You haven’t heard from me in a few months. I do hope you enjoyed the respite, because that silence has ended, beginning today with a mea culpa. I apologize to all the InkLink readers who contacted me offering support, to the members of Hope Nation who kept me in their prayers, to the countless folks in the larger recovery community who sent texts and emails of love and support, to my old Army buddy, Ryszard Guziewicz, to the InkLink’s Editor/Publisher/Grand-Poohbah, Carol Robidoux, and to dozens of others. I am sorry. I didn’t respond to many of your inquiries about my health, each sent with love and compassion. It was wrong but necessary to have isolated in a cocoon composed of my wife and daughters, along with a very small group of close friends. Thank you all, and please accept my apology.
For readers who missed all the earlier installments and are confused as hell about the above, here’s our story so far: In October, I was diagnosed with lung cancer. By mid-November, I’d taken early retirement from my job, and been sliced open to remove a malignant tumor, along with 13 lymph nodes to be tested for cancer. Of those nodes, a dozen were completely healthy, living fulfilling lymph lives. The 13th, though, showed a trace of cancer. This teeny-tiny splotch on a single node meant my cancer was Stage II.
Stage II cancer calls for chemotherapy, three months of poisoning my body with a dragnet of chemicals designed to kill any cancer cells. Unfortunately, these toxins aren’t completely focused, inflicting collateral damage on such innocent bystanders as the immune system and the brain. I’m grateful I avoided some of the common side effects: hair loss, anemia, easy bruising/bleeding and nausea/vomiting.
Still, during chemo I needed three or four naps per day and, most concerning to a man who thinks a lot, my brain stopped working the way it always has. In other words, I kept my hair while losing my mind.
Finding words became a frustrating and often pointless chore, leading me to talking around words, hoping my listener remembered the old Password TV show and could fill in the blanks. Even scarier, for a while I lost the veil separating memory from dreams, unable to distinguish the conversation I was in from a dream encounter. That may sound like a wacky premise for a situation comedy or an acid trip without the visuals. It was neither zany nor trippy, just plain old terrifying.
I finished chemo almost four weeks ago. I no longer need to plan my days around naps and my brain is working pretty well most of the time. Hurray for the powers of modern medicine and the efficacy of prayer. I hope. Tomorrow, I will know if that hope has been misplaced. Let me explain.
Today, Monday, March 25, I am filled with both optimism and dread, praying for the best and preparing for the worst, a living example of the opening paragraphs of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities: best/worst, light/dark, hope/despair.
You probably remember Schrodinger’s Cat, the star of a physicist’s 1930’s thought experiment. The poor cat, whom I’ll call Mittens, is placed in a sealed box with a device that releases poison based on a subatomic particle’s behavior. According to my laymen’s understanding of very basic quantum theory, until we open the box and observe Mittens, she is simultaneously both alive and dead. As will become clear by and by, I am Schrodinger’s Keith.
But wait, there’s more!
In addition to being Mittens, both alive and dead, I’m also Damocles, a sword over me, suspended by a single horsehair that can break at any time. While Mittens can’t know her fate, it’s unknown if she recognizes her predicament. Damocles damned well did. Without any other information, he is precariousness personified.
Let me now (finally, I hear you mutter) explain how I am both feline, my fate dependent on radioactive behavior, and Damoclean, death hanging over me, a stiff breeze capable of transforming that sword from decoration to guillotine. My future will be revealed midmorning on Tuesday, March 26.
Last week, to follow up my chemo, I had a PET scan, a test using radioactive materials to diagnose the presence of cancer. If my oncologist’s predictions are correct, and the prayers and positive vibes of those who love me are effective, Tuesday at 10:30, I’ll hear something like: “Mr. Howard, I’m glad to tell you the results suggest you are free of cancer. Let’s get you scheduled for a three-month follow-up . . .” Whatever the doctor says after that will be drowned out by my tears of joy.
On other hand, the doctor may say, “Mr. Howard, I’m afraid the cancer has spread. We’ll need to consider moving on to radiation therapy. We may need to cure you by killing much of you.” I’ll need to listen closely to the possible treatments, fighting the urge to break things and storm out of his office.
So . . . will the thread break, dropping the sword onto my neck? Once the cat is unboxed, will it meow and jump out of its cage or be a poisoned corpse? So much depends on the unknown, the unknowable, which is the story, the situation, of all humankind, from the beginning to end of time, from the East African savannas of 200,000 years ago to whatever planet we may visit in outer space. All of life is lived in a box of time, second by second the universe opens that box. Each moment you see the box top open, you’re still alive, the sword hasn’t fallen.
Drifting into the hundreds of naps I’ve taken over the last five months, I’ve developed, a habit, a practice, of meditating on Reinhold Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can
And wisdom to know the difference.
All this contemplation has greatly increased my serenity, my acceptance of how little power I have to change most of the universe. That uptake in serenity gives me the strength to continue the long march of life. Still, regardless of my strength or my serenity, I really, really want to know that the doctor is going to say
Tune in later this week to find out my fate. Will Schrodinger’s Sword Cut the Cat of Damocles? Will I hop out of the box? Will the sword slice off my head?
Watch this space, where more will soon be revealed.
Tiny White Box--Thoughts on Life, Death, Recovery, and Other Mundane Topics 