Category Archives: Aging

Peaceful

Beltane—————————————————————Cancer Moon

Peaceful this a.m. The imaging work is done. At least for now. Three days now with no medical interventions or doctor appointments. And sunny blue skies.

On Monday at we leave Shadow Mountain around 5:30 am to get Kate over to Littleton Adventist for her j-tube placement. She’ll be there over night. Since she’s stronger now, we’re not anticipating any major issues. This is laparoscopic surgery so the recovery should be minimal.

We got the first j-tube feeding accessories in the delivery yesterday from Option Care. Jumbo size plastic syringes for flushing. The j-tube will be a major change from the tpn. No more aspectic procedures. No more bag to carry. Not nearly as much risk of infection. And a consistent source of nutrition.

Ikigai

Beltane Cancer Moon

This Morning

It’s been this kind of May. And it looks as if June will be cooler and wet, too, according to Weather5280. Good news for us, not so much for those lower down when the huge snowpack starts to melt.

Got further along on print Ancientrails. Am now in late 2017, quite a ways in. Then, print spool error. Again. Well. Gotta go back to whatever I did that solved it once. Tried so many things I’m not sure which one worked. Something did. For a while. Soon though. Then, I’ll take everything for three hole punching and decide what kind of binders I’m going to buy. Each folder with month tabs.

Also figured a way to unzip Superior Wolf and focus on Lycaon’s story. Don’t know whether I’ll follow up later on Christopher and Diana. The hunt for immortality is almost a cliche these days. And the central conceit of their story, a hedgefund group that funds Diana’s research, is not fiction anymore. Geez.

That means I’ve got months of work ahead, maybe years. My ikigai. A Japanese word that means reason to live. This article talks about ikigai in more depth as an explanation for Japanese longevity. Squares with my own intuition. Purpose keeps you alive and flourishing.

The Japanese have a lot about life figured out. Ichi-go, ichi-e is another favorite of mine. It comes from the Japanese tea ceremony and means each moment is once in a lifetime. No such thing as an insignificant experience with another person.

Sekkyakushi, 15th century, Muromachi period, Metropolitan Museum of art

Reading a book right now by the wonderful travel writer, Pico Iyer: Autumn Light, Season of Fire and Farewells. It’s a follow-up to his The Lady and the Monk, which I have not read, in which he recounts meeting Hiroko, the Japanese woman who would become his wife. He had moved to Kyoto to immerse himself in Japanese culture, sensing, as I do, that their approach to life is worth learning, perhaps adopting. Twenty-three years later he lives in Japan with Hiroko six months out of the year and six months in the U.S., caring for his mother and working for the New York Times. Recommended.

Each time I dip into some aspect of Japanese culture I find I want to know more. The MIA’s Japanese collection gave me a chance to interact with tea bowls, tatami mats, sumi-e, Buddhist and Shinto sculpture, put me deeper into my own Asian pivot.

Zen itself has not intrigued me, but I did follow Zen back to its roots in Chinese Chan Buddhism, a melding of Taoism and Buddhism. The Taoist aspect of Zen, and Chan. Yes.

Tomorrow. The CT scan. Probably the last of the imaging work. It will either show metastatic disease or a localized recurrence in the prostate fossa. If the former, one kind of treatment. And, prognosis. If the latter, 35 days of radiation and a possible cure. Hopeful, of course, that it will be localized, but aware that it might not be. In either case I’ll know. That’s been the hardest part of this time (well, no, that’s not right. The hardest part has been dealing with insurance and the hospital’s “benefits” office.), knowing the cancer has reasserted itself, but not knowing what that means for my life.

Will be glad to have this work done so I can move onto what’s next.

Maybe this summer…

The Cancer Moon has gone to last quarter

The Anova Cancer Care office has an entrance opening onto an asphalt parking lot. It’s in the corner of a large commercial building and looks like all the other non-medical companies in the structure. Glass, aluminum, tan colored stone facades.

The waiting room has a small refrigerator with soda and bottled water, snacks, and a round table with Prostate Cancer books arranged neatly on it. Carmela, the receptionist, who knows everyone’s name, asks about Irish Wolfhounds. I have on my Great Lakes Irish Wolfhounds sweat shirt.

They’re the largest dogs, right? The tallest, yes. But not the heaviest. We had a lot of them. Do they eat a lot? No, not as much as you’d think. Carmela has gray hair, but looks to be in her early fifties. She’s wearing an unusual layered frilly top. She apologizes. This is considered an office visit so I’ll have to collect a co-pay. Of course.

Then we wait. Kate’s reading a Parker book, a mystery of sorts. I’m reading Pico Iyer’s book about living in Japan, Autumn Light.

Charles. It’s good Amanda. Go to your left, please. I turn to my right even though I heard her. Oops. A bit distracted, I guess. After all, I’m going to hear the results of the bone scan which is one component of the imaging work. Do I have metastases in the bone?

Dr. Gilroy, who likes shirts with plaid patterns, comes in. I’d noticed a scan image on his computer when I entered the room, wondering if that was my insides.

Well, the bone scan was clean as a whistle. No mets. I want to jump up and down, but I say, thank you. Following with, the CT has been approved.

Dr. Gilroy. The auths. We can order, but the insurance company. Well. He shakes his head. Frustrated. The authorizations part of our tangled web of a health care system disappoints all parties. The only exception? The small groups of office workers who enforce them and the companies that profit from denials.

I’ve prepared a folder filled with documents about how to mount an axumin scan appeal, ready to go toe to toe with New West authorizations. I think we can make this happen if we need to. Dr. Gilroy shakes his head.

Let’s wait. If the CT scan is negative, then we’ll know it’s a localized recurrence. If the CT shows a lymph node really lit up, we’ll know that’s a target. Only if the CT is indeterminate will we consider the axumin scan. It’s easier for us, because it’s one scan and done. I put the file back in my lap.

Later on a call from Centura Health and my CT goes on the calendar for May 30th, next Thursday. Gilroy’s out of town, but will be checking in. If, he says, the scan is negative, we’ll schedule another office visit to discuss radiation for the prostate fossa, the spot where that corrupted organ used to lie. He surprises me when he says, That’ll mean 35 visits here. Not the Cyber Knife, 3-5 visits. 35 sessions is the usual radiation protocol. My friend Dick Rice had it. Our house cleaner, Sandy, had it.

In three days it will be 8 months since Kate’s bleed. They’ve been difficult. With Kate’s feeding tube placement scheduled for June 3rd and my second, probably last, imaging work next Thursday, we may be emerging from the trenches.

Kate’s already back to some level of normalcy. Walking more, loading and unloading the dishwasher, cleaning up after I cook. In the most hopeful scenario for me, Dr. Gilroy’s talking cure. Maybe sometime this summer we can take a pause from medical interventions. Would be nice.

Bones Scanned

At 8:30 am this morning Nick, a kind nuclear med technician at Littleton Adventist, swabbed the crook of my elbow and took a needle from a lead-lined box. It contained radioactive isotopes of calcium. Makes sense for a bone scan. With a quick, painless insertion he sent the isotopes into my blood stream. Took thirty seconds.

“Come back at noon. Drink 32 ounces of water. Be sure to use the bathroom before you return.” I did that.

Kate and I left at 7:20 am. There was a heavy fog on Hwy 285 going downhill. It struck me as an apt metaphor. This time between the discovery of my rising PSA and getting data about the cancer puts me in, as I said yesterday, a cloud of unknowing. Today we traveled through it, paying attention, careful attention to brake lights, possible crashes.

The bone scan will lift a bit of the fog, make the path from here a bit more clear. But. The CT scan was not approved yet. Ironically, I stopped at the Post Office on the way home to pick up a certified letter. It was the denial of coverage from New West physicians for the axumin scan. Out of the fog into the fog.

Nick had me remove my belt, all the metal from my pants, my glasses. I could leave my shoes on. Hearing aid? No, the machine won’t bother it. I laid down on the slide, a curved piece of metal. Would you like a warm blanket? Yes. (This would prove to be a mistake.)

We velcro your arms to your sides. That way you don’t block the scan. Oh. The straight jacket like cover went over the warm blanket. Are you claustrophobic? Yes. Hmmm.

This was the mistake with the warm blanket. Since as near as I can discern, my claustrophobia came into existence during time spent in an iron lung as a toddler, heat makes it worse. The claustrophobia comes when the box like device with the screen attached comes down within an inch or so of the nose.

It’ll be there for about four or five minutes. OK. I’ll close my eyes.

A bone scan. Not me.

So here’s a very human anomaly. That scanner scared me more in those five minutes than that which it sought to find. Cancer. Weird. I held it together, but there were moments when my muscles tightened and my stomach clenched. Also, I had this urge, a strong urge, to open my eyes. Which I did a couple of times. And quickly closed them.

After the seventeen minutes in which the scan covered my body, Nick said he’d go see the radiologist. He might need other shots. He didn’t.

I thanked Nick for his kindness. Well, we try. The folks that come to see us are not having a good time. I’m not. And your kindness made this part easier. I didn’t say, but I could have, I’m driving through heavy fog right now.

Nick assured me that the radiologist would read the scan right away and that it would be ready by late afternoon. That’s in time to inform our appointment with Dr. Gilroy tomorrow. At least we’ll have some data.

Are you going to be o.k.?

Mortality signals. Coming through loud and strong. A frisson of the world without me. “Are you going to be ok,” Kate asked, “Psychologically?” “Yeah, I think so. I’ll tell you if I’m not.”

Yamantaka

Hard to avoid running the recent news all the way out to the literal end. (see post below) I’m neither a pessimist nor an optimist, I’m a realist. The indicators are not good. But. At this point that’s all they are. Indicators. As Kate also said, “We need more data.” Yes, an axumin scan would have helped, but a ct and an mri will get us started.

Yamantaka and I have been friends for a long time now. I’ve imagined my death, my corpse. Meditated on it. When my mind insists on following the bread crumbs, I let it. I end up the same place Yamantaka has taken me. The same place we all come to. The question isn’t whether, but when.

Yes, this is morbid. And, yes, even if all the signs are negative, nothing’s happening soon. But I can’t be other than where I am. Right now, on this chilly May Saturday, I’m still absorbing.

I do feel I’ll be ok. Psychologically. Which doesn’t mean I won’t be scared. The unknown is the landscape between here and death. Will treatments be able to slow down the cancer? Is there still a chance for a cure? Unknown.

There a couple of mantras I’ve said over and over for quite a while. Live until you die. I intend to do that. Live in the present. I’m doing that except for those pesky moments when the blood hound of logic starts baying at the trail. I still have books to write, paintings to finish, friends and family. Dogs. Those will not change. Books to read. Places to go. Mountains and nearby states to explore.

On that last. I will see the National Gallery of Art in Taipei. This is the museum which contains the Qing emperors collection, all the best of Chinese art over its long history. Chiang Kai-Shek gathered the collection and took it with him to Taiwan after a losing fight against Mao and the Red Army.

Here is a large copy of one piece I most want to see:

Fan Kuan, Travelers with Mountains and Streams, Song Dynasty

Immoral and Barbaric

CBE and visitors

It’s been warm, even hot down the hill. When I went to the Avengers movie, it was 85 when I came out. Largest temperature swing I can recall. It was 66 when I got back to Shadow Mountain. Not a fan of the heat.

Kate went to the board meeting at CBE last night. She stayed for the whole time, three hours. Her stamina has improved a great deal and she’s using her rollator less and less.

Just put the all season tires in the truck. Headed to Stevinson’s this morning to replace the snow tires and get some dye in the air conditioning system. We’re gonna fix the air conditioning one way or the other this time.

Then, Anova Cancer Care at 12:30. Told Kate yesterday that I want definitive treatment rather than quick treatment. My anxiety level is low. Doesn’t mean I’m not feeling some stress. Of course I am. Just not projecting outcomes, results. So, Dr. Gilroy, here we come.

I did see this yesterday, Judge rips insurance company: “A federal judge blasted UnitedHealthcare last month for its “immoral and barbaric” denials of treatment for cancer patients. He made the comments in recusing himself from hearing a class-action lawsuit because of his own cancer battle — and in so doing thrust himself into a heated debate in the oncology world.” The issues are slightly different, but guess which insurance carrier I have?Immo

Hey, Gram

Beltane                                                                               Cancer Moon

mitochondrial-eve
Your great to some power Gram

Exhausted this weekend. Those six days of thinking, feeling, writing, probing, going down the holy well of the self. All good. But, tiring.

It’s Mother’s Day. Another Hallmark moment, I know. Yet. Mom’s. You don’t get here without one. Except maybe that kid in China. Unless you’re a wonder of high, high tech biology, you came out of a womb. Indian Hills, just down the road from us, has these funny signs. You may have seen them on Facebook. The one today reads, “Mom, thank you for the womb and board.”

mitchondrialI come from a long line of mothers. So do you. This thought always strikes me as strange. Think of how many things had to go right for you to exist. Sure, there’s that whole randomness of the sperm that crosses the finish line, but think historically, think evolutionarily, think all the way back to that first organism that took the lightning bolt or the warmth of the undersea vent. Whenever and however life first appeared. Your existence, and mine, means we exist in an UNBROKEN chain of reproduction from that first wiggler, that first animate entity. One after another after another after another, for billions of years. Maybe 4.1 billion years according to this article. From that beginning until now something protoplasmic has cheated death by producing one of your ancestors. Could be billions of ancestors, maybe even trillions.

To shorten the time frame a bit consider mitochondrial Eve. Who? From wiki: “…the most recent woman from whom all living humans descend in an unbroken line purely through their mothers, and through the mothers of those mothers, back until all lines converge on one woman.” Between 100,000 and 300,000 years ago. How many mothers in her line running up to you? Not sure, but a lot. And each one had to survive all the rigors of the out-of-Africa migration, a turn either toward what is now Europe or what is now Asia, and whatever history your ancestors had once civilization began to direct the movement of human populations.

So, when you say happy Mother’s Day, you might consider saying happy Mothers’ Day. After all, no womb and board, no you.

 

Onward

Beltane                                                                                 Cancer Moon

20190509_124939Go now, the workshop has ended. Paraphrasing the end of the Catholic mass. Appropriate in this case having just come Mother Cabrini’s shrine. The experience of being at Mother Cabrini was familiar in its physical surroundings. In college I would always retreat to Catholic sanctuaries to be still, to reflect. I always found them/find them, soothing.

I have my Intensive Journal beside me as I write this. I left it at the workshop over the last week. It’s filled with thoughts, meditations, exercises. The tabs in the journal, some of them, have esoteric names like Peaks, Depths, and Explorations or Twilight Imagery. Others more ordinary. Daily Log. Dreams. Meditation. The workshop itself both teaches how to use the journal on an ongoing basis and creates a gestalt of life now, as considered as it can be. This latter, for the other three workshops I attended, has been enough for me. Not this time. Not sure what changed, but I’m feeling a need to keep using the journal outside the workshop.

20190511_082432Here are two examples of next steps that have me excited. The first is to do a dialogue with reading. In the dialogue section of the journal, orange tabs, there is a method for developing one to one conversations with people important to you, living or dead, fictional or actual. That seems to makes sense. But the other four tabs in the orange section: Works, Events, Society, and the Body perhaps not so much. It works though. The journal method posits that a dialogue can be had with work you’re doing. I wrote a dialogue with Superior Wolf and in it realized I needed to pull the novel apart and focus one story only on Lycaon. In the Body section I’m in the midst of a dialogue with cancer.

Back to reading. Here’s the method. Each discrete entity under these tabs has a conception, a period of growth, then a waning, perhaps even a death. I’ll write a focusing statement, a short introduction to whatever it is: cancer, my mom, alcoholism, reading. Then, I’ll do steppingstones that move my experience with reading from its conception, through its history in my life, and finally where reading is for me right now. (also in the focusing statement.) When those are done, I re-read them, make a comment about how it felt to write them, anything new that has occurred in the re-reading. At that point I’ll enter a meditative place, a twilight place, that will allow me to engage reading in a dialogue, not from my intellect, but from deeper within what Progoff calls my well. Then I write a conversation, a back and forth between me and reading. I’m eager to see what will come of that. Also, in completing the dialogue with cancer.

My Intensive Journal from 2014
My Intensive Journal from 2014

The second example is another dialogue, a dialogue with ancientrails that will both focus on where I want to go with this fourteen year old project and how it and the intensive journal can work together. Again, I’ll write a focusing statement, write steppingstones, re-read and comment, go into the twilight place, and write a dialogue between me and ancientrails as a work.

This week, the follow on week after the workshop is going to see a cleaning up in the loft, a tidying. After that I’ll develop a routine with the intensive journal and ancientrails, do some of the deep work that I left undone in the workshop like the dialogues with reading and ancientrails, but some more work in the dream log, twilight imagery log and in the section labeled testament. Probably others, too.

Mother Cabrinins confirmation
Mother Cabrini’s confirmation

I’ll need both ancientrails, the intensive journal, and caring bridge to weather the critical medical work that faces both of us next week. Kate’s lung disease. Her four crowns. My axumin scan. My glaucoma check. My visit with the radiation oncologists. This time a week from now we should both have a much clearer understanding of where our respective health challenges will take us.

Down for breakfast, then back up here to get some of that work begun.

In a room off the chapel there were several windows that recounted the life and work of Mother Cabrini. It just occurred to me that those windows are steppingstones in her life. All up there with beautiful stained glass for others to see.

Not yet

Beltane                                                                             Cancer Moon

20190510_064922
from my computer, this morning

5 or so inches of snow over the night before and yesterday. Looks like winter again here. Solar panels covered. Black Mountain hidden in the clouds. The drive down the hill yesterday took some skill. Slick spots, long runs snow and ice covered while going down. Wouldn’t want to have to do that everyday for work. On occasion it’s interesting, different. Our workshop leader, Joanne, lives in Fresno where it gets hot, and in Hawai’i, where it never gets cold. This weather is not to her liking.

This is the last day of the workshop. Now considering how to continue this work on my own. Each other time, three before this one, I’ve come back and not continued the journal. This time it feels like I finally understand the method enough to do it unguided, or at least with the help of Progoff’s main book, At a Journal Workshop. The week long retreats have been sufficient for me to gain new insights, position myself in my life at the moment, and chart out a path forward. That’s why I’ve come to back to this experience.

One thing I’ve not touched on yet in this new journal is reading. I want to read more, more methodically. This desire comes over me from time to time, right now it’s coming in strength. I read a lot anyhow, you know that, but I want to take specific time for more difficult reading. Gotta figure out how to work that in.

There is, too, some overlap between ancientrails and the intensive journal. Sometimes they’re covering the same or similar ground. Will have to work out the relationship between them.

20190506_084930It’s a bit strange to be at May 10 and have the temperature at 24, snow covering the driveway, the roofs, the walkways. In Minnesota the safe time for planting was typically May 15. Don’t think it would work here, at least not every year. We warm back up next week. For now, though. Winter wonderland. Like, I wonder why it’s still winter?

Next week will test the equanimity. Monday am. Kate’s appointment with Gupta. Lung disease diagnosis and fitness for j-tube surgery. Later in the day, her new crowns. Tuesday, axumin scan to determine the extent and location of my cancer. Wednesday, a visit with my ophthalmologist. Retinal photography. Thursday, mussar. Friday, all-season tires and dye into the air conditioning system. A visit to Anova Cancer care for a treatment plan. A jump shift from this quiet week.

One important thing the journal workshop has underlined for me is that I’m not ready to die. I have family I want to care for, see grow up, grow older. Friends I want to know better. I have books to write. Places to visit. Deep work still ahead of me. This is not new, of course, and the journal workshop hasn’t made me aware of it, no. But, it has put me in touch with the gestalt of these things and my desire to keep at them all. The feeling level.

Death will come, but as I heard someone else say, let it be tomorrow.

 

 

Jettison Some Shame

Beltane                                                                          Cancer Moon

plowRead yesterday in the group. Iam asked me afterwards if I was a professional writer. Well, I write novels. But, I’ve not sold any so I don’t know if I’m a professional. Drina, who works for a website connected with the founders of Findhorn, said I was a “bright light.” Not sure what that meant, but it was a compliment. Nice to get feedback.

The intensive journal is a plow for the psyche. It turns over the soil, reaching well below the surface, often down into what Progoff called our well. Up pops things hidden, things repressed and suppressed. I worked yesterday with my one year at Wabash. I’ve always been proud of going to Wabash, ashamed of going to Ball State. Yes, even now 50 years later, still ashamed. Enough of that. Shame is not a big part of my inner world, but in this case it’s stuck around.

What I realized yesterday was that I went to Wabash because I believed in a liberal arts education, in studying what was important to me, not what was useful for a career. Its brick buildings, main quad, great library, and 150 year old traditions gave that sort of education a physical manifestation. It was liberal arts. When I transferred to Ball State, primarily a teacher’s college that got big and became a university, I kept up with the liberal arts. I continued my philosophy major from Wabash, picked up an Anthropology major and almost enough credits for a minor in African Studies. I got my liberal arts education. And am still getting it, yet today.

the_foolWe wrote spiritual steppingstones, what experiences in our life have led us to our current spirituality. Those of you who know me know that it’s been a long journey. An ongoing one, too. I would characterize my current spirituality as a tablespoon Taoist, two tablespoons existentialist, a teaspoon Christian, a teaspoon and a half Reconstructionist Jew, and a half cup of paganism (of the earth, the sun, the starting of the universe, aware of it and finding it enough). Mix together and bake until dead. Then, we’ll see.

We also wrote about ultimate concerns, those things which excite us, motivate us, about which we have passion. I had several: the Great Work, Economic Justice, Writing, Painting, Reimagining Faith, Horticulture. Each of these continue in my life, some more prominently than others, but they are the core. Economic justice work proceeded them all. Writing came next. Then, horticulture at Andover. The Great Work. Reimagining Faith. And, most recently oil painting.

The third day of creation
The third day of creation

We’ll work with these today and tomorrow in this last of the three segments, Life Integration. My experience with these workshops is that it’s often days, weeks later that the fruits of the work begin to manifest. I already know I’m going to revise Superior Wolf, separating out the two story lines I merged in it and giving them their own books. I’m going to focus as much as I need to on getting well, on the scan results and potential treatment options. And, obviously, continue taking care of Kate as long as she needs it. Beyond those things, tbd.

It’s been more exhausting than I imagined it would be, commuting. I’m tired, but glad I’m doing this, weariness a small cost.