #3: This showed up in my inbox thanks to Rob Brezsny's Free Will Astrology Newsletter. He credits Jennifer Welwood.
Willing to experience aloneness,
I discover connection everywhere;
Turning to face my fear,
I meet the warrior who lives within me;
Opening to my loss and pain and ignorance,
I remember who I am and what I'm here for.
Surrendering into emptiness,
I find fullness without end.
Each condition I flee from pursues me,
Each condition I welcome transforms me
and becomes itself transformedBest wishes, my friends. Good luck evolving. And thank you.
into the blessing it always was.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Still Here
Yes, my friends, I am still here. It has been a while. No news is not bad news. Things have been busy with my remodel and my end of summer crop of company. All is well. But I know I do better when I write. So here I am. What's new? I have quite a backlog of stories to share. Let's start in the nearly present...
Tuesday I went to Celilo for my monthly cancer check-in and Zometa infusion (to help deal with bone metastasis). I saw Nina Van Es, NP, who is my all time favorite and personal champion on staff there. Dr T has finally retired and the new doc I refer to as Doogie Howser, for not very original reasons. He is nice enough, young (33!), and I have sympathy for what it must be like to walk into a full clinic of people you've never met before, at all different stages of all different kinds of cancer, with all the different and unique physical, emotional, psychological needs that implies. That is a lot to dive in to. I wish him well.
But back to me!
The results from my routine CAT scan (I had one last week, I get them about 3 times a year) look pretty good. Lesions in liver continue to decrease. Metastasis in bones ( T2, T7, T11, left clavicle, right posterior rib) have not increased.
Am I in remission? I ask. Nina pondered. She said she'd have to get back to me with the precise medical definition of "remission"-- she seems to remember it has something to do with a 50% reduction in tumor mass, and of course she'd have to ask an Oncologist what they think... but she THINKS that we could say that. In any event I am doing REMARKABLY well.
Here's what Wikipedia says about Remission:
OK, my friends. That is it for now, but I promise I will be back. 'Cause while this IS good news, it is far from the best STORY I've tripped over in my path the last few months. Thanks for checking in and thanks for keeping the faith.
Tuesday I went to Celilo for my monthly cancer check-in and Zometa infusion (to help deal with bone metastasis). I saw Nina Van Es, NP, who is my all time favorite and personal champion on staff there. Dr T has finally retired and the new doc I refer to as Doogie Howser, for not very original reasons. He is nice enough, young (33!), and I have sympathy for what it must be like to walk into a full clinic of people you've never met before, at all different stages of all different kinds of cancer, with all the different and unique physical, emotional, psychological needs that implies. That is a lot to dive in to. I wish him well.
But back to me!
The results from my routine CAT scan (I had one last week, I get them about 3 times a year) look pretty good. Lesions in liver continue to decrease. Metastasis in bones ( T2, T7, T11, left clavicle, right posterior rib) have not increased.
Am I in remission? I ask. Nina pondered. She said she'd have to get back to me with the precise medical definition of "remission"-- she seems to remember it has something to do with a 50% reduction in tumor mass, and of course she'd have to ask an Oncologist what they think... but she THINKS that we could say that. In any event I am doing REMARKABLY well.
Here's what Wikipedia says about Remission:
My disease has not completely disappeared, but it is not currently active. Call that what you will, I call it good news.
Remission
Remission is the state of absence of disease activity in patients known to have a chronic illness that cannot be cured. It is commonly used to refer to absence of active cancer when the disease is expected to manifest again in the future. A partial remission may be defined for cancer as 50% or greater reduction in the measurable parameters of tumor growth as may be found on physical examination, radiologic study, or by biomarker levels from a blood or urine test. A complete remission is defined as complete disappearance of all such manifestations of disease.
OK, my friends. That is it for now, but I promise I will be back. 'Cause while this IS good news, it is far from the best STORY I've tripped over in my path the last few months. Thanks for checking in and thanks for keeping the faith.
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