First, my apologies for getting this update out so long after the fact, but last Friday's storm left us without power until late Tuesday morning. On top of that, I've also been in something of a funk the last day or so and a lack of emotional energy has kept me from sitting at keyboard and getting something out. But, I'm here now. First, an explanation of the title of today's missive -- no, it's not one of George Lucas' Star Wars creations, but rather an abbreviation designating last Friday as the eighth day of the first cycle of chemotherapy. This Friday will be C1D15 and so on. My second session of chemo went well and other than the expected fatigue and a bit of nausea, my body seems to have handled it well. This was my first treatment at the infusion center at UCSF, and it was quite a humbling experience, and one that put my situation in a perspective that it lacked before. There were probably on the order of 30 people receiving treatment at any given time while I was there; the total was more as some came and went while I spent my two hours in the chair. There were men and women 20 years older than me and others 40 years younger, some clearly "sick," others who, like me, seem OK from the outside. For part of my session, I sat next to a young woman and her father. They gave me reason to believe (here's a musical trivia question -- who wrote "Reason to Believe?" And, no, it wasn't Rod Stewart). She had been diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer 9 years earlier, and was in her second clinical trial at UC. She and her dad talked about a vacation to Ireland (he with a gentle brogue) they were planning during an upcoming break in her treatment -- they exuded hope, and it was catching.
Just reminding myself of that has helped lift some of the grey curtain that draped itself over me emotionally the last 24 hours or so. A wave of sadness, doubt, and fear came crashing down on me, and while I know it is part of the process and to be expected, it can be somewhat debillitating. While hope drives me forward toward that singlar goal of surviving this disease and all the benefits attached to survivorship, at times it seems such a thin line through a surrounding sea of potential despair. While walking this morning, I had to constantly remind myself that I need to take this one step at a time, one day at a time. During that walk, I remembered a climb I did in the Sierra Nevada, probably 25 years ago. I don't remember which peak it was, but after scrambling up a ridge to within a hundred feet of the summit, I faced the crux of the climb, a serrated, knife-like arete that narrowed to just a few feet and then to a short stretch, perhaps 10 feet, that was no more than 10-12 inches wide. It was time to make a choice -- consider the four hours of climbing to get to this point good enough, or take the risk of pushing through the fear to cross that last section and reach my goal (and then recross once that had been done). Quitting would have been the easier choice, and perhaps the wiser since I was alone with no rope, no one to belay me and insure my safety. But, it wasn't the choice I made. I crawled on all fours as the ridge narrowed and finally straddled that narrowest of sections with cliffs falling away both left and right, and slowly worked my way across -- there was no room for fear or second-guessing, all of my focus had to be on inching forward. I reached the summit and got back safely, exhilarated and exhausted.
So, no war metaphor this week. Surviving this cancer is not unlike getting to that peak so many years ago. It requires the quieting of fear and doubt, and an intense focus on the goal. It's what I am trying to do even though the dark thoughts can't always be kept at bay. A big difference is that, unlike reaching that peak, I know I'm not doing this alone.
Peace,
Don
