Category Archives: Health

Tomorrow Wall Down

Summer                                                                              Recovery Moon

The tomorrow wall has come down. As Kate observed yesterday, “I could tell you were feeling more positive. You wanted to move things around, get a new rug, hang art. Talk about color.” Yes. More color. More art. Get back to home making, not things medical.

We have a new boiler. I’m continent less than a week after the catheter came out and about two and three-quarters months ahead of expectations. We ordered a 9×12 braided rug for the reading area in front of the fireplace. I have a new plumber, recommended by Ken, the Boiler Medic. Things have begun to happen.

Jon’s coming out today to do more bookshelf and handyman work. Jon’s skills make a big difference for both Kate and me. We’re lucky to have him.

office350Yesterday morning I moved empty bookshelves that we’re no longer going to use, four of them. I horsed the horizontal file cabinet more toward the center of the loft. That leaves a new expanse of wall where more tall birch veneer bookshelves can go.

Functional islands is the organizing scheme. Books and other storage against the wall, including a cabinet and shelf space for the tea-making, tea, and tea-ware, a slot for a small refrigerator and my exercise TV.

At the south end of the loft, positioned with a view of Black Mountain, is the reading area which includes a large rug and a Swedish recliner. Next, moving north, and away from the reading area, almost to the middle of the room away from the west wall, is the computer, desk and dictionary stand which holds my O.L.D., Oxford Latin Dictionary. I imagine the horizontal file cabinet will be part of this island, too.

In the same location, but out from the east wall and extending to the middle of the room will be a large table with three cabinets beneath it. It will be on wheels. The drafting table goes in this area, too. Here I can spread out books when doing research or work on other projects. I hope to get into some art making using this space. Collage work for right now.

Out from the north wall, on the same (eastern) side as the large table, is the treadmill, rubber mats, weights and weight bench. On the eastern wall in front of the treadmill is the TV I use as an incentive to exercise. There will be, too, a pull-up bar mounted to the ceiling.

On the same (western) side as the computer/desk island, will be wire shelving for my many bankers boxes filled with novel manuscripts, research, files related to other projects like art, religion, politics.

We plan to use the large wooden crates built to move our two large Jeremiah Miller paintings (brother-in-law) as dividers among the islands, cutting the larger crate in half to create three dividers. Jon has an idea for using piano hinges that will allow the crates to be used as art storage. They will have feet so they can stand on their own.

Once the bookshelves are all assembled, the wire shelving up, the large table finished and the tea-making/refrigerator area is in place I can get down to the serious work of giving my library its final shape. That’s a task, an important and fun task, that cannot be done with electronic books, at least not yet.

I’m hoping that all this work, if not the organizing of books and files and bankers boxes, will be done by Labor Day with the whole loft area ready for fall and winter.

This loft is a love letter from Kate since she chose this house because of the loft area for me and the enclosed two-car garage area for her. Finishing up both of our spaces—we have to re-assemble Kate’s long arm quilter and she needs to get a better organizing scheme—and the kitchen, the living room and the garage, lies ahead, but not too far ahead. Feels good.

 

 

 

Week II Post-Surgery

Summer                                                                   Recovery Moon

Week II post surgery. My energy improves daily though I’m not back to full stamina. The surgical stigmata, six wounds where the robot’s arms pierced my skin, are healing nicely. It no longer hurts to lie down on them. An unpleasant, but anticipated side effect of the surgery, temporary incontinence, seems to be clearing up much more rapidly than I’d imagined it would. And, most importantly, I’m presumptively cancer free, the only question being possible microscopic metastases. I test for that in early September.

The tomorrow wall has crumbled. I can now see into the future again. Yesterday I made Amtrak reservations for my 50th high school reunion in September. The overnight California Zephyr runs from Denver to Chicago and then a short ride on the Cardinal to Lafayette, Indiana where I’ll pick up a rental car and drive the rest of the way. I do it this way because the Cardinal gets into Indianapolis after midnight and this allows me a good night’s sleep, plus I can gradually re-enter Hoosier space driving familiar highways back to Alexandria.

camp chesterfield2
The Trail of Religion

Again this time, as I did for the 45th, I plan to stay at Camp Chesterfield, a Christian Spiritualist center. It’s a quirky, old, interesting place. And, it’s cheap.

The loft is ready for its second round of construction, more shelves, then more shelving. I’ve abandoned my attempt to get the books properly organized as I shelve them because I need to clear space for more shelves. I can sort and organize as much as I want come fall.

My psyche has not caught up to my body’s healing pace. Though the tomorrow wall has fallen, I still find my days somewhat chaotic, not sure what to do, then what to do next. We’ve had a continuing drip, drip, drip of other matters: cracked tooth, dying boiler, Kate’s very painful back that contribute. All those seem to be moving toward resolution. I’ve even found a plumber for the generator install, a niggling thing still hanging on.

I’ll find my psyche back to its usual eagerness over the next week or two. I look forward to it.

Again, gratitude to all of you who sent notes over the cancer season. It matters.

 

 

Crowning Achievement

Summer                                                             Recovery Moon

Ever since my first crown years ago I can’t get the old gospel hymn, Crown Him With Many Crowns, out of my head when I go to the dentist with a cracked tooth. Aspen Park Dental sits just off 285, snugged in the mountains near the Safeway and a Starbucks. Nice folks. Dr. Higuchi got his degree at University of Iowa. A Hawkeye. Karen, the dental assistant, lives in nearby Pine Grove, and has a Great Dane. We talked about loving big dogs and their short life spans.

Back home to Shadow Mountain where lack of hot water dominated the rest of the morning. This time I found Ken, the only guy with a boiler license working up here. Ken, unfortunately, knows his business. Looks like a new boiler. Interesting reason, too. This high efficiency boiler was not made for altitude. At sea level it’s rated about 85%, not real high, but aiming in that direction. In the mountains it’s about 70%. The reasons relate to different flame setting requirements and difficulties with hard, acidic water. It has developed several problems, the sum of which would be too costly to fix given the likelihood of their recurrence.

Ah, well.

Oh, You Were Lucky

Summer                                                                        Recovery Moon

Been thinking about luck and fortune. The meanings are slippery and often adjust themselves to rationalization. For instance. I was lucky to find my cancer early enough for successful treatment. Well, yes. But. I was unlucky to find cancer at all. It was my good fortune to find, with Kate’s help, competent and caring medical professionals in Colorado. Again, sure. But. It was my bad fortune to need as much of their competence and caring as I did.

Over the last few days since the catheter came out I’ve had this thought, “Boy, was I lucky. I had cancer, but it was treatable. And, I found it and treated it quickly.” The facts are true. I had cancer. It was treatable. It was found and treated quickly. But lucky seems askew. Lucky would have been to have never had cancer at all. Lucky described my state prior to diagnosis, not after. After, it was data, decisions, actions.

I write this because I’ve been tempted to another line of thought, too. I was lucky; I had prostate cancer, not lung cancer, pancreatic cancer, any cancer that most often defies treatment. There is a tendency to diminish the severity of our own situation and compare it to the dire circumstances of others. This helps psychologically, but it changes neither the fact of my situation nor theirs.

Each situation is as it is. Cancer is bad, no matter what type, no matter its response or lack of response to treatments. This disease is not one, but many; it is polymorphous and diverse. I’ve had friends with terrible cancers that eventually caused death. I’ve heard the stories of many men who’ve had the same arc with prostate cancer that I have. And others who have died.

Lucky and fortune play no part, save as soothing conceptual anodynes. Facts. They are what matter. Love and friendship can give aid in real time and I’ve experienced it. But that was not luck. That was kindness, compassion.

Ah

Summer                                                                Recovery Moon

I won the catheter pull! It’s gone and I’m implement free for the first time in 39 days. Could you hear the sigh of relief?

My urologist, Ted Eigner, explained my pathology report and the next step, an ultra sensitive PSA done 8 weeks after the surgery. Anything under 0.2 PSA signals no apparent lingering prostate cells kicking out antigens. As time goes forward and the PSA’s continue with good signals the confidence level of a cure goes up. It’s pretty high right now, but not 100%. The reason: microscopic escapees taking up residence elsewhere in the body. That’s what the PSA tests for. The gross pathology of the removed prostate indicates no cancer in the area: clear margins.

A friend who has been through breast cancer wrote with feeling about those two words: clear margins. Not too important to you until they become very, very important.

I consider this the beginning of the end. The end will come when I’m fully continent and have had my first PSA test results. Eigner says about 3 months. Not bad.

 

Don’t Leave Town

Summer                                                   Healing Moon

With the waning healing moon 13% full I have been healed.

Here’s an analogy. One April day when the air is a bit cool and daffodils have broken through, yellow against the gray, a stranger comes up to you, perhaps at home or at a bus stop, in the grocery store.

“I have something to tell you. You have been chosen at random to be put on trial for a terrible crime. The maximum penalty for this crime is death.”

“Wait,” you say, “What do you mean? How is that possible?”

“You’ll know more after an initial hearing before the judge. Until then keep yourself available. Don’t leave town.”

A month later, in a Gothic courthouse, you visit a judge who opens your file.

“Hmm. Well. This is all in order. Yes. Sorry you had to be chosen, but these things happen all the time, you know. I’ll call with the results of the trial in about a week. Don’t leave town.”

Shaken even more than when you met the stranger, you go home. You don’t leave town.

“This is the clerk of court calling. Is this X?”

“Yes.”

“You have been found guilty and the sentence is death. You’ll be under house arrest since the execution date is not certain. Sometime in the future. Don’t leave town.”

Stunned, you fall back in your recliner. In every way you feel the same as you did before the stranger came except for your various reactions to his news. Anger, fear, courage, hopelessness, resistance, frayed anxiety. Now this.

“Hello, X?”

“Yes.”

“The judge has decided to hold another hearing on your case. Please come back to the courthouse on this date. Thank you.”

On a day almost 3 months from the stranger’s visit, you climb in your car in the dark. They’ve set the hearing for a very early hour. On the way you realize this might be your last chance. You consider the suddenness, the arbitrary nature of your guilt. And you feel afraid. Again.

The hearing is long and you are present, but can neither hear nor see. Hours later you awake in a prison cell, disoriented. You don’t remember why you are there. Slowly, it comes back. The trial, the sentencing, the final hearing.

A jailer in blue prison garb says, “You’re free to go. The report of your hearing will be available in three to five days. Don’t leave town.”

Unbalanced and unsteady from the hearing process your wife drives you home, this time through dense rush hour traffic. At home you gradually put the hearing behind you.

On a quiet afternoon three days later the phone rings. You pick it up. It’s the judge.

“X. How are you feeling? I see. Well, let’s get right to it. The panel looked over your case and decided to set you free. No capital punishment. You may leave town whenever you wish.”

 

 

Surreal

Summer                                                                   Healing Moon

While in Skyridge, I had several nurses, all interesting: Ron, Esther and Elizabeth. When the first of them came in my room I noticed on her security badge: Elizabeth and then Medical Oncology Nurse. Oncology, I thought? Why do I have an oncology nurse? This hours after surgery for prostate cancer. That’s how surreal this whole time has been for me.

I’ve not felt seriously ill, except ironically, after my surgery. I had no symptoms. The context was all new to me: Colorado hospitals, doctors, drives. It’s been difficult to raise my inner sense of alarm to the CANCER level. Yet I have it. Or, hopefully, had it.

The weather yesterday, the day after the surgery, was beautiful. Blue skies entertained parties of cumulus clouds, the eye could follow the unusually green plains as far as the horizon line. The world was unconcerned about my health or the health of anyone on the med-surg floor.

The hospital room was beautiful, too. Nicely appointed in woods and sandy textiles, it was a pleasant place to be.  And yet. There was that surgery. That biopsy. Those things that turned my world inside out and upside down. Strange. Surreal.

 

 

Strange

Summer                                                                   Healing Moon

So. Cleansing continues.

Talking to Kate yesterday I mentioned how strange I feel. Physically, as I’ve said, I feel fine. But tomorrow I’ll have surgery to remove a part of me. Gone forever. A disturbing thought, balanced only by the knowledge that if it stays, all of me might go.

It’s as if I’ve stepped into an alternative universe where I’m desperately sick and can be saved only by drastic actions. Oh, wait.

I’m not describing this well. The cancer is an abstraction, as I’ve said before. I feel no symptoms. My body is not telling me that anything is wrong. Only tests done inside my body, where I can’t see, have found it.

Trust has guided me to tomorrow. Trust in Lisa Gidday, my internist, trust in Kate, trust in Edward Eigner. That trust says this is serious. It’s now. And must be dealt with. Still, trust itself is an abstraction even though those people are not.

But. I feel. Fine. Yet tomorrow I’ll lie feet up high for 3.5 hours as a robot crawls around my innards snipping, cutting, removing, sewing. Very, very strange.

BFFs

Summer                                                              Healing Moon

Down to new Bent’s Fort in Morrison last night. Perched high in the red rock (Fountain formation) foothills overlooking a glittery Denver to the east, the Fort is an unusual Western experience. Tom and Roxann Crane took us out for a second wonderful meal and honest, heartfelt conversation.

This meal really started over 28 years on a cold January late afternoon when Tom and I were initiated into the Woolly Mammoths at Valhelga. No kidding, that’s the name. It’s the family retreat of the Helgeson clan, designed by architect and fellow Woolly, Stefan Helgeson. Tom and I didn’t know each other then, though in the six degrees of connection way we had mutual friends.

Since that time both Tom and I have married again, this time to the last partner. We’ve shared twice monthly meetings, annual retreats with this group of 11 men. The relationship among the Woollies now has decades of memories, intense and often intimate sharing, hard times and good times. The extraordinary piece of the experience is the durable and deep friendships we have formed with each other. These are not buddy relationships with a lot of backslapping, sports watching, gun shooting or fish line throwing; rather, these are bff type friendships, now irrevocable and unbelievably precious.

These men will be with me when I fade out on the morning of July 8th and when I wake up hours later. Their support and that of family, docent friends and high school classmates will make that isolated moment far from lonely. Too, they all constitute a reason to recover and continue living this one life.

 

 

This Is Happening.

Summer                                                      Healing Moon

Coming back from the pre-op/post-op consultation things felt different. As Kate said, “We’ve moved from thinking to doing.” Since April 14th, it’s been tests, visits to various doctors, reading, talking with friends and family, taking in information,  then decision making. That time period ended with our visit to Eigner on June 11th. We decided on a prostatectomy on July 8th.

The intervening period was a sort of suspension between deciding and acting, knowing the diagnosis and treatment, but having to wait for the surgery. With yesterday’s visit matters have moved to consent forms, instructions for surgery prep, yet more systems checks to see if this body can stand the procedure. It can.

On the way out from talking with Anna, we saw Dr. Eigner. He shook my hand and we had a brief chat. “That looks like a Santa Fe shirt.” “No, Montevideo.” “Ah, that’s Uruguay.” “See you on the 8th.”

It has been an odd experience, this prostate cancer. On April 13th I considered myself a pretty healthy guy. On April 14th I first heard the word malignancy related to me. After the biopsy result I was terminally ill. I went from healthy to definitely not in a matter of weeks, yet I felt no symptoms. There were only clinical findings (digital exam), an elevated PSA, then the biopsy results. All abstract and outside my view. I can’t see my prostate. I can’t feel the cancer. I really don’t feel any different physically than I did on April 13th.

A penumbra of shortened mortality rose over me, shading the future sun. Under its cooler light I felt fine, but wasn’t. In 1992 I went to the Plaza de Toros in Mexico City, the largest bullfighting ring in the world. Tickets were sold sombre y sol. Shade or sun. I bought tickets sombre. Now I would like to move back into the sun.

Definitely feeling a bit more jittery. Imagining the 4:30 am drive to the Sky Ridge Hospital for a 5:30 arrival. Preps. Talking with anesthesiologists and Dr. Eigner. Nurses. Needles. Then quiet for 3 and a half hours. Real. This is coming.