Thursday, August 21, 2014

Relentless

I started writing this post in early July but I've gotten so out of posting that the act of taking the next step from write it to post it has taken forever. I'm not sure what's keeping me from stepping over the threshold but here I go. But first a few vacation photos from a week up on Lake Winnipesauke in New Hampshire.
The view of the lake from the screened in porch
The view from the dock (with the boys lounging on the rocks)

Good beer. Good book. Good vacation.  


And now on with the regularly scheduled post...
The ever-present dilemma I have with this blog is one I suspect most cancer patient/bloggers have: In the ongoing battle to keep cancer on the back shelf, out of reach, and out of mind, to blog about cancer feels a bit like losing. It feels like a daily admission that I have it. That no matter how good I feel, no matter how happy the dream of day-to-day life seems, I'm going to wake up soon. 

But... to not blog feels like I'm squandering an opportunity to connect and to share, and an equally important chance to process and to heal.

So after a two-month or so absence, some thoughts:

June 30th came. June 30th went. I forgot something. It was my third canciversrary -- three years since initial diagnosis. And although I had this vague suspicion as the day approached that it had some significance, I didn't notice it until I started writing this post. 

I take that as progress.

My recent quarterly visit was as uneventful as they come. It's now more than 18 months since my clean scan and with each day, the vision of my chemo regimen grows fainter in my rear-view mirror. Yet, cancer remains all but an obsession with me. Working at a cancer center probably doesn't help in that regard.

For years, the notion of getting cancer seemed about as far afield as winning the lottery -- perhaps even more distant. It just couldn't happen. But now that it did, I feel like nothing - a second cancer? is out of the question. Each passing discomfort, from indigestion to eczema seems like a sign of a lurking tumor -- just waiting for the diagnosis. Not just my good old follicular lymphoma ramping up, but the precursor to other more ominous cancers. 

It's not logical. But once you uncork the bottle of potential illnesses, once your mind learns that the routine doctor's visit, routine blood test, routine biopsy can lead to a not-so-routine diagnosis -- it's hard to unlearn it, and to remember that there can be things wrong with your body that have nothing to do with cancer.

As anyone with a chronic disease knows, keeping your imagination in check can be a relentless battle.

One of my favorite bloggers, Glennon Melton at Momastery wrote this post after Robin Williams' death.

Her take on how people with mental illness process events such as WIlliams' death hit me smack in the face. Yes, I thought as I read it, this is how cancer survivors feel when someone famous or not famous, for that matter dies from cancer. We get that it's not our cancer. It's not our particular case. But we're reminded of our mortality.

* * * * *
At times I'll come across an old email from Carolyn, printed out and stored away in a folder with spreadsheets and other notes. Carolyn edited the Dana-Farber blog before I did and beyond that bond of transition, we worked together on other projects. I'd like to  say we shared a similar sense of humor but she was much funnier than I am. Her email trail reminds me of that, and as my eyes scan the words, my ears hear her bemused tone. 

Carolyn died in April. She was 45.

Her cancer was different than mine. Much different. And, as I do whenever I hear of sad cancer news, I try to create that diagnostic distance. It's not my cancer, I say over and over again. I'm not sure what I'll do when I hear the news of someone who has died from follicular lymphoma.

Cancer science is an ongoing process of understanding and discovery. It's an exciting time with new treatments and potential approaches in the news every day. But to read about advances in this cancer and that one, is exponentially more frustrating than it is exciting when you see people your age dying from the disease, and you wonder whether discoveries will come about in time for you. 

They didn't for Carolyn. 

Her blog, Writing about Eating, which she wrote under the name LimeyG, lives on for now. It was because of her that I ate chocolate with bacon (good) and a fried grasshopper (crunchy).  More importantly, she inspired me and still does to blog better and more often. I miss her voice. I miss her.

Please take a read, particularly this postI'll end by quoting from her blog.

In lieu of flowers, Carolyn has asked that you go have an excellent glass of champagne; tell your family how much you love them; buy yourself a book you've been meaning to read; do one nice, small thing for a stranger.

--Michael

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Shouting Cancer in a Crowded Room

A couple weeks back I had my quarterly oncology visit. Everything checked out just fine, thank you, see you again in three months.

The only thing remarkable about it, in fact, was that it's now two weeks later and I haven't felt the need to post anything. It's a funny time in the post-chemo journey. While the odd symptom or upcoming scan may trigger a little anxiety, I'm finding fewer reasons to write. 

This blog served as a safe haven for my thoughts for the better part of two years, but as the task of posting feels more task than therapy, it's time to relegate the blog to the back burner for a while. 

Writing remains an important part of me and I hope to continue to do so -- sometimes here and sometimes in different venues and on more diverse topics than cancer.


One such outlet is Dad's Roundtable which just published my recent post, "Shouting Cancer in a Crowded Room"  It's a brand new post, but just pushed out on a different -- and I would guess wider -- distribution platform. 


I'd say check back here for future posts, but I'm not sure when that will be. But when I do post to this (or any) blog, I'll let folks know via Twitter (I'm @MichaelDFCI) or you can subscribe to this blog via email.  Thanks for reading, for commenting, and most of all, for your support.

--Michael

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

A New Blog Relationship

Rummaging through my inbox, Twitter feed or some other source of news and information, I ran into this great (if R-rated) list on Dads RoundTable.

A couple clicks here, page views there and I liked what I read. So I requested to be a contributor to the site. A week or so later and my first post is up. Take a read and please share it.

Long-time visitors to this blog will recognize that post from its origins here more than a year ago. I've got a few other posts in the works - some having nothing to do with cancer, which I take as a good sign. Although cancer is and will always remain part of me, as it fades to the background, I'm finding fewer topics that are ripe for this blog. So for now, the plan is to post here when I have cancer-related thoughts in my head, and there when I have more general thoughts.

We'll see how it goes.

--Michael






Sunday, February 23, 2014

Running through a New England Winter



Yesterday was beautiful. That rare February New England day, when two-month high piles of snow start to melt as the thermostat tops 50. A great day to shed the long pants, gloves and hat, and go out for a long run.

I wasn't alone.

I saw many runners enjoying the weather. Some, perhaps lacing up their shoes for the first time in a while; others basking in the reminder that spring is around the corner. But forecasts say we'll be back in single-digit lows within a week. And I'll still be outside running.

Why?

I hate treadmills. Yes, I can run faster on them because there's no wind resistance. Yes, I can watch the Winter Olympics on the dashboard screen. Sometimes, they're a necessity. I was listening to Dana-Farber's Dr. Rosenthal talk about integrative therapies, and as he talked about the benefits of meditation and what meditation was, I realized that for me, running is meditation. And it's hard to meditate when you're surrounded by other people, watching television and there's a loud, pounding accompanying your steps.

But a dislike of treadmills may keep you pounding pavement when it hits 30 or maybe 20 degrees; but something else has to be at work when the wind chills are approaching zero.

For me, I'd be lying to say that there isn't at least a little bit of "real runner-itis" at work. I've been running since discovering at sleepaway camp in Maine that I was pretty good at it. (Note: when I say pretty good, I need to qualify that. Except for one second-place finish in one track event in ninth or tenth grade, I've never won any race, qualified for any marathon or done anything remarkable in 40+ years of running.  But when I'm running through Boston in the bitter cold, I do feel a bit of ego-induced satisfaction -- of proving to myself that I'm a real runner.

In the past that's gotten me out and running in all sorts of weather. But absent the need to train for an April marathon four years ago, in times of extreme cold, I've turned to the treadmill. This year's been different.

I've said before in this space that since my diagnosis and then chemo, running for me helps me prove to myself that I'm alright -- that I'm healthy. This snowy, cold New England winter, though, running for me has become more than  just an act of assertion, it's an act of defiance.

Whatever the universe brings - lymphoma, snow, single-digit temps -- if I can run, I will.

--Michael