My Adventures with Cancer

www.thejuanski@blogspot.com


My Adventures with Cancer

First, I'd like to share one of my favorite simple poems:

The Hound

Life the hound
Equivocal
Comes at a bound
Either to rend me
Or befriend me.
I cannot tell
The hound's intent
Till he has sprung
At my bare hand
With teeth or tongue.
Meanwhile I stand
And wait the event.

- Francis Cornford (1886-1960)


I've always thought of life itself as a series of on-going adventures. I don't even think in terms of good and bad - too simplistic and childlike. Events happen to you all the time. I figure you either learn from them or you don't, but you don't always know in advance how they should be judged. Life is full of little unexpected incidents — the hand slammed in the door, stepping on broken glass, the accidental contact with the red-hot barbecue grill that just suddenly appeared before your small footsteps, leading directly to the emergency room. I watched my own daughter through these adventures and many others here in Battle Ground. Like everyone, I've had my own share of self-induced mishaps: I really shouldn't have taken on Richard, my three-year elder, in a game of walnut wars in his mothers orchard. He was the hight school baseball pitcher. Then of course, I had my brother, Rafi, who encouraged me in middle school to ride his 60MPH racing go cart down a rutted country road. The accelerator stuck hopelessly, and i was about to cross a highway. Suddenly a pot-hole picked up one of the front wheels and sent if hurtling upside down with the "road" over my head. I leapt out like a grasshopper and landed about 5 feet down at another level of orchard, while a couple of seconds later the go cart landed on its top, snapping off the carburetor which was immediately behind my head just earlier. I lived and learned. There were many other similar events in my life. I never lived on the "mean streets" — just the unforgiving countryside of rural northern California. I don't see that the launching of Sputnik did me any good at the time, but I made the best use modern medicine; I practically lived on tetanus shots and penicillin. (I've forgotten how many times I had to watch rusty nails emerge from the top of my foot). But I lived through them all, and they didn't seem half so bad in the retelling. So I came eventually to think of life's unexpected events as Adventures. As I grew older, as in college age, some of my "adventures" were poorly thought out to the point of being dangerous. Yet others were simply intriguing explorations in other countries, or cultures; a road trip through part of the South before they understood that the Equal Rights Amendment was a national law, not a voluntary one. We quickly gathered the wisdom to not personally integrate the black swimming pool at a local park in Tennessee that still had drinking fountains marked "whites only". Then we drove north. Yeah, you could still see on TV when some local sheriff or other would set police dogs loose on women and children. Believe me, I haven't covered anywhere near the mountain of examples I could. But I really prefer to think of my leanings as due to a "Curiosity Gene". I've always wanted to know what was on the "other" side of every barrier. Maybe I have always had the "What If" gene, or just the "Bart Simpson Gene". Did I ever tell you about the summer I decided to strip myself of all ID and cross the desert border at night from Mexico into the US with a group of illegals? Now that was exhilarating. Yes, of course I was an American citizen. But the adventure factor (and learning factor) were high. In any case, I've always loved learning about most anything that caught my attention. Much of the time that was at school, but obviously, not all. Certainly it led me to want to teach school.

Man has always been the creature who passed on his knowledge and history through the telling of stories — spoken, acted, or both. But what would you have to pass on if you had done very little, or thought very little? Probably not much -- you would obviously not have been elected chief story-teller in your village. And what if you also didn't listen to the chief story-teller? Think about it -- you would be a dull little child indeed. Perhaps soon to grow up to be a dull adult as well.

One of my greatest "adventures" has been learning woodworking. I was utterly fascinated by the notion that I could take a simple stick of wood and turn it into anything from a boomerang, to exotic jewelry, to a small box for the jewelry, to salad tongs, to beads, etc. etc. Any stick, including one from the firewood bin. Now that's creativity! I've become reasonably good at it by now, some 35 years later, but I started the same as everybody: I took a stick of wood and started shaping it. Then I picked up another. Every improvement with time became another adventure. I got better. All I needed was a shot of that "curiosity gene".

Only a few years ago I found myself square in the crosshairs of Hurricane Katrina, which was soon arriving under the most serious of warnings to evacuate. I quickly realized I wouldn't miss this for anything! I'd never in my life been in a hurricane, especially not a monumental one like this.I witnessed one of the most moving human dramas I'd ever participated in. I ended up staying a full six days, before, during, and after Hurricane Katrina. Thankfully, I saw, but did not have to participate in so many of the horrors others lived through, and which the nation shared on television. If I somehow had died, would it still be an adventure, or would that elevate it to a tragedy? In my mind (perhaps not my family's) it was an adventure. Dying would have been misfortune.

One final example: A very good friend of mine, a former young teacher, contracted an inoperable liver condition. Transplant was the only recourse, and she was fortunate to receive one that worked. There was, of course, a strict regimen of anti-rejection medicines, a divorce, other medical procedures to ensure she stay healthy. Through all of this I marveled that she could maintain such a bright, sunny exterior while even operating her own private business. She was not only beautiful on the outside, but even more so on the inside. She had taken up ballroom dancing, made many new friends, and had lived perhaps five years into the transplant. One ordinary day she came to a stop light not far from my house on a regular thoroughfare. The light changed to green and she was broadsided on the left side by careless teenagers who ran a red light. She died, I believe, at the scene of the accident. The small details really don't matter, do they? She was dead, and I was stunned by the loss of her. So was that an adventure? Of course not — certainly not the death. But there was in her living, what I mean by adventure: She loved life, faced it bravely, expanded her circle of friends and activities, made excellent choices that would help her not only live, but live exuberantly. It's hard to picture her without a smile. She became, unknowingly, a mentor to me, though certainly not the only one.

So when I first discovered I had cancer many months ago it was a bit stunning, but didn't really "rattle" me. I just recall spending some time contemplating. I also contemplated my own reaction. I just thought about it for a while, organizing my thoughts before acting. I realized early on that I was not only in trouble myself, but I could become a huge problem to a lot of people. I decided then and there to keep that to a minimum -- I would simply become too reliant upon others to treat them so cavalierly. Around this time too, I began getting questions from close friends or relatives, like "How do you feel" and "What have you learned from your experience?" I was certainly able to relate what I was feeling, but "what had I learned?" My usual answer to that was "Humility" and "the kindness of strangers". These were very moving discoveries for me, but probably not the kind of hard wisdom they might have hoped for. The truth is, I hadn't lived enough yet to be dispensing anything I could call "wisdom". Sometimes you are simply so embedded with a situation that you can't yet have a contemplative, meaningful thought. You might also have a brand new, more valid thought the following day. This is all part of your own mind, as during a sleeping dream, still sorting out what may be rather confusingly rendered. So by last year I had pretty well come to realize that I had no special knowledge to pass on as wisdom.

But I do feel I know myself better now, and I like what I see. This is just me looking at myself through my lens of adventure: I have never feared the cancer. It's just another another challenge in the process of living. I have never thought of the cancer as an "enemy" to be overcome. I dislike that whole "battle" and "enemy" metaphor that has been so overused. And if I survive, I guess that makes me a "hero". In my mind there is no more "heroism" involved than there is in waking up and going to work everyday and facing, say 125 students from every background and level of interest, say, or every level of sanity. What's so heroic about lying on your back and letting yourself be irradiated for 30 seconds from 3 different sides? What would be non-heroic — failing to show up and letting yourself die early? Or again, what's so heroic about going in once a week and getting hooked up to a 24-hr chemo pump? Did I have a meaningful choice? I suppose the non-heroic response might be to just complain about it endlessly - to cry and cradle yourself in your own arms. In truth, I never saw anybody do that over a period of months. All we were doing was making our doctor visits as scheduled. I also have no use for that other well-worn metaphor of good vs evil — cancer is neither. It's just certain cells in my body trying to multiply and survive like all other specialized cells or organs. We just have a different mission. We're both just trying to make a living here.

"One day at a time - one minute at a time". I have honestly kept to that notion since day one. On Thursday, Sept. 3, the surgeons will completely open up my innards and remove my whole stomach. My life will be dramatically different after that. Do I worry about it? Not in the least -- it hasn't happened yet. I believe that attitude is an immensely powerful force that can be harnessed to help you face anything. I don't feel as if I have ever faced a worthless day during this entire cancer adventure. I always find something to draw my attention, something of interest in the next procedure. I study how the RMI machine goes through its loud humming and knocking in unpredictable patterns. I enjoy the experience of being helplessly funneled into a huge plastic tube and having all my movements restricted — some call it claustrophobic. I call it cozy. All the various machines have their unique and interesting characteristics, and I always go to my appointments in a cheerful mood. I came to think of my chemo appointments as sessions at the "KP (Kaiser Permanente) Spa" where I'm given a tune-up of fresh chemo, bandage changes, and a nice general cleaning up before being sent on my way. Same for the radiation crew. I never failed to thank each technician politely for his or her services. This kind of positive attitude, I think, has been responsible for my never having lost a night's sleep due to worry or fears; I simply don't indulge such things when there are so many more gratifying things to think about.

I'm going to be separated from a familiar pal in a few days. Sixty years of good times we've had, my stomach and I. So many fine memories! When I must bid him goodbye, that will just become the beginning of a new adventure: going it alone. I'll just learn something more, no matter what comes to pass. I'll learn what it's like to be hospitalized for ten days or so. I'll learn about friends I didn't know I had. I'll learn again and again, lessons in human kindness. (In case you're wondering, yes you can chew food without a stomach -- you just have to alter you habits to eating like a Gerbil. That should be interesting, too. The fact is, it's all interesting to me. I'll have to learn to supplement my meals with a feeding tube sometimes, I suppose . . . "Gee, I wonder what I could put in there?" . . wonders Bart Simpson. . .
I'll go through a healing process that may last a year or so. Fine — that should be an adventure too, watching how my body responds and replenishes itself.

I suppose I should mention, more to the point, that I've suffered very little during this whole ordeal of 9 wks during two different cycles of 24-hr chemo delivered by a chemo pump I wore all days and all night for all those weeks. I did even better during 5 straight weeks of direct radiation. Every weekday morning my wife or I would drive me in to the clinic in N. Portland to have my stomach radiated ten seconds each from three different angles.. no pain, no bother. But that radiation would really knock the stuffings out of what little physical or psychological energy I was still harboring. I have had a couple of rounds of two weeks of truly heinous side effects, but they are past now, as if they had never taken place. (See how nicely living in the moment works?) I really do live one day at a time, and right now I'm enjoying finally getting this communication out. That's why I am not worried about tomorrow; I'm perfectly contented right now.

It's all been leading up to this culmination: I could die on the surgery table Thursday, Sept. 3. Or they could get into the exploratory phase and discover that I'm just a hopeless mess with metastasized drops and runners glomming on to other organs. That means they would just keep me in hospital to recover from surgery-induced
wounds, etc., and then send me home for the final countdown. Or things might go perfectly, in which they remove the entire stomach and entire tumor in the progress, and find nothing but healthy organs. That's my first choice, of course. OR . . . . it could be something in between which leaves me alive but in a compromised position. None of my doctors — oncologist, radiologist, or surgeon — can guarantee any outcome before actually digging in and looking around. Like I said, "You have to take one day at a time". Sometime Thursday evening, I suppose, I will awake from a stupor and someone will tell me a bit more of my fate. In the meantime, I just hope it isn't Michael Jackson. . .

To conclude, this is the best way I could think of to both inform and apologize to so many to whom I've neglected to respond. I had meant to write each of you a long personal message —especially those who wrote (sometimes even multiple) handwritten letters. But I do have, I hope, an acceptable excuse: Cancer ate my energy. These cancer regimens have been the most debilitating events I have ever experienced. At times lifting a pen or opening a notebook computer can be so tiring it seems like stacking prison rocks. It can be so enervating as to leave you stupefied, curled on the couch with a blanket over your head all day long. I'm afraid that over time I just fell further and further behind until all I can offer is this catch-up message and a mouthful of apologies. I've appreciated and felt joyous with every call and email you've sent, and thank you deeply.

So Thursday, Sept.3 might be the final goodbye, but I don't think so. I've never had a fatal adventure yet, and besides, I've got way too many new adventures I'm looking forward to — including meeting you or at least corresponding with you before I kick it. And I have many other creative adventures I need to complete in my shop. And when this over, I may even have more to say. For now, I love you all who have been so meaningful in my life, and wish you the best adventures. This would also be a good time to review the opening poem. It means so much more to me now than ever before. It applies equally well to you.

Still smiling,
Juan Christian