I also have another fabulous Op Ed column from today's (Sunday) New York Times that has an inspiring view of cancer, life, and what everyone can do about it. I have pasted it in at the end of this blog entry.
I had a horrible morning yesterday. I woke up at 4 am and started crying. I could not get moving. I was not in horrendous pain but so many parts of my body were uncomfortable, I just couldn't find a resting position that didn't make something feel worse. My knees were throbbing, a side effect from Arimidex, the estrogen blocking drug I take daily. My right hand was probably doing well for being 20 days post-op, but that didn't feel too good. I had aching in my palm, forearm, and 2 fingers. My left hand was flared up and buzzing from working too hard to compensate for the disability of my right. My neck and upper back were tight and spasmy. And to top it all off with one more thing, I have developed a big (size of a very large lemon) most-likely-benign cyst in my left breast. I am off to Stanford tomorrow to have it aspirated and drained.
I knew I'd feel better if I got up and did anything: go for a walk, ride a stationary bike, lie on my slant board and just change my relationship to gravity, take a bath, do a Continuum dive, even watch a movie. But I couldn't break the spell of inertia and whinyness (is that a word?) . . . until my friend Carole called from the theater in LA about to see A Chorus Line.
For those of you who don't know, I am a sucker for a schmaltzy Broadway musical. As a starving student in New York City in the late 70's I sneaked into the second half of almost every show on Broadway. Security was lax in those days, and I would lurk around the doors during intermission and slip in to catch the second half of any show, which always has the most cathartic and cheesy songs.
I happen to know every word to every song in A Chorus Line, one of the few shows I saw in its entirety, with the original cast, shortly after it opened in New York in 1975. I even know the words to the songs I don't like. So I pulled out the CD of the soundtrack and played it beginning at 2:00 when Carole and her friends (including Gael, for all you Continuum folks) were simultaneously watching the matinee.
It felt as if a cloud lifted, a cloud I've been lost in since last July. I sang along, rolled on a ball, and danced around the living room for almost 2 hours. I lifted and moved both arms for the first time in months. And when I was done I wept, more from relief than grief.
I was exhausted and propped myself up in bed, finally able to find a position of comfort, when Steve called from San Francisco where he is for the day with an old college buddy about to see In The Heights, another Broadway musical. It won 4 Tony Awards in 2008 and is now on tour. I went directly to the iTunes store, downloaded the soundtrack, and waited until curtain time at 8:00 so I could watch another musical simultaneously with a loved one. How often does a person get a chance to do this twice in one day?!
It turns out In The Heights is schmaltzier than A Chorus Line. I read the liner notes and all the lyrics and laid in bed listening and singing along to the soundtrack until Steve called to say how great it was after the show. I slept for 10 hours without any "sleep aids" and woke up feeling amazingly different. Something has shifted that I just can't quite name.
Now I'm off to Beth's monthly Continuum class. Could the flow of events be more perfect? Yes, Donald, it's like another Feng Shui And The Tango moment!
Here is the NY Times Op Ed piece you must read. Then find something in your own life to reflect upon, or else just put on some music that makes you sing and dance.
A Scare, a Scar, a Silver Lining
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF
Published: June 4, 2010
The result was a grim monthlong whirlwind of doctors’ visits, medical tests and furrowed brows. The doctors agreed that the odds were 10 percent that my tumor was benign, 90 percent that it was malignant. I had no option: surgery was essential.
Ten days ago, I had a three-hour operation. I lost 10 percent of my right kidney, along with a tumor a bit more than an inch long. Afterward, I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck, and I gained a six-inch scar that won grudging admiration from my hard-to-impress teenage kids.
And, boy, did I feel lucky!
The main reason that kidney cancers are so deadly is that they are typically discovered late. My tumor was discovered early only by accident, through a CT scan ordered for another reason entirely. I confess that I had been committing thought crimes against the physician who ordered the scan, Mark Fialk, wondering if it was an example of out-of-control testing — and now I felt that Dr. Fialk might have saved my life.
But I also felt lucky in another way.
This is trite but also so, so true: A brush with mortality turns out to be the best way to appreciate how blue the sky is, how sensuous grass feels underfoot, how melodious kids’ voices are. Even teenagers’ voices. A friend and colleague, David E. Sanger, who conquered cancer a decade ago, says, “No matter how bad a day you’re having, you say to yourself: ‘I’ve had worse.’ ”
Floyd Norris, a friend in The Times’s business section, is now undergoing radiation treatment for cancer after surgery on his face and neck. He wrote on his blog: “It is not fun, but it has been inspiring. In a way, I am happier about my life than at any time I can remember.”
I don’t mean to wax lyrical about the joys of tumors. But maybe the most elusive possession is contentment with what we have. There’s no better way to attain that than a glimpse of our mortality.
My surgeon, Douglas Scherr, said that his patients frequently derive additional satisfaction from life after a cancer diagnosis, and at least for a time are more focused on what feels more important — like families.
In contrast, none of us want this for an epitaph: “He sweated many weekends at the office, ignoring his family but earning a huge bonus.”
As regular readers know, I’ve written frequently about suspected links between chemicals and health. In my own case, I can’t help wondering if there might not be a connection as well.
I grew up on a sheep and cherry farm in Oregon, and as a kid I helped mix the pesticides in the sprayer. Dogs on the farm have often died from cancer, and some have had unusual kidney cysts and deformities. Could the orchard pesticides perhaps have some impact on kidneys? Nobody knows.
After four days in the hospital, I spent a week recovering at home from the surgery. As I was finishing up this column, the pathologist’s report on my tumor finally came back. Dr. Scherr told me that my tumor turned out to be an oncocytoma, which is benign. Astonishingly, against all odds and expectations, I hadn’t had cancer after all. My wife tells me she no longer feels sorry for me, and I’m beaming.
So today I have an impressive scar, a bit less kidney, a big bellyache, and far more appreciation for the glory of life.
My hope is that when you put this column down, you’ll think about what you can do to reduce the risk of getting an ominous doctor’s call like mine last month:
Stop smoking and avoid secondhand smoke. Slather on sunscreen and avoid tanning salons. Avoid charred meats. Check yourself over for lumps, changes or irregularities, whether in breasts or testicles or skin, and consult a doctor if you have doubts. Try to microwave food in glass or ceramic containers rather than plastic. Toss out plastic food containers that are marked 3, 6 or 7 at the bottom (unless they say “BPA-free”). Buy a radon detector to check radon levels around your house.
And, believe me, it’s never too early — cancer or no cancer — to start appreciating our wondrous world, instead of disparaging its imperfections.
