A Rest Week

I write from Stinson Beach again with the burnt-orange vestiges of sunset lingering in the west. It's the early evening of perhaps the best day I've had since more than a month before my diagnosis. Not unlike last week, the day began with warm sunshine, the white noise of the surf, but more importantly from my perspective, little of the abdominal pain that has been a constant companion for the past three months. And, without any chemo this week, I have more energy than I've had in a month. So, a great day to end a pretty good week, one that saw me at work for a few hours a day. Today began with coffee on the deck, the surge from a high tide running up under us, watching surfers enjoy the moderate swell under a bright, clear, and windless sky. A long walk with running buddies on the beach that was replete with story-telling, and best of all, laughter, followed. Norman Cousins has written about the connection between mind and body and the profound effects positive experiences, especially laughter, can have on healing. I am not one to disagree. Whether it's the laughter, the warm, sunny, stress-free environment, the prayers and good thoughts, the chemo drugs doing their jobs, all of those and something else working synergistically -- I really felt pretty normal today. I was able to eliminate what little pain I had in the morning and again late today with some across-the-counter ibuprofen, and nine hours passed between doses. My appetite is back, and food has returned to being more than something with calories and nutrients that I've had to put in my body. I know that things will change next week when the second cycle of chemotherapy begins, but I've learned to take each day at at time and relish the good times when they occur. Besides, the improvement in my symptoms may be a direct result of the chemo's effects on my tumors. So, the few days of fatigue, loss of appetite, perhaps a little nausea I experience each treatment week are a no-brainer tradeoff for the hoped for decrease in tumor size. As my students from a decade or so used to say, "Well, duh."

Back to the mind-soul-body connection. It's real. The prayers, the good karma, the positive vibes I am getting from so many sources: close friends and family, old friends and new, students and ex-students, and people I have never met, keep me going on days that are the antithesis of today. One that deserves note is a young girl in Fairbanks, Alaska, who has been making me origami cranes. Originally, my brother asked her to make one that he could bring to me shortly after my diagnosis. One was not enough in her mind, so she made 30 with plans to make a thousand! I receive occasional boxes -- we are up to 410 cranes, I think -- and the opening of each one is like a mini-Christmas. It's just one example of hundreds of things people have done that bouy my spirits, even when they seem ready to sink on those down days ( I knew I'd be able to sneak a metaphor of sorts in there somewhere), from the generous use of this house at Stinson to the meal service the Marin Catholic community has provided, to the companionship and laughter of friends and family, to the payers and good wishes of so many. I am humbled by and thankful for all of it. And, such a deal, I haven't had to pay for a lunch out in the past six weeks -- most recently with 15 classmates from Riordan High School ('64); five that I've known since first grade at St. Emydius.

Next week, the second chemo cycle begins, perhaps as early as Wednesday. I have an appointment with my doctor at UCSF that day, and if blood work I do earlier in the day is OK, I'll go directly to the infusion center afterwards. Otherwise, chemo will wait until Friday. As always, my thanks and indebtedness to all who are there for me.

C1D15 + Stinson Beach

I'm writing from a house on the beach at Stinson Beach Sunday morning with a wam sun on my back and the continuous sounds of the surf in the background. The sun, the sense of getting away, have all but erased the grey funkiness of last week. My third chemo session was this past Friday, and I'm starting to feel the effects of the cumulative treatments. Yesterday, the new "f" word in my vocabulary, fatigue, was something of a constant, plus occasional nausea -- nothing too bad, but just enough to make it more difficult to eat, and eat I must. On the plus side, my abdominal pain has decreased a bit these past two days which means fewer drugs have been needed to manage it, always a good thing since I now have a small pharmacopia that I need to have with me -- injectable heparin twice a day to prevent more blood clots from forming (a side effect of the cancer), various pain killers, anti-nausea meds, anti-anxiety meds, pancreatic enzymes, stool softeners and laxatives to counteract the constipation that the pain meds can cause . . . all of this part of what now passes for normal.

It's interesting that when I write or talk about my disease and the treatment of it, sometimes I slip into a third-person frame of thinking -- and, no, I haven't started referring to myself as Don, ala Jimmy in an old Seinfeld episode. It's just that there are times when it is still hard to believe that this is happening to me; it's easier to think of it happening to this guy named Don rather than me. It doesn't last long, though, as I am all to often reminded that we are one and the same.

So we go forward. The first cycle of chemo is done; I get this upcoming week off to recover and get blood counts back up before starting my second cycle the week of the 21st. If my blood work is OK by Wednesday of that week when I meet with my doctor, I may be able to have my first treatment of the second cycle then. Otherwise it's scheduled for Friday the 25th. I've also started acupuncture on a weekly basis to help deal with some of the symtoms -- pain in particular.

Since I'm at Stinson, the metaphor today would have to deal with the Dipsea, a race I just began running ten years ago, but got hooked on immediately. Since 1999, the t-shirts given to those who finish the race say "survivor" on the sleeve; I wear one of those shirts to chemo as a reminder of the hard work, pain, and will required to do well in the Dipsea. While the prize is different -- a longer life vs. a black shirt -- the same attributes, especially the willingness to endure discomfort and pain, to listen to that inner voice that says, "You can do this, never give up," are essential to surviving this disease.

And as always, I appreciate the continued support of friends and family and others, some who I have talked to but have yet to meet -- cancer survivors whose own stories are models of hope. Thank-you to one and all, whether it's for a card, email, or your generosity.