Left to my own devices

I turned 49 twelve days ago. A few weeks before that, I experienced something new: Talking about my genetics, with professionals. As friends and regular readers of the blog know, my dad has been dead for a long time. He died in 1997 at the age of 52 from pancreatic cancer. Not a good way to go. Ever since then, I've been doing a sort of mortal arithmetic in my head. Even at his funeral, as I was sitting there watching the American flag being folded and then handed to my father's widow and their 2-year-old son, the thought was being tossed around in my mind of how, 'Okay, I'm 21. Dad was 52 when he died. That means I could have another 31 years left? Maybe?' At the time, 31 years sounded like a good, long while. I'm here to tell you that it went by quickly. And so, as I continued to near the age where my dad received his diagnosis (he was 51), I began talking with my primary care physician (PCP) about whether or not I should have some kind of genetic testing don...

Yesterday was Fathers Day. Dad had already been on my mind, as 2022 marks twenty-five years since his death. We tend to apply greater significance to various (sometimes random) measures of time. I suppose that a quarter-of-a-century counts as such a marker. Lewis passed away from cancer in August of 1997. I last saw him that June. It wasn't supposed to be the final occasion our paths crossed in life, but sometimes that's how things work out. Dad had received his pancreatic cancer diagnosis in October of 1996. I learned of it that November, and began visiting with him regularly soon after. He lived in Springfield, but would travel -- with his wife and two-year-old son in tow - to Champaign and stay with my grandmother about every two weeks. That is where we would meet, talking about a variety of topics before the time ran out.

There may come a time when some of us realize we may not live as long as we'd wanted, or expected to. It may not come as a "Eureka!" moment, perhaps more as a slow, steady registering of potential reality. I use the word "potential" deliberately, as none of us knows precisely what the future holds. Still, we can have a fairly good idea after a certain point.

There have been a few events during my life, some personal, some en masse, that have impacted my life profoundly. Their influence was profound, altering my perception of the world, and my life in it. I feel as though the current pandemic ought to be another one of those occasions but, honestly, I don't know what to think of it at the moment. There have been some short-term affects, but it is difficult to comprehend the long-term ramifications at this point.

The original plan was to be seated in a movie theater this evening for the premiere of the new James Bond movie. That notion was scuttled when, somewhat early on, the movie studio pushed-back the film to November, out of concern regarding the novel coronavirus. Not to be put-off, plan B was the  general idea of getting together with some friends at a restaurant, to celebrate. Whatever happened, it would be the polar opposite of that day exactly one decade ago. Alas, fate intervened yet again.

Twenty years ago today, my father turned 52 years of age. It would be his last birthday. Diagnosed with pancreatic cancer late in the preceding year, Lewis likely knew there wouldn't be many more (if any) birthdays, though he kept up a fairly good facade. Oh there were times it cracked, certainly, but then I've never understood why we seem to demand stoicism from the terminally ill. Too ill from chemotherapy treatments to do much celebrating on March 21st, we actually celebrated dad's birthday on Sunday, the 23rd. Truthfully, the entire event was somewhat up in the air, depending on how Lewis felt at the time. I was working at Garcia's Pizza, and had a boss who would bend your ear at the slightest query about how her mom died of cancer. When I made the request to take-off that Sunday for what would likely be my father's final birthday, the manager gave me grief. So it goes.

Some of you know the following story, others may not. Regardless, I share it now because of the continuing saga of healthcare debate in this country. It is an issue near and dear not only to my heart, but also my pocketbook. This is the case with countless others. How many people have had their lives wrecked by the costs of healthcare? Roughly fourteen years ago, I was visiting in-laws for the holidays. They smoked, and I've always had a particular sensitivity to cigarette smoke. It's one of the reasons dad and I weren't close. He smoked like a chimney, and being around it for too long gave me headaches. At any rate, the multi-day visit with the in-laws caused me to have several coughing fits. By the time Ashley & I were home, I'd developed a baseball-size lump at the base of my neck. A visit to the doctor and a CT scan revealed that I'd ruptured something while coughing, and had bled into it, forming a cyst that was filled with blood. Some treatmen...

Recently I've seen attempts to justify unfriending friends or family (in real life and on social media) because said friends and family members voted for Donald Trump, or some other politician whom offends them. I've also witnessed far-left liberals trying to prevent anyone from celebrating Senator Cory Booker because he may not have always voted in ways they approve of. All of this reminds me of an experience I had last week. It was a biopsy of some lymph nodes in my neck. It was in the cold, sterile setting of a hospital. There were several staff members running to and fro, going about their business of the day, a small part of which had to do with my procedure. Most of them were professional and polite, though not particularly warm and friendly. Except for one.

"It was nice of them, he thought sleepily, looking up into the ring of smiling eyes, to look so pleased that he wasn't going to die after all."  -- P.D. James, The Black Tower So, I saw the doctor this morning. After weeks of ultrasounds, CT scans, blood work, biopsies, and radiologists, pathologists, specialists and primary care physician visits, it looks like I don't have a recurrence of thyroid cancer. One would think I'd be elated at such news, but it's more like a weary appreciation at this point. It's been a roller coaster month of uncertainty, and that can take a lot out of someone. Still, I'm relieved.

There are a lot of milestones in our lives: birthdays, wedding anniversaries, first date anniversaries, the day we began a new job, the day a loved one died, etc. Some are happy reminders, others not so much. Some have a bit of a mixed-bag impact on us. That's probably the best way to describe what happened five years ago today. April 9th, 2010 was a Friday, much like any other. It was a couple of weeks before the annual Roger Ebert Film Festival , of which I am a regular attendee. Ebert was on my mind at the time, not necessarily because of the festival, but because he'd had thyroid cancer a few years earlier and, on that particular morning, I was rolling into Provena (now Presence) Hospital for a morning surgery to remove my own cancerous thyroid. That morning was a particularly early one for Ashley & I. The surgery was scheduled for 7:30am and, like airports, hospitals want you to arrive at least an hour or two early. There was the check-in process, the inte...

You all cross my mind, perhaps more often than the dead really should. You are no longer living, breathing, thinking entities, though maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe the stories of so many religions across the millennia are true: maybe you all still exist somewhere, perhaps not alive (in the sense that we know it), but still cognizant of some form of reality? All I know for sure is that I miss you and, for many of you, I feel like you were gone too soon. Along with missing you is, in some cases, a twinge of guilt. For those who took their own lives I wonder, "Could I have done more?"  For those who passed away naturally I ask, "Did I convey to you how much you were appreciated?" Questions with unknowable answers. That could be why they resurface far too often.

There was a bit of stir this past week as a Dr. Richard Smith opined that dying from cancer is probably -- to his mind, anyway -- the best way to go. There was, of course, much indignation expressed at such a point of view. Folks have felt the need to redress Dr. Smith by recounting how awful cancer is to experience and deal with (be it personally or as a caretaker). They are, of course, correct in their assessment: cancer is an awful, terrible disease. For reference, here is a quote from Dr. Smith about why he finds cancer preferable to more sudden forms of demise: "So death from cancer is the best ... You can say goodbye, reflect on your life, leave last messages, perhaps visit special places for a last time, listen to favourite pieces of music, read loved poems, and prepare, according to your beliefs, to meet your maker or enjoy eternal oblivion. "This is, I recognise, a romantic view of dying, but it is achievable with love, morphine, and whisky. ...

Earlier in the week I wrote the first of two planned blog posts about my thoughts on the movie The Fault in Our Stars . Based on the book by John Green, the film tells the story of two teenagers, Hazel Grace Lancaster and Augustus (Gus) Waters who meet cute and fall in love. The notable angle to this story is that both teens have cancer. Hazel is currently in a holding-pattern with thyroid cancer that has spread to her lungs, while Gus is in remission from a cancer that cost him part of one leg. My first post about the movie dealt with how it made me think about life and death in general. The second post, the one you're reading right here and now, is to mainly provide some thoughts I had about the relationship between Gus and Hazel. It was a wonderful affair, to be sure, but not without some questionable elements. Yes, this is Hollywood, but one still expects a certain level of realism.

I saw the new teen romance movie The Fault in Our Stars over the weekend, and had some thoughts about it that I'd like to share over two blog posts. The first of these posts will feature musings on life and death that the film stirred within me, while the second post (which will appear later this week) will be a more direct view of the relationship in the movie. Hopefully, neither post will be too spoilery (in case you haven't seen the movie, or the read the book by John Green that it is adapted from). The Fault in Our Stars deals primarily with the lives of its two leads, Hazel Grace Lancaster and Augustus (Gus) Waters. Both have had cancer. Gus' is in remission, while Hazel's (Stage IV thyroid cancer that has spread to her lungs) is in a sort of holding pattern. One day, at a support group meeting for teens who've dealt with cancer, Gus expresses an interest in Hazel (whom he affectionately refers to as "Hazel Grace"), and a nice romance blosso...

Everything I have to be thankful for flows from life, that much is true. And life -- at least this personal, conscious life that I have -- is finite. Once dead, my body will break down and its atoms will once more be free to do other things, mingling with the universe to be a part of another life. Until that time comes, I can thank my health for keeping this life going. Therefore, it's only logical to follow gratitude of life with that of health. So, here we go!

I'm not a superstitious person. I don't believe in ghosts, nor in the effects of black cats or broken mirrors. But I am afraid of the number 52. I dislike it immensely. It is, to me, unlucky. If I ever constructed a building, it very likely wouldn't have a 52nd floor. Why all the hate for this number? Simply put, my dad died at age 52, and it has since become my antagonist. I measure my life as a countdown to that age, to the time when, perhaps, this journey will be at an end.

I'm a worrier, have been ever since a weekend when, as a teenager, my mom went away for a week's vacation and left me to my own devices at the house during the summer (every teenager's dream, right?). I became so nervous and upset being on my own, with not much to do and no one to do it with, that I developed severe stomach pains, and ended up having to see a doctor once mom got back. He wanted to give me an enema. I didn't know what that was. When the doctor explained it to me, I said thanks but no thanks, we left his office, and the stomach pains evaporated within a day. This is the power of the mind over the body.