" . . . who do not trouble their lives with forethought of grief."

I completed my tenth cycle of chemotherapy last week, a session that ended as most have done for the past several months. It was followed by the expected several days of physical fatigue, of that "chemo buzz" I've learned to accept as normal. While I've learned to take it easy on my body during those days immediately following an infusion, I haven't always been able to do so mentally and emotionally, and for the first time in quite a while, the fatigue was accompanied by a profound weariness of heart, mind and soul. It was due to a number of things, but mostly the fact that I have trouble at times taking my own best advice: attitude is everything, live in the present, don't believe everything you think. I certainly spent too much time thinking, perhaps over-thinking my situation, on my post-chemo rest days -- measuring my experience against various statistics, getting into a "waiting for the other shoe to drop" mentality, assigning every ache and pain some dire significance, grieving losses that have not happened. The effects on my emotional health were predictable as I slipped into funk -- a steady and steep downhill ride on that emotional roller-coaster that has been fairly tame for several months. I know that this is a normal and expected response to living with cancer, but it is a bit disconcerting when it happens; and it just does -- there's no prelude, no trigger that I can identify. And, as I've learned, it passes, sometimes as quickly as it appears. That's where I am now; I'm OK after a weekend of time with family, seeing friends from my old coed, slow-pitch softball team (not that they are old -- no one's as fast as they were a few years ago, but they play with the energy and enthusiasm of kids, and their enjoyment of the game is infectious), a nice walk on the last day of summer, and as a bonus, the Giants taking two of three from the boys in blue.

Physically, the fatigue is lessening, and I'm feeling pretty good, although increased blood pressure continues to prove vexing. I get to thinking it's under control after a change in medication, and then I start seeing spikes in it again. It was high this AM even after recently doubling the dose of the additional medication I started taking a few weeks ago. Other than that, all else seems to be status quo. I'll know more after my next CT scan on October 1. Until then, I've got lots to look forward to including a trip to the new Academy of Sciences (yes, with Violet), a massage, a couple of walks with friends, and the celebration, with Jane, of our 39th wedding anniversary on September 27.

One of the things that helped turn the tide last week was a poem by Wendell Berry that my brother, Bob, had sent me. It's actually one that I keep in a journal of poems, quotes and such that I've gathered over the years, but don't review often enough. Anyway, it came at the right time:

"When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not trouble their lives with forethought of grief.

I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light.

For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and I am free."


It always seems to be about perspective. As always, my thanks for friends and family and the support they lend.

Peace,

Don