Category Archives: Cancer

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health, Shadow Mountain

Touch better

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Spring and the Trial Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Mary. Tom. Ruth. Gabe. Shadow. Night sky. Back to the Moon. More sleep. Visiting Angels. Start today.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: New drugs

 

Kavannah: Contentment, Histakop. I have enough. Friends. Family. Money. Health. House. Help

Tarot: paused

One brief shining:  Dry mouth. Makes food taste like cardboard. And, not tasty cardboard. Told my oncologist. He said, “Sweet, wet, and cold foods retain their taste best.” An odd breakdown, but o.k. Wet? Ramen it was. Sweet? Hmmm. Cold? Shrimp cocktail. Watermelon chunks. How to put together?

 

How was last night different from all other nights? I had more sleep than wakefulness. Felt almost normal. Still over tired. A big sleep deficit. Not resolved in one night. Felt so good to realize I’d slept.

A blur. A sleepy haze. No way to spend a day. Reading. Nope! TV.  Making some food. Then, a nap. Or, two.

I let inner darkness, deep shadows taint my mood, my feelings, my thinking. Yesterday. Like a fever breaking. In a moment I recast all those melancholic ideas, feelings. They come from an extreme place. When the cancer rises. When sleep recedes. With extreme visions. Enough. Let’s coast toward the end. Your G.I. tract will never stabilize.

I saw them for what they were: my back against the wall solutions. Accept what they send as a message. Don’t be afraid to do something. Radical moments require radical responses.

Or. Do they? What if the slip into fearful solutions gets hijacked by a miserable guy, leading a not so happy life. For the last week. Could he, say choose hospice? Or drink more Miralax?

A week of disorientation, stomach/bowels upset only evokes a temporary setback. Just feels bad. Yet in the moment I had my melancholy blinker on. I would let in information or thoughts that confirmed my bias. A trap, a Chinese finger puzzle of the mind.

That moment of clarity I mentioned? Took off the blinkers, helped me see the whole wonderful world. Not just the parts of it causing pain. The note from Mary saying she might come and stay with me a while. That ramen. RJ and Michelle at Bond and Devick.

Disoriented? Yes. In psychic pain? Yes. Also companion to Shadow. Maker of ramen. Liking the cool weather.

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health

A Sinking Ship

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Spring and the Trial Moon

Monday gratefuls: Some sleep. Joe. Shadow. Money. Visiting Angels. Katie. Samantha. Morning sun. Dog run. Orbit gum.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Alpha emitters

Kavannah: Contentment, Histakop. I have enough. Friends. Family. Money. Health. House. Help

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: The night time insult parade. Nope. Not sleepy. Where’s my duvet? This side, that side. Down. Up, the most comfortable. Get up. Go back to bed. Get up again. Moisten mouth. Back. No joy. That frustrated, purposeless moment when you realize: sleeps not coming.

 

My mind. Not shuttered, but turned way down. Thick liquid between its work and my reality. Lasts more or less all day. Hard to do anything except visit.

Sent word to RMCC. Sam. Asking for help.

Thoughts come and go, Michelangelo.

As with other moments, recent and faraway, when stressed my mind often shifts topics. In particular, considering the long term stress from over 11 years, wondering how much longer this sort of historic abomination I’ll put up with.

My body feels tired of it all. Would rather hole up in a cozy corner and read a book. Judy Sherman, my friend who chose death with dignity, told me: My body has had it. I now understand the depth of that short, simple statement.

This trial is my last stand. If it doesn’t produce bang up results–much lower PSA, tumors in retreat–I’ll look again at hospice. Weary.

Some of this is discomfort talking. Some of it comes from the bone weariness of piloting a sinking ship.

All I got for now.

 

 

 

 

 

Back Pain, Cancer, Health, Shadow Mountain

Bad, Bad, Bad Sleep

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Spring and the Trial Moon

Shabbat gratefuls: Visiting Angels. Starts Tuesday. Xerostomia. Artemis. Shadow. Pole Star. Tesla. BMW. Volkswagen. Bolt.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Calories

 

Kavannah: Contentment, Histakop. I have enough. Friends. Family. Money. Health. House. Help

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: Lay on right side. No. Left side. No. Stomach. Not very long. On Back. A little longer. Sleep. Broken. Insufficient. Frustrating. Annoying. Prednisone at the root? I don’t know. Three new drugs this week. Prednisone the most likely culprit.

 

I know people who’ve trouble sleeping for decades. My desperation after four nights. Helps me get it. Right now I’m half-awake, half-aware and thinking of a nap. At 5 AM!

My mind has not felt clear. As if it has a layer of schmutz between its work and my day. I don’t like to do anything complicated when I feel like that. Mentally disabled for a period of time.

Even so, I did hire Visiting Angels.  Tuesdays and Fridays. 10-2pm. Don’t know who is coming yet. Excited to get this set up and working.

I’m fading. So this ends here. At least I got something down.

Cancer, Health, Shadow Mountain

Angels and Radioactivity

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Spring and the Trial Moon

Thursday gratefuls:  Melania in Pine. Heather. Tara. Trump, the worst President in U.S. history. Iran. Israel. A chaotic world. Actinium-223. Medical physicists. Rebecca. Taylor. Sam.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Nuclear Medicine

 

Kavannah: Netzach. Perseverance. Trial began on Wednesday. I need netzach as I enter this latest round of treatment.

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: Sloppiness. Careless disregard for human lives. Corruption oozing from every pore. Word salad speeches. Dunning-Krueger effect all the time. Trump has cut through our once proud nation with a buzzsaw, bringing the world hegemon to its knees, not through foreign enemies, but by domestic politics.

 

Yesterday. Lost sleep. Went back to bed then had to get up for the drive first to Littleton, then midtown Denver. By the time I got back, I was well and thoroughly exhausted. Didn’t write.

Today. Still fitful sleep, but better. More rested. Nothing out of the house today. Yay.

On Tuesday Heather from Visiting Angels. An in-home care company. She was a good listener and a lover of dogs. We talked for an hour, hour and a half. I liked her and the services they offered.

She said they recruit in the mountains for workers who can work up here. Glad to hear it because down the hill based services often don’t show up or charge higher prices. Melanie, who lives in Pine, has been waiting for an assignment.

Did not sign up yet. Wanted to talk to RJ and to Rich. RJ (money guy) said they’d increase my draw from the rollover to compensate. One box checked. Gonna call Rich this AM. He looked at folks he knew in the Evergreen/Conifer area.

I’m inclined to hire Visiting Angels, maybe today, if Rich has not found anybody. The worker, the Visiting Angel, would probably start next week. Tuesdays and Fridays. 4 hour shifts.

I need the help.

Yesterday. Bad sleep Tuesday night. Got up early, 3:30 am. Went back to bed until 6:30. Barely enough time to get ready for trial, day one.

Rebecca drove her gray Volvo up to the house at 8:00 am. After a hurried breakfast of peanuts and a protein bar, I was ready.

Made it to the cancer center before 9, my appointment time with Taylor, Dr. Dupathi’s other P.A. Perfunctory. Except. Sam, research co-ordinator, had my lab results. Since my last PSA, which was 92, my PSA went up to 520. Good thing I had Actinium-223 circulating about an hour later.

Rebecca and I drove north toward Denver on Broadway. Past the quaint and the curious shops, later the busy Colorado Capitol building with its real gold roof, and past the Brown  Palace Hotel.

At the research center I sat in a leather recliner, felt the familiar insertion of an IV. Two nurses, me, and a medical physicist.

Safety checks ahead of time, facetime with a nuclear medicine doc who had to give the go-ahead. The injection of the Actinium took five seconds. A thimble’s worth. If that.

Two ekg’s, three taking of my vitals, and an hour in the recliner after the injection.

About thirty minutes into the time, a nurse came with a Geiger counter. Click. Click. Click. Above my feet. Yes, the Actinium was in circulation.

After a review of the stringent protocols for the next seven days, a tired me got in Rebecca’s back seat, passenger side. Keeping my distance.

An hour later I let Shadow out, the first day of my trial winding down as I slumped into my chair.

Cancer, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Pause. Say Good-bye

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Artemis:  On the way home

Tuesday gratefuls: Miralax. Senna. Michigan. Basketball. Baseball. Another tough night. Artemis II. Space. Hubble. Webb.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Master Travelers

 

Kavannah: Hakarat Hatov.  Gratitude.  “Who is rich? Those who rejoice in their own portion.” Pirkei Avot (4:1)

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: I have been retreating from the world. Lunches and breakfasts are painful due to the head drop. Driving still wears me out though the brace helps. I have new aches and pains. From the cancer? I don’t think so…but.

 

Since last week I have been constipated. Could be a side effect of the Tramadol. Painful. Unresolved. Some progress. Miralax to 2x a day. Add senna.

Went to bed. Early. 6 pm. Exhausted by the demands of the day. Slept well until 1 am. After that. Left side. Right side. Stomach. Back. Repeated and repeated and repeated. Could not find the sleep switch. Up at 3:30 am. Rested. Sorta. Residual aches. Sore back.

A learning about death. You stop. Everything else goes on.  Cars queue up behind a red turn signal. A group of preschoolers, all holding on to the same rope. Going to the park. Shadow circles her food bowl, waiting on you to come home. As you always have. Not this time.

The damnable ordinariness. Years of loving, talking, reading, all made moot. When Kate died her brilliant mind went silent. All her experience as a doctor. A lover. A quilter. Gone.

Yet. Artemis II took three Americans and one Canadian further from Earth than any human has gone before. Michigan beat UConn to reclaim the Men’s NCAA tournament.

I had my aspirations as a young man. Stop the war.  Raise a son. As I worked, people died every day. Good people. Kind people. Their ends did not register in my life. Their momentous parting, everything for them, was nothing to me.

In life I can fight, love. In death I cannot.

Yet I no longer privilege one over the other. When the reaper comes, the fruits of a long and interesting life will gather into my body, then disperse. To create new molecules, new lung tissue, new fingernails.

On these bad days–pain, constipation–I wonder: Is this how the final exit goes. Pain and discomfort. Then, surcease. I hope not. I would prefer to die quietly, surrounded by friends and family, Shadow by my side.

I do not mind dying. Not sooner than necessary. But when it is time. Yes. I take that long last ride.

When it happens, a fisherman catches a bass. A couple will make love and create a new human. I will have gone on ahead.

Stop a moment.
Pause.
Say good-bye.

Cancer, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Health

Casual Cruelties

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Artemis:  Miles from 244,850 earth. Miles from moon 26,740. As of 5:06 am, April 6th, 2026.

Monday gratefuls: Eggs. Oatmeal. Kitchen. House cleaner. Medical Guardian. Artemis II nearing moon. Michigan v. Uconn.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Integrity.

 

Kavannah: Hakarat Hatov.  Gratitude.  “Who is rich? Those who rejoice in their own portion.” Pirkei Avot (4:1)

Tarot: paused

One brief shining: I blocked myself yesterday. I didn’t want another entry in the distress cycle, a straight run from April 1st. Couldn’t think of anything else. Also, I had stomach and intestinal issues. Thinking straight was not in the cards.

 

This morning. Still the gut issues. Not as intense. Dispiriting.

When my body aches. My mind responds.

Yesterday I had to sit myself down and have a talk. About casual cruelties against myself. I know, I said, the distraction and pain don’t give us much of a buffer to work with.

The rest of us hears it. Over and over. Does that apply to the sick part of us?  The part that missed our phone call with our boy.

Bad hand grip. I’m going to die. Low stamina. Why are you not on the treadmill. You’re impossible!

What I’m proposing is a gentler version of self-talk. Ah, I see we’re having trouble opening that jar. You stumbled on the way to the  kitchen. This is a surprise? No. It’s who I am right now.

This stumbling guy. This cancer trial guy. A father, a brother, a grandpa. A reader, a writer, a friend to the other. A man.

A man who deserves your compassion and concern, not your judgment or contempt.

Hangs head. Yes, I know. I want to do that, I do. But in the moment of pain. You can no longer do what you used to. I worry. Is this the slope? Work harder. Please.

Not very dignified, eh? No. At some point I catch on to the negative self-take. Big sigh. Charlie, not again. Then I sit myself down with myself. Self-compassion is on the agenda. Even if I am weak, I remain Charlie. With limits–as always. Just different ones.

Got my notice for a pre-trial start up appointment. I imagine I’ll get my first treatment date. I need to get started. Yes. I’ve chosen to surrender myself to the trial, to the new drugs. I chose this.

All of the treatments will be in Rocky Mountain Cancer Care’s midtown office near Presbyterian.

Kate, on her death bed, told me: Trust your doctors.  Zip up. Abandon the rabbit holes. The critiquing. Lean in.

With all the upset and uncertainty of the last year plus I hope these trials can calm the worried me.

 

Watch.

Storms come and go.

Shelter.

Cancer, Health

The Costs. Of Staying Alive

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Tuesday gratefuls: Neck brace. Frailty. Horror. The Big C. Laura Linney. Oliver Platt. Spice Ranch Fusion. Iran. Israel. U.S.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Eggs

 

Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut. cuTo salad. Mark in Hafar. Meds.

Tarot: Five of Bows, empowerment.  “…the battles you face are not necessarily for destruction, but to test and validate your inner power, leading to genuine empowerment.” May it be so.

One brief shining: I lay there on the exam table while Samantha fussed with the EKG machine. Needed more paper, the red horizontal grids. She tried various positions, but had to call in Lee. I asked why I had to take this again.

“The other one expired,” she said with a sardonic chuckle. The extended runup to the actinium trial. Long enough that the EKG I took a month ago was no longer current. “Just another example of our broken healthcare system.”

I like Samantha. She taught ESL in Bangkok. Too humid. “I wanted someplace drier. We’ve lived in Colorado for ten years.”

I drive down Shadow Mountain, down 285. Down the hill. Takes about forty-five minutes adding in a long stretch west on 470. The neck brace reduces exhaustion while driving. Its chief benefit.

I’m not completely fed up with the broken health care system. Not yet. I could get there. The physical demands of driving. Drug side effects. Imaging. Appointments.

It wears me down. I get home, peel off my neck brace, grab a cold water, and plunk down in my chair. Done for the day.

Here’s the irony. Stage 4 is no longer a death sentence. New drugs. New treatments like actinium. I so appreciate all the research. However. The longer I’m kept alive–my goal and my oncological teams–the more dramatic and invasive the treatments.

Costs go up, too. Erleada and Orgovyx. Drugs I’ve taken since 2019. Eight-hundred to nine-hundred dollars each. Monthly. Modest by the standards of other cancer drugs. Privilege. I have the money. I wonder about others.

Early on in this journey I could have had an axion scan. Insurance denied it. 35 sessions of radiation aimed at defined cancer activity. A possible cure. I got radiation to the place where my prostate used to be. 50% of returning cancer shows up there. Wasn’t where mine was.

Litigating the past derails the journey. Could I have been cured? Maybe. I wasn’t. Irrelevant today.

Today, eleven years later, I’m awaiting word on my randomization for the trial. Thursday. Samantha said they all hope I get into the actinium plus the souped up Erleada arm. That touched me. These RMCC folks. Kind. Helpful. Smart

My response to this trial will indicate my future path. If positive, I’ve got years ahead of me. If not…

Get an EKG.
Sign papers.
Keep going.

Cancer, Fourth Phase, Health, Memories

The Trial

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Friday gratefuls: Cool night. Starting my morning. Tamales. Cheeseburger. Mark in Hafar. Mary in Melbourne. Joe and Seoah in Osan.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Morning Darkness

 

Kavannah: Areyvut. Mutual responsibility.  All humans are accountable one to another.

Tarot: King of Vessels, Heron. Quiet presence. Emotional balance. Waiting for the trial to begin.

 

One brief shining: I want my cancer on its heels. Samantha, trial coordinator, called. I need to go back in, redo an EKG, sign more papers. Tired of all the preparatory work. I want to start the trial.

 

Trial. I’ve had jury duty several times. All in Minnesota. A lot of sitting around, reading. Waiting. I served on one jury, an unmemorable case. We found the defendant guilty.

Juries fulfill the promise, made two-hundred and fifty years ago, that I will not judged by aristocracy, but by a jury of my peers.

This clinical trial brings together a jury of my peers.

The full trial lasts nine months. The sentence will be handed down by my body and the actinium’s aim.

No guarantees. My participation is voluntary.

You could call this a capital trial. Some of us will get a reprieve. Hope I’m one of those.

Science. I had polio, measles, and mumps. Polio was long ago, when I was about a year and half old. Yet it continues to impact me at 79. My head drops. My left diaphragm is paralyzed.

I remember mom coming in to check on me. A dark room. I was sensitive to light. Mom would bring me soup or a sandwich, lay a cool rag over my forehead. Measles.

Here’s the thing. When I was eight years old, I had to stand in line in Thurston Elementary. To get a shot. The polio vaccine. I felt this as a keen injustice since I’d already had polio. Result? By 1979, twenty-five years later, polio no longer menaced the U.S.

If only I’d had the MMR vaccine, first available in 1971, I could have avoided the measles and the mumps.

I know, from direct experience, the need for vaccines.

I have benefitted from medical science. I may have been born too early for the polio and MMR vaccines, but I’m pleased my son Joseph could get them.

Not to mention the many different protocols that have extended my life after my cancer diagnosis. I feel good about participating in the clinical trial. It’s medical science which will  help not only me, but thousands of men in the future.

I’m living proof that medical science matters. At the most personal level.

I’ll go in.
Repeat my EKG.
Sign the papers.

 

Cancer, Friends, Health, Shadow Mountain

Push Cancer Back

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Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Thursday gratefuls: Dr. Josy. Tara and Eleanor. Marshdale Burgers. Ana. No winter winter. Shadow and the puzzle.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Women

 

Kavannah: Areyvut. Mutual responsibility.  All humans are accountable one to another.

Tarot: #11, The Woodward. Cancer requires an unflinching acceptance of hard truths. Not easy.

 

One brief shining: Disturbing news. PSA went way up. Surprised everybody. Especially me. Bupathi says we’re so close to the trial, maybe April 8th for first treatment, that it makes sense to go forward. I hope actinium is a wonder drug.

The trial has three arms. It matters, a lot, which arm I get assigned to.

Randomization. An ugly word. Happens probably tomorrow. That’s when I’ll know. Or soon after.

A high PSA with multiple new metastases. Not a place I want to be. But. It’s where I am. I’m in need of something to slow down this latest run.

An ornery beast, this cancer of mine. Hiding, biding its time. When a treatment fails, it leaps out with a roar. As oncologist Kristie said, “This disease will run its course.”

I want my PSA lower, much lower. I want my cancer pushed back. If I can get a year, a year plus before having to change protocols, I’ll feel good. May not happen. I fear a minimal response.

My weariness peaked last week.  How do I get through this? I’m not alone.

 

Yesterday. An accidental confluence. Ana came first: dusting, vacuuming, cleaning sinks and toilets. Tara came second, bearing cheeseburgers from Marshdale Burgers. Tater tots, too. Dr. Josy came, too. She had dog poop removal equipment.

Ana has been cleaning my house since before Kate died.

Tara I’ve known for over ten years. She brings her black Doodle, Eleanor, over to the house for a Shadow play date. While the dogs play, we talk.

Yesterday, in addition to bringing lunch, Tara brought in my canned water and put it in the fridge. Then, she unloaded my dishwasher. She also brought soup.

Dr. Josy scooped up all of Shadow’s poop deposited after the dog run went into effect. She also walked the perimeter of my fence, finding two trouble spots. Which Tara volunteered Arjean to fix.

Key elements of my resilience.

Love
An empty dishwasher.
A clean dog run.

Cancer, Health

The Gate of Guarded Hope

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Imbolc and the Moon of Liberation

Wednesday gratefuls: Samantha. Salivary gland tests. CT w/ contrast. So much bloodwork. Ruth and David, taking me to Rocky Mountain Cancer Care.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Ruth

 

Kavannah: Histapkot. Contentment.   Seek what you need, give up what you don’t need.

Tarot: #11, The Woodward. Strength found in facing inner darkness. I read the diagnostic reports, reeling, then steady.

One brief shining: I counted eight, no, nine vials when Angie, the phlebotomist, placed them on the small table. My left arm had the sleeve rolled up since the right one had had an IV inserted a half an hour before. The clinical trial demanded the nine vials including tests for Hepatitis B, C, and HIV. “I’m gonna be about a pint low.”

My final procedure for this round of treatment. After I swished 5 milliliters of lemon juice for a minute, I chewed on a patch of gauze for three minutes. It got weighed. But. Would it support my admission to the trial?

Samantha, Sam, took my medical history. “So. Polio.”  Aortic aneurysm. Arthritis. Labrum tear. Compared to most others in the trial, Sam said, my medical history was straightforward. Oddly comforting. A threshold I should pass.

I texted Done to Ruth. She and David pulled up to the entrance of the Littleton clinic. She had an iced Americano for me and a bag of free beans. As a Starbucks barista, she has perks.

Next week I find out the start date for the clinical trial. I’ve taken all the tests, filled out questionnaires, had interviews. Now it’s the trial’s turn.

Sometime soon, probably next week as well, I’ll be randomized into one of the arms of the trial: one does not hold what I believe I need. I plan to discuss with Christina, a Bupathi P.A. whom I like, what to do if I’m in the arm with no Actinium. Might be admission to a place I don’t want to be.

Gatekeepers. Check boxes. Say enter. Or not.

This latest gate, call it the Gate of Guarded Hope, is the most consequential I’ve had to face in a long time. When we stand, like Kafka’s K, outside, the interior is a mystery, yet a mystery in which we wish to invest. Amelioration of a dread disease.

I’m calm now, having given myself over to the protocols of a phase three drug trial. Samantha. Angie. Bupathi. Guardians. Caring for me, yes, but through the trial, for others yet to come.

Standing at the gate.

Waiting to be let in.