No, no plans on my part for a disco revival, but rather plans to continue to live as well as I can as long as I can with cancer, always hoping to be cancer-free. I need to restate this, perhaps more for myself than those who read these journal entries. A week or so ago I was given a copy of Randy Pausch's book, "The Last Lecture." I had been made aware of him and his lecture soon after my diagnosis. For those unfamiliar with him, he is a teacher who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in September, 2006. At the time, it appeared to be confined to his pancreas, and surgery was done to remove it. Several months later, however, he learned that it had spread to his liver and spleen. At that time, he felt that he had been given a terminal diagnosis and that chemotherapy would be palliative, perhaps extending his life, but a life that would end due to the cancer. As a result, he wrote and delivered his "last lecture." He is an amazing and courageous man, and his lecture is an inspirational presentation I could only dream of giving, one filled with life lessons; it is all about living a good life rather than dying. However, since first visiting his website, I have been troubled by what I've seen as a concession to the terminal nature of his illness. Call me unrealistic, "pollyanish" perhaps, but I cannot look at my disease that way. It is difficult enough knowing that this disease can kill me, but I am more than a statistic; at this point, I can't, I won't tell myself that it inevitably will. I know I face a difficult prognosis, but I'm approaching everything I do that can be considered part of my healing therapy with the idea that it will prolong my life, hopefully until I die of old age. My brother Bob sent me an unattributed saying yesterday that speaks volumes for the attitude I feel I have to bring to my treatment: "When facing a difficult task act as though it is impossible to fail. If you're going after Moby Dick, take along the tartar sauce."
So armed with a variety of therapeutic condiments, I've had a good three weeks since writing last. Other than the variable side effects of chemotherapy, I've felt well -- I've been relatively pain free, recouped most of my energy during my rest week, taken in a Giants game (they won!), run and walked in a Tamalpa club race, had a spa massage (a first), celebrated Mother's Day with family including the newest mother in the clan, Jessica. I also began my sixth cycle of chemo this past Wednesday, and while the infusion sessions and their immediate aftermath have become something to be endured, chemotherapy and the collective power of prayer, my own prayers and meditation, acupuncture, diet, and so many other good things in my life, are continuing to work positively. My CA19-9 levels have dropped to 25, indicating a continuing reduction in tumor activity. I'll know more about tumor status in a few weeks after my next CT scan. In the meanwhile, I continue to enjoy family and friends and prepare to run my tenth Dipsea.
I know that running a course that requires signing a waiver indicating that great bodily harm and even death could occur on the course may sound crazy to some, but being able to get from Mill Valley to Stinson Beach on June 8 has more than metaphoric or symbolic meaning for me, although given time, I can certainly wax rhapsodically about those aspects. Cutting to the chase, though, it was one of the first "long term" goals I set after finding out I had an aggressive cancer for the simple reason that realizing the goal would mean that I'd be healthy and alive six months after my diagnosis, nine months after symptoms first appeared. It's a big first step toward stayin' alive, stayin' alive . . .
As always, my sincere appreciation for continued prayers, positive thoughts, companionship, friendship, hugs, You Tube videos, and your loving care and concern.
Peace,
Don
