Chemo is like nothing I’ve ever experienced, let me tell you. You have a complete thought, you think you do actually something, but your body does not seem to conceive that you really want take some action. Like get up and have a cup of coffee, or as Lenny would say head off to, “the tinkle, dinkle, ha-ha room.”
Nope, it’s not that easy today, it requires deep thought, the marshalling of what seems to be a great deal of energy, followed by a lurching push in the general direction I had hoped to go in.
Wow, this is work.
Despite my willingness to walk beyond all forms upon my return from Austin, I did not walk beyond any forms at all. No, I fell, Newton in all his glory beckoned me forward, and lo and behold the planet rose to meet my face and bald pate. I guess the message was, like ask for help bozo.
Well I’m still staring towards the void, willing to move on, but for now I’m gonna’ talk a nap.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
I Really Don't Want to Go Anywhere, Honest...
Diagnosed with cancer a mere three weeks ago has been quite an upheaval to my daily activity and to patterns of thought that I’ve had for years, unquestioned, unchanged, not really wanting to look at to be honest. This event has been quite a spiritual revelation, removing blinds from my eyes things that have been present for so many years and have forced me to reexamine some long held beliefs.
In my thirties I was faced with a dilemma that required that I place aside my prejudices and seek a spiritual way of life that was meaningful at deeply, profoundly personal level. I really didn’t want to go looking really, I would have been pleased with a self-help book or two and in a day or two a brand new me, but no, all the books in the world were not to keep me from getting off my ass and heading off on a journey.
Today, I have cancer and love is coming at me in so many different ways, ways I would have been offended at the past. I received a reliquary from my wife’s side of the family, long standing Catholics from the same tradition I came from and rejected so many years ago. The reliquary is a large crucifix, inside the crucifix is some relic of St. Oxymoron the Prolific (who knows), it could be finger nail clipping, a piece of his last pair of sandals, anyway it’s something that was personally attached to our aforementioned saint. There was time I would have been truly offended and sent it back. Today it’s hanging on my reading lamp in the bedroom, another signpost on the road to my spiritual growth. My friend Amy told me her dad praying for me, with other friends Catholic, American Indian, Baptists all doing the same.
Which leads me to this: The form of spiritual love you put forth does not matter, form is nothing unless the form is your belief, and the form is the signpost that leads you to the threshold of your spirit.
And what is the threshold you might ask? Speaking for myself, the crucifix, the 5 Buddha’s, the Celtic Crosses that abound in our house are pointing me forward beyond all form and towards the essence of what it is that I am, words and form do not exist when you step beyond your form threshold. Jesus as viewed through the scriptures, the will Allah revealed through the Quran, Buddha hood revealed through deep contemplation are all ways of bring me to the portal of the void. To have come so far to let go of the familiar and step into a spiritual center that I do not know how I will change me is fearful. What exists when one steps towards an experience beyond words, visions and forms?
I could be transformed, or mentally disintegrate into something I did not know existed, I may be enlightened, or stripped of old belief’s and prejudices that have propped up my psyche for 58 years.
What I do know is that powered by all spiritual love and strength I’ve been receiving I have the tools and power to step into the void.
I thank you all for the opportunity to grow, although I could have by-passed the cancer diagnosis.
Onward, towards the void we go…
In my thirties I was faced with a dilemma that required that I place aside my prejudices and seek a spiritual way of life that was meaningful at deeply, profoundly personal level. I really didn’t want to go looking really, I would have been pleased with a self-help book or two and in a day or two a brand new me, but no, all the books in the world were not to keep me from getting off my ass and heading off on a journey.
Today, I have cancer and love is coming at me in so many different ways, ways I would have been offended at the past. I received a reliquary from my wife’s side of the family, long standing Catholics from the same tradition I came from and rejected so many years ago. The reliquary is a large crucifix, inside the crucifix is some relic of St. Oxymoron the Prolific (who knows), it could be finger nail clipping, a piece of his last pair of sandals, anyway it’s something that was personally attached to our aforementioned saint. There was time I would have been truly offended and sent it back. Today it’s hanging on my reading lamp in the bedroom, another signpost on the road to my spiritual growth. My friend Amy told me her dad praying for me, with other friends Catholic, American Indian, Baptists all doing the same.
Which leads me to this: The form of spiritual love you put forth does not matter, form is nothing unless the form is your belief, and the form is the signpost that leads you to the threshold of your spirit.
And what is the threshold you might ask? Speaking for myself, the crucifix, the 5 Buddha’s, the Celtic Crosses that abound in our house are pointing me forward beyond all form and towards the essence of what it is that I am, words and form do not exist when you step beyond your form threshold. Jesus as viewed through the scriptures, the will Allah revealed through the Quran, Buddha hood revealed through deep contemplation are all ways of bring me to the portal of the void. To have come so far to let go of the familiar and step into a spiritual center that I do not know how I will change me is fearful. What exists when one steps towards an experience beyond words, visions and forms?
I could be transformed, or mentally disintegrate into something I did not know existed, I may be enlightened, or stripped of old belief’s and prejudices that have propped up my psyche for 58 years.
What I do know is that powered by all spiritual love and strength I’ve been receiving I have the tools and power to step into the void.
I thank you all for the opportunity to grow, although I could have by-passed the cancer diagnosis.
Onward, towards the void we go…
Friday, June 19, 2009
Life Got Blogged Down Yesterday
Blog Day Afternoon
I thought I had a great deal to speak of yesterday, but it was to think of not to speak of apparently, therefore there was an empty blog entry for yesterday.
Radiation therapy has taken its toll on my sartorial splendor and taking a cue from a dear friend Craig Burger, who claims the natural is always the best, that’s the way it’s like so gonna’ be for awhile. So the hair loss is not tragic, and not being a cat, nor is it catastrophic (really, no pun intended, give a Chemo Kev a break for christ’s sake, it’s 5:00 am in the hair zone). Hair loses as a cat type person would be difficult. Backing up 10 feet of hallway space to perfectly size a delicious hair‑glob that fits my wife’s favorite shoe size from toe to heel is a lotta’ goddam’ work, and just think those projects are now pending in the indefinite time zone, with many more to come. Want some hairballs there Bucko? They would compliment your ceremic cats that decorate that garden pool of yours quite well. Just let me know, OK.
Today is some R & R to prep for what will be my very full-dose of chemo, which is on the agenda on Monday. My lovely wife and daughter, Elaine & Erin respectively, are piling into a Prius, heading to Austin to meet with a well-respected healer, spend the weekend with Sue and then later to have dinner with our dear friends Alexis & Lindsey. And end the day storing up some amniotic mojo by hanging out in a pool at night for an hour or two speaking of the things that are important between those you love, even if it’s the weather.
I thought I had a great deal to speak of yesterday, but it was to think of not to speak of apparently, therefore there was an empty blog entry for yesterday.
Radiation therapy has taken its toll on my sartorial splendor and taking a cue from a dear friend Craig Burger, who claims the natural is always the best, that’s the way it’s like so gonna’ be for awhile. So the hair loss is not tragic, and not being a cat, nor is it catastrophic (really, no pun intended, give a Chemo Kev a break for christ’s sake, it’s 5:00 am in the hair zone). Hair loses as a cat type person would be difficult. Backing up 10 feet of hallway space to perfectly size a delicious hair‑glob that fits my wife’s favorite shoe size from toe to heel is a lotta’ goddam’ work, and just think those projects are now pending in the indefinite time zone, with many more to come. Want some hairballs there Bucko? They would compliment your ceremic cats that decorate that garden pool of yours quite well. Just let me know, OK.
Today is some R & R to prep for what will be my very full-dose of chemo, which is on the agenda on Monday. My lovely wife and daughter, Elaine & Erin respectively, are piling into a Prius, heading to Austin to meet with a well-respected healer, spend the weekend with Sue and then later to have dinner with our dear friends Alexis & Lindsey. And end the day storing up some amniotic mojo by hanging out in a pool at night for an hour or two speaking of the things that are important between those you love, even if it’s the weather.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I Don't Need No Stinkin' Haircut
“Hey, what’s up…”
What? Did I hear something? The dogs haven’t moved or barked, nah, I didn’t hear nothin’.
“Hey, what’s up Doc?”
Now, I did hear that and I did detect the pungent smell of fresh carrot following the chomp by something or someone.
Perhaps I need to scout things out here a bit. Standing up from my office chair I peruse the house and find nothing out of the usual. Dogs doing what our bozoid dogs do, all appliances working in order, Boz Scaggs wailing away on “Jump Street” on trusty XM radio, no all seems fine from my perspective.
I shuffle into the master bathroom, remove my 1918 Regulation Brooklyn Dodger baseball cap (made in Bangladesh for truly authentic reasons no doubt) and lo and behold. Holy mother of god, I look like Elmer Fudd!!! I’m loosing my hair, I knew it was looming on the agenda, but still, whatta’ shock.
And I’m surrounded by all of these wascally wabbits, munching away on carrots and randomly peeping “What’s up, Doc?”
Recovery has moved to another level my friends, wabbits and all. Before/after pictures will follow.
What? Did I hear something? The dogs haven’t moved or barked, nah, I didn’t hear nothin’.
“Hey, what’s up Doc?”
Now, I did hear that and I did detect the pungent smell of fresh carrot following the chomp by something or someone.
Perhaps I need to scout things out here a bit. Standing up from my office chair I peruse the house and find nothing out of the usual. Dogs doing what our bozoid dogs do, all appliances working in order, Boz Scaggs wailing away on “Jump Street” on trusty XM radio, no all seems fine from my perspective.
I shuffle into the master bathroom, remove my 1918 Regulation Brooklyn Dodger baseball cap (made in Bangladesh for truly authentic reasons no doubt) and lo and behold. Holy mother of god, I look like Elmer Fudd!!! I’m loosing my hair, I knew it was looming on the agenda, but still, whatta’ shock.
And I’m surrounded by all of these wascally wabbits, munching away on carrots and randomly peeping “What’s up, Doc?”
Recovery has moved to another level my friends, wabbits and all. Before/after pictures will follow.
A Good Editor Is A Good Thing To Have
My on‑board editors are demanding, nay, screeching that I allow them out of their respective cages to do the work they are claiming I owe them.
They don’t look like much, they appear very much like mottled images of Horace Greeley and Perry White, but they can sure make noise about prepositions, verb tense and correct pronoun usage.
You see, I’ve just been whipping this content off the top of my head, performing a dutiful spell check (out courtesy mostly) and uploading the content via the universal mojo-wire to the World Wide Dweeb. That is where much of the problems reside. Besides the fatigue of daily radiation therapy, it’s a full‑skull dose of irradiation and it is this effect that has the most impact on my writing, and editing is just some nice interesting concept like multi-verses, or dark matter that I would like to attend to but lack the time and energy to entertain.
I type and ponder, “Just how many neurons up there are actually working in unison to produce a truly cohesive idea? It’s only an idea now; it’s not cohered into a viable thought yet, much less a syntactically correct formed sentence, but those goddam editors won’t shut up. Get busy Backmann, there a thoughts rioting a few neurons back?”
My next physical step is to type this thought‑blob onto a piece of ethereal paper existing solely in RAM and bludgeon the bastard into decent reading prose. Well, bludgeoning the prose appears to happen, until my lovely wife points out the very erratic inconsistencies that appear on Kev’s Chem Lab 101 blog. The editing team must have their day in sun, or diodes, or whatever backlights my laptop monitor.
Well, I’m going to have to unleash the Greeley/White editing demons so I can have them clean things up, and just so you know, my ego is actively pushing this on so that it will actually get done.
To better reading in the future, onward into the smog…
They don’t look like much, they appear very much like mottled images of Horace Greeley and Perry White, but they can sure make noise about prepositions, verb tense and correct pronoun usage.
You see, I’ve just been whipping this content off the top of my head, performing a dutiful spell check (out courtesy mostly) and uploading the content via the universal mojo-wire to the World Wide Dweeb. That is where much of the problems reside. Besides the fatigue of daily radiation therapy, it’s a full‑skull dose of irradiation and it is this effect that has the most impact on my writing, and editing is just some nice interesting concept like multi-verses, or dark matter that I would like to attend to but lack the time and energy to entertain.
I type and ponder, “Just how many neurons up there are actually working in unison to produce a truly cohesive idea? It’s only an idea now; it’s not cohered into a viable thought yet, much less a syntactically correct formed sentence, but those goddam editors won’t shut up. Get busy Backmann, there a thoughts rioting a few neurons back?”
My next physical step is to type this thought‑blob onto a piece of ethereal paper existing solely in RAM and bludgeon the bastard into decent reading prose. Well, bludgeoning the prose appears to happen, until my lovely wife points out the very erratic inconsistencies that appear on Kev’s Chem Lab 101 blog. The editing team must have their day in sun, or diodes, or whatever backlights my laptop monitor.
Well, I’m going to have to unleash the Greeley/White editing demons so I can have them clean things up, and just so you know, my ego is actively pushing this on so that it will actually get done.
To better reading in the future, onward into the smog…
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
1956 Did Happen in Brooklyn
Much hoopla, in the much subdued professional manner found at the oncologist’s office, I received some X-rays of the chest and my date with chemo was postponed for yet another week.
Well, I’m certainly not living up to my newly minted moniker “Chemo Kev” now am I? What with all the radiation therapy, 9 so far with 6 to go, if I could claim Italian heritage I would announce my new name “The Day-Glo Dago” with great fanfare, in some medieval Florentine manner not doubt, and what with fashion in retro, find some clothes to match, clothes like polka dot shirts with flared sleeves, wide angle bell-bottomed blues jeans, and for home a few black lights and complimentary posters and some really bad psychedelic tunes for the old hi‑fi. In-A-Gadda-Davida, any thing by the Moby Grape, The Jefferson (Prop plane, Glider, Airplane, Starship, et al…).
My family and I are now well into the third week of this rather dramatic event. Nothing has leveled to where there is the standard daily routine, but we are all working together separately and together to forge a daily routine from such a set of alien demands. I, at the moment, am listening to Martin Goldsmith on XM 78, Symphony Hall. It’s a piano concerto by a composer I’ve only heard of in passing, a Henry Charles Litolff, music has always been my musical anchor and this happened to be the next link in the chain. Meanwhile, my lovely wife has set off to her yoga class where she finds a spiritual center.
So, as you can see, new information, requiring a rearranging of our standard earlier morning chores. Done in an order I’m certainly not comfortable with, but done any way, and producing the quite same results. A want and desire to go forth and participate in a practical and beneficial way with those we live and work about.
There have been no report cards as of yet, but my wife, children and close friends have never been more immediate, loving nor have I been so aware of those attributes either.
Onward into Chemo Kev’s delayed Monday…
Well, I’m certainly not living up to my newly minted moniker “Chemo Kev” now am I? What with all the radiation therapy, 9 so far with 6 to go, if I could claim Italian heritage I would announce my new name “The Day-Glo Dago” with great fanfare, in some medieval Florentine manner not doubt, and what with fashion in retro, find some clothes to match, clothes like polka dot shirts with flared sleeves, wide angle bell-bottomed blues jeans, and for home a few black lights and complimentary posters and some really bad psychedelic tunes for the old hi‑fi. In-A-Gadda-Davida, any thing by the Moby Grape, The Jefferson (Prop plane, Glider, Airplane, Starship, et al…).
My family and I are now well into the third week of this rather dramatic event. Nothing has leveled to where there is the standard daily routine, but we are all working together separately and together to forge a daily routine from such a set of alien demands. I, at the moment, am listening to Martin Goldsmith on XM 78, Symphony Hall. It’s a piano concerto by a composer I’ve only heard of in passing, a Henry Charles Litolff, music has always been my musical anchor and this happened to be the next link in the chain. Meanwhile, my lovely wife has set off to her yoga class where she finds a spiritual center.
So, as you can see, new information, requiring a rearranging of our standard earlier morning chores. Done in an order I’m certainly not comfortable with, but done any way, and producing the quite same results. A want and desire to go forth and participate in a practical and beneficial way with those we live and work about.
There have been no report cards as of yet, but my wife, children and close friends have never been more immediate, loving nor have I been so aware of those attributes either.
Onward into Chemo Kev’s delayed Monday…
Monday, June 15, 2009
Did Tonto Really Say Chemo-sabe?
Today kicks off what will be the start of my second full week of therapy, starting with my being dropped kicked through the goal posts of a 5 hour chemo session for my second legal lesson in how one can live better through chemistry. Then, if at all possible and if time allows, it’s down to the radiation lab to be irradiated like a newly picked bunch ‘o’ grapes from Mexico.
When I have time to reflect that my melanoma growth if being battled out by some evilly radioactive particles and a lethal chemical compound that require hazmat suits to be administered, it appears that if they vanquish the victim (the tumor) into remission, the two warriors at the forefront of the battle cease to exist, they both lose. And these lethal doses of chemo and radiation not only lose, they lose if the tumor wins or loses. Inorganic sacrifices are they, and in my intellectual arrogance I can assume they’re work is done completely devoid of any organic consent and their part. But I’m starting to feel more like part of the weave in the fabric of life of this universe I find myself in, and not like some loose end or external participant sitting in a comfortable seat watching the show of life as I could join in and drop out of at whim. I’m going to look at therapies as elements of the universe conspiring to act as a consortium towards my greater well being. Those elements may be as disparate as Eastern medicine, the ancient knowledge of Native American herbalists and standard western medicine, but where joined together in the common cause.
I also want to add that none of this activity is being done in a state of highly agitated panic. It is a conscience effort on my part to pull together what I was not will to really heretofore to expend the effort at, and that was live the live that gives me a countless number of paths to my next truth, revelation of direction.
I’ll post again shortly, post lethal cocktail time that is when some lucidity may have returned so I can complete a thought, and possibly compose complete sentences.
Off again into the future…
When I have time to reflect that my melanoma growth if being battled out by some evilly radioactive particles and a lethal chemical compound that require hazmat suits to be administered, it appears that if they vanquish the victim (the tumor) into remission, the two warriors at the forefront of the battle cease to exist, they both lose. And these lethal doses of chemo and radiation not only lose, they lose if the tumor wins or loses. Inorganic sacrifices are they, and in my intellectual arrogance I can assume they’re work is done completely devoid of any organic consent and their part. But I’m starting to feel more like part of the weave in the fabric of life of this universe I find myself in, and not like some loose end or external participant sitting in a comfortable seat watching the show of life as I could join in and drop out of at whim. I’m going to look at therapies as elements of the universe conspiring to act as a consortium towards my greater well being. Those elements may be as disparate as Eastern medicine, the ancient knowledge of Native American herbalists and standard western medicine, but where joined together in the common cause.
I also want to add that none of this activity is being done in a state of highly agitated panic. It is a conscience effort on my part to pull together what I was not will to really heretofore to expend the effort at, and that was live the live that gives me a countless number of paths to my next truth, revelation of direction.
I’ll post again shortly, post lethal cocktail time that is when some lucidity may have returned so I can complete a thought, and possibly compose complete sentences.
Off again into the future…
Sunday, June 14, 2009
What's a Boy to Do
It has come to mind that it’s not quite clear what my purpose is in maintaining this “Kev’s got cancer” log. Am I am attempting to fend off a fear of unimaginable dimensions, prove to whomever that I’m keeping a stiff upper‑lip and proper “can do” attitude with this cancer diagnosis? Or, am I just a scared little boy whistling in the dark hoping to make home before the last fading light of day?
A bit of self searching has revealed a bit of different frame of reference. I have not have had what one would think of a purposeful, always on target kind of life these last 58 years. Nope, not at all, more like the blind pig finding the proverbial acorn now and again. Over the last 30 years I’ve had the pleasure to find friends with deep reserves of love, a family that I love above any I could have imagined and a career that I truly enjoy. But to acquire all of it I had to be willing to be real, emotionally open and fully present in the moment. In my book a marginal trade-off and a damn poor bet as well. But open up I did, and to much life and joy way beyond the initial investment I thought I had made at a great danger to myself.
With that in mind, I find that my cancer diagnosis is now a part of the journey of my life that I will be able to be open, real and present about. Like I’m supposed be worried that it won’t be neat and tidy and market well at Niemen’s? Did any other area of my life appear tidy and marketable? Does yours?
If you have an opportunity, listen to the “Last of the Steam‑Powered Teams” by the Kinks if you care to know how I feel at the moment. Thanks Ray Davies for your little riff on life’s enigmatic style. I’m just gonna’ keep on chugging till my dying day, which by the way is not imminent as far as I can tell.
A bit of self searching has revealed a bit of different frame of reference. I have not have had what one would think of a purposeful, always on target kind of life these last 58 years. Nope, not at all, more like the blind pig finding the proverbial acorn now and again. Over the last 30 years I’ve had the pleasure to find friends with deep reserves of love, a family that I love above any I could have imagined and a career that I truly enjoy. But to acquire all of it I had to be willing to be real, emotionally open and fully present in the moment. In my book a marginal trade-off and a damn poor bet as well. But open up I did, and to much life and joy way beyond the initial investment I thought I had made at a great danger to myself.
With that in mind, I find that my cancer diagnosis is now a part of the journey of my life that I will be able to be open, real and present about. Like I’m supposed be worried that it won’t be neat and tidy and market well at Niemen’s? Did any other area of my life appear tidy and marketable? Does yours?
If you have an opportunity, listen to the “Last of the Steam‑Powered Teams” by the Kinks if you care to know how I feel at the moment. Thanks Ray Davies for your little riff on life’s enigmatic style. I’m just gonna’ keep on chugging till my dying day, which by the way is not imminent as far as I can tell.
Might as Well Stand and Face It, Life is So Complicated
I awaken each morning to the mobile phone alarm, reminding me that it’s now time take my next transforming steroids. It also gives me a moment to get up and savor the silence, such as it is on Dallas whilst living on a busy thoroughfare.
Getting out of bed I grab the next set of notions, position and lotions and in the semi‑darkness pad out into the kitchen where I grab ice-cold seltzer water, park it in a cozy and sit in our comfy blue recliner with matching ottoman. At which point I pop the top and await what might or might not show up on my mind’s eye.
The thoughts are not of the fearful variety. Sometimes I feel as if there are miniature male or female spirits, just checking on the sites that have been difficulty these last 8 months. Hips moving okay today check. Lungs functioning check, spiritually centered, getting there, check. A small litany vital check point statistics and an event log generation done in my honor, and then they’re gone. Often that is followed by silence and my mind amuses itself by watching the occasional play of reflected light as it makes its way across the living room. Slowly, taking the shape of the object it reflected on, it brings out surface elements I would have never have been aware off.
So as you can see, it’s not deeply moving soul searching moment of time. It’s a wonderfully peaceful one, one which sends me back to bed for another 4 or 5 hours, at which time I get to wake up and replicate what had just experienced several hours back.
Perhaps one of these thoughts that continually bubble to the service with contain the grain of truth, or event that let’s my move my spirit in yet another direction of reconciliation and friendship with the world at large.
I’m looking forward more and more with each passing day, as this life of mine, that I thought I know so well, appears to have yet a few more secrets to reveal.
Into the future, together this time…
Getting out of bed I grab the next set of notions, position and lotions and in the semi‑darkness pad out into the kitchen where I grab ice-cold seltzer water, park it in a cozy and sit in our comfy blue recliner with matching ottoman. At which point I pop the top and await what might or might not show up on my mind’s eye.
The thoughts are not of the fearful variety. Sometimes I feel as if there are miniature male or female spirits, just checking on the sites that have been difficulty these last 8 months. Hips moving okay today check. Lungs functioning check, spiritually centered, getting there, check. A small litany vital check point statistics and an event log generation done in my honor, and then they’re gone. Often that is followed by silence and my mind amuses itself by watching the occasional play of reflected light as it makes its way across the living room. Slowly, taking the shape of the object it reflected on, it brings out surface elements I would have never have been aware off.
So as you can see, it’s not deeply moving soul searching moment of time. It’s a wonderfully peaceful one, one which sends me back to bed for another 4 or 5 hours, at which time I get to wake up and replicate what had just experienced several hours back.
Perhaps one of these thoughts that continually bubble to the service with contain the grain of truth, or event that let’s my move my spirit in yet another direction of reconciliation and friendship with the world at large.
I’m looking forward more and more with each passing day, as this life of mine, that I thought I know so well, appears to have yet a few more secrets to reveal.
Into the future, together this time…
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Hardest Revelations Are Those Most Evident
As someone who is more naturally inclined to be dismissive of those on the periphery of my life while loving, caring and considerate to those that I care and are not on the fringe I have been able to take my low energy interludes and ponder this odd dilemma.
My generation, during the tumultuous 60’s demanded love, peace and understanding. Created entire careers writing songs around the same themes, Miles Davis and B. B. King played the Fillmore (both east and west) to sold‑out crowds, Bob Dylan and Pete Seeger, Joan Baez participated in freedom marches and protestations. I, for one, fervently believed that love, peace, justice and above all, equality was due all, not just to the privileged few, and if remember correctly so did my peers at the time. Besides, did not our constitution state these inalienable rights were guaranteed by birth and by birth alone? Not race, class, skin color, no, we are all born with these inalienable rights.
But I failed to realize something, and I speak for myself here, I failed to realize that one does not just hold a beloved opinion, chant at or argue with those that hold different ones and head home, smoke a joint and have a beer and expect the universe to modify itself correctly because I have what I consider high ideals.
Now let’s fast forward a bit, 30 years or so and see how this sits with me today.
I still hold these lofty ideals about peace and equality for all, which is good a thing to have, what I no longer believe is that my job has been complete having made it to and holding these lofty positions all these years. I should now be content awaiting a younger generation to shape up and get this show on road.
I suppose that my ego would have loved some sort of grand gesture in the spotlight of the multitudes awaiting me to lead them into some brave new world. Well, that’s never happened, and does not appear to on the imminent horizon. I’m going to have try and practice these lofty principles in a daily, silent way.
What the cancer has brought to the forefront for me is that these lofty principles can only be imparted by me in my personal life. With those I love, don’t love; wish would go away and never come back, people of differing colors, beliefs and opinions. In other words, I must do this in my daily life, quietly and consistently, and to do so without any fanfare whatsoever, solely out of service and love and not out of some higher calling sense of duty.
I can assure you my friends that really don’t know how one does that; I can only say that I am willing to do my best.
Once, 25 years ago I once heard Joseph Campbell say “Follow your bliss.” I took this to mean that one finds an object of some type, lover, career, a higher calling of some sort and pursues it with passion and fury. Well, here today, with a cancer diagnosis looming largely on my horizon, I can honestly say that I finally know what he meant. You follow your bliss by embracing the life that you have been given, not the one you want or think you should be allowed to pursue. No, my bliss is already present and all I have to do is embrace it and live one day or one moment at a time, striving to make my contributions to this blissful life constructive and beneficial to all I come in contact with.
I am walking towards the unknown future knowing that all is well and that the creative spark of life surrounds me as long as I’m will to look for it. It is present in my beloved family and friends, I’ve experienced with the excellent medical staff I get to engage with daily and from total strangers who know nothing of my but a diagnosis and cared to give a hug.
Later, into the future…
My generation, during the tumultuous 60’s demanded love, peace and understanding. Created entire careers writing songs around the same themes, Miles Davis and B. B. King played the Fillmore (both east and west) to sold‑out crowds, Bob Dylan and Pete Seeger, Joan Baez participated in freedom marches and protestations. I, for one, fervently believed that love, peace, justice and above all, equality was due all, not just to the privileged few, and if remember correctly so did my peers at the time. Besides, did not our constitution state these inalienable rights were guaranteed by birth and by birth alone? Not race, class, skin color, no, we are all born with these inalienable rights.
But I failed to realize something, and I speak for myself here, I failed to realize that one does not just hold a beloved opinion, chant at or argue with those that hold different ones and head home, smoke a joint and have a beer and expect the universe to modify itself correctly because I have what I consider high ideals.
Now let’s fast forward a bit, 30 years or so and see how this sits with me today.
I still hold these lofty ideals about peace and equality for all, which is good a thing to have, what I no longer believe is that my job has been complete having made it to and holding these lofty positions all these years. I should now be content awaiting a younger generation to shape up and get this show on road.
I suppose that my ego would have loved some sort of grand gesture in the spotlight of the multitudes awaiting me to lead them into some brave new world. Well, that’s never happened, and does not appear to on the imminent horizon. I’m going to have try and practice these lofty principles in a daily, silent way.
What the cancer has brought to the forefront for me is that these lofty principles can only be imparted by me in my personal life. With those I love, don’t love; wish would go away and never come back, people of differing colors, beliefs and opinions. In other words, I must do this in my daily life, quietly and consistently, and to do so without any fanfare whatsoever, solely out of service and love and not out of some higher calling sense of duty.
I can assure you my friends that really don’t know how one does that; I can only say that I am willing to do my best.
Once, 25 years ago I once heard Joseph Campbell say “Follow your bliss.” I took this to mean that one finds an object of some type, lover, career, a higher calling of some sort and pursues it with passion and fury. Well, here today, with a cancer diagnosis looming largely on my horizon, I can honestly say that I finally know what he meant. You follow your bliss by embracing the life that you have been given, not the one you want or think you should be allowed to pursue. No, my bliss is already present and all I have to do is embrace it and live one day or one moment at a time, striving to make my contributions to this blissful life constructive and beneficial to all I come in contact with.
I am walking towards the unknown future knowing that all is well and that the creative spark of life surrounds me as long as I’m will to look for it. It is present in my beloved family and friends, I’ve experienced with the excellent medical staff I get to engage with daily and from total strangers who know nothing of my but a diagnosis and cared to give a hug.
Later, into the future…
Friday, June 12, 2009
Like wow, I'm tired
Sitting here drinking apple juice, listening to Ray Davies and the Kinks “20th Century Man” and I’m finally feeling some energy flow through my veins. What a whirlwind of activity it has been for a full fifteen days, to say nothing of the information overload, radiation therapy, a partial work week done at the office and one dose of chemo under the belt. My body quietly mentioned to me after radiation this afternoon that “Hey, you can do whatever you want but you’re doing it without any of our assistance.”
So, I came home and was lying about like some lazy slob by 3:00 pm. Zoning actually, like it was 1967, random thoughts, logic gone to the wayside thoughts flat lining by the minute. It was like gently approaching a meditative state, effortless and calming.
My week at work was a wonder, as short as it was, and I’m not the “dead man walking” figure I was afraid I was to be. Although today, Friday, was somewhat different in that I slept about 10 or 11 hours, woke up feeling awake, but with the energy of an under agitated slime mold. I woke up at 7:00 am and was unable to get out the door until 9:30 am, which was not from lack of trying. I would just sit on the edge of the bed enumerating daily routines that I’ve done for decades, get up eventually and do one, return to bed and rerun the daily routine list lest I missed something like shaving or showering or something.
The immediate goal for me at the moment, since all therapies are performing there designated duties is to pay more attention to what my body is saying to me. When it says “Hey, I’m outta’ steam here buddy,” well it’s not just kidding.
I’ve now moved off of the Kinks and I am blessing my soul with some Handel, to be followed by dinner with beloved family members.
Later, but for now let’s move on towards the future.
So, I came home and was lying about like some lazy slob by 3:00 pm. Zoning actually, like it was 1967, random thoughts, logic gone to the wayside thoughts flat lining by the minute. It was like gently approaching a meditative state, effortless and calming.
My week at work was a wonder, as short as it was, and I’m not the “dead man walking” figure I was afraid I was to be. Although today, Friday, was somewhat different in that I slept about 10 or 11 hours, woke up feeling awake, but with the energy of an under agitated slime mold. I woke up at 7:00 am and was unable to get out the door until 9:30 am, which was not from lack of trying. I would just sit on the edge of the bed enumerating daily routines that I’ve done for decades, get up eventually and do one, return to bed and rerun the daily routine list lest I missed something like shaving or showering or something.
The immediate goal for me at the moment, since all therapies are performing there designated duties is to pay more attention to what my body is saying to me. When it says “Hey, I’m outta’ steam here buddy,” well it’s not just kidding.
I’ve now moved off of the Kinks and I am blessing my soul with some Handel, to be followed by dinner with beloved family members.
Later, but for now let’s move on towards the future.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Back to the Real World, Already in Progress
You know, being pleasant isn’t really all that difficult at all, it’s really easy. Although being from New York City and being a former fleet cab driver from the 70’s I find myself with what might be a year’s worth of acerbic verbosity, and might I add funny verbosity, but the usual venue is rapidly disappearing. That venue being wherever I happen to have my mouth parked and in gear at the moment.
Now don’t get me wrong here, I’m not bouncing about with a beatific smile on my face at all times, a veritable sunbeam for Zoroaster blessing the multitudes and wishing them peace, prosperity and all the joy they can handle. Nope, not quite.
I’ve been to work for three days this week; I garnered a decent annual review, despite all the hoopla of cancer, bone cysts and full hip replacements. My managers, team leads, and peers treated me like returning employee recovering from an illness not like some Gollum who slid under the door bound and determined to die at his cubicle and today I wrote them a thank you note for note only their compassion, which is evident, but for the professional comportment. Later, throughout the day we worked and talked and on occasion I was asked about how I was feeling and what my treatment was like. In other words, I was a member of an IT support team again and we we’re looking forward on assorted projects designed to hopefully make our clients work day easier.
To end the day I had to return to what had been our parent company to address a Microsoft Access issue for a client. Well, the old site is now in lock down and one must be escorted to from point A to point B, employee badges be damned. After briefly talking with the security guard and in failing to contact the party I was to meet we had fun filling out forms and she escorted me herself to my designated appointment. Talk about nice. It was just a genuine effort on her part to be of service. And to think, all I did was not scowl or mutter some comment about these goddam anal retentive rule freaks.
This might not be the easiest event of my life, but it’s been a real eye-opener and myth killer so far.
Later, into the future.
Now don’t get me wrong here, I’m not bouncing about with a beatific smile on my face at all times, a veritable sunbeam for Zoroaster blessing the multitudes and wishing them peace, prosperity and all the joy they can handle. Nope, not quite.
I’ve been to work for three days this week; I garnered a decent annual review, despite all the hoopla of cancer, bone cysts and full hip replacements. My managers, team leads, and peers treated me like returning employee recovering from an illness not like some Gollum who slid under the door bound and determined to die at his cubicle and today I wrote them a thank you note for note only their compassion, which is evident, but for the professional comportment. Later, throughout the day we worked and talked and on occasion I was asked about how I was feeling and what my treatment was like. In other words, I was a member of an IT support team again and we we’re looking forward on assorted projects designed to hopefully make our clients work day easier.
To end the day I had to return to what had been our parent company to address a Microsoft Access issue for a client. Well, the old site is now in lock down and one must be escorted to from point A to point B, employee badges be damned. After briefly talking with the security guard and in failing to contact the party I was to meet we had fun filling out forms and she escorted me herself to my designated appointment. Talk about nice. It was just a genuine effort on her part to be of service. And to think, all I did was not scowl or mutter some comment about these goddam anal retentive rule freaks.
This might not be the easiest event of my life, but it’s been a real eye-opener and myth killer so far.
Later, into the future.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Here it is, over 40 years later, and I’m finally living better through chemistry, and in an entirely legal manner I might add. How strange. The radiation therapy zaps what living brain cells might be harboring some swiftly mutating cells (in the dead of night you can almost hear the cytoplasm cells tear as the cell divides) while lethal chemicals are administered intravenously by lovely little nurses in hazmat suits, as their aides post hazardous waste material signs on the door of both room and bathroom in great haste. The seventh dose of radiation was given today, with a second dose of my lethal cocktail chemo scheduled for Monday, June 15th.
This has been mind altering I’ll have you know, and not in a Timothy Leary “oh wow man” sort of way. I am now forthcoming with a thank you and a smile; I talk to pleasantly nursing staff, toll booth attendants, clerks at the grocery store. I thank the man or woman who comes by your table to wipe off it off before, during or after meal. Missed phone calls are now being returned with heretofore regularity. In other words I am being enveloped in a miasma of kindness and courtesy.
I am calling it short night tonight as today has been busy from beginning to end and I actually put out eight hours of effort that reaped the rewards I was not looking for. But in closing let me say that your love and support has been behind this unasked from transformation, but now that the doors are wide open I know that there can never be any going back.
This has been mind altering I’ll have you know, and not in a Timothy Leary “oh wow man” sort of way. I am now forthcoming with a thank you and a smile; I talk to pleasantly nursing staff, toll booth attendants, clerks at the grocery store. I thank the man or woman who comes by your table to wipe off it off before, during or after meal. Missed phone calls are now being returned with heretofore regularity. In other words I am being enveloped in a miasma of kindness and courtesy.
I am calling it short night tonight as today has been busy from beginning to end and I actually put out eight hours of effort that reaped the rewards I was not looking for. But in closing let me say that your love and support has been behind this unasked from transformation, but now that the doors are wide open I know that there can never be any going back.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Late Saturday, May 30th I was lying in a rather large hospital room between the hours of 2:00 am and 3:30 am, contemplating my recent diagnosis of lung cancer. I did not go through the Elizabeth Kubler Ross five step grief dance and it did not even seem relevant actually. I had a diagnosis, its name was lung cancer, and it was mine. Not yours, not something I could shovel under the rug so I could deal with at leisure or not at all, not something I could dole out and have someone experience it for me in a proxy like manner. No, this nasty diagnosis was all mine.
But how the hell is one to deal with something this big. I don’t feel persecuted, nor do I feel that the divine retribution committee deemed fit to finally get my attention after all these years. Nope. This showed up with all the hoopla of an ordinary weather report.
In the semi‑darkness of the room my minds eye formulates a large white vinyl steamer trunk. It’s not reflecting light, it’s emanating it, the white surface concentrating the reflected white light and choking out any color that may temper its intensity. The steamer trunk, in all of its horrible brilliance, is trimmed in highly polished brass adding to the reflected light. There are no visible catches, latches, locks or lids to be seen.
My diagnosis had morphed from word to image and I continued to stare. It wasn’t a hallucination or a sudden burst of psychosis, I’ve had plenty of them, it was just a mental image that I could neither touch nor manipulate, I could only stare and ponder it.
In the silence thoughts of my father came to mind, which I do not have very often. He was a man of few words, a limited amount of gestures and smoldering anger that barely hid itself behind the surface, but in 1985 he was diagnosed with the same disease and after a seventeen year hiatus I was willing to see him and clear up some unfinished personal business that had been long over due on my part.
The first time we met was quite the shock. He was happier and more content that I had ever remembered him being. His conversation was animated as was his spirits and he talked about his impending death with a clear sense of what it was going to be and how it was truly supposed to be that way. We parted as friends for the first time in our lives.
Six months later he is in remission and I decide to visit once again, expecting more of less the same, or shall I say someone in an even lighter shade of mood than six months ago. Not to be. My dad is in a profound depression, like the ones he had when I was eight years old and you had to remove the lit cigarettes from between his fingers at 3:00 am because he would fail to notice and then go back to the next room in the railroad flat I grew up in and hope he didn’t light another. Tenements built in 1900 of timber and tar burn much faster and brighter than the Xmas trees I would find in June and torch with my friends and I had no desire to burn along with the building. Inevitably he would either get another beer and light a cigarette or he would slump along the kitchen wall and fall into a dreamless, REM free sleep. A few months later he was out of remission, happily residing in a hospice and was pronounced dead in fall of 1987 much to his liking I’m sure.
By now my steamer trunk is fading from my mind’s eye and my thoughts are gathering once again. I tacitly acknowledge the debt I owe my father in instructing me on how one can die with some sense of satisfaction and composure, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stare life in the face with a profound depression, something I’ve implicitly known how to do since I was extraordinarily young. No, this diagnosis required that not only I react differently, but that I take different action to address it.
The trunk is gone and I’m pondering how does one truly deal with this differently and slowly my mind informs me that I now get to do things differently. I cease to criticize, I allow people to love me in way I never had before. The arms length approach is no longer going to work, the fear that I am in so indebted to the universe and I don’t need another upside down loan from someone merely offering me love and support will have be given up in its entirety.
“Well Backmann,” I say to myself, “nice sentiments and possibly good copy but it still doesn’t answer the question of how to do this.”
The next thing I know is that there is a gratitude list scrolling through my head. Not a list of what I own, or the great set of tunes I get to listen to on demand or the comfortable condo that is truly a home or any of the physical things I would normally associate with a list of items to grateful for. It is a seemingly never ending list of names of everyone that has ever contributed to my life in a meaningful way. Friends, lovers, enemies, some dead other alive, yet others state and whereabouts unknown, nor is this scrolling like some end credits at the end of my life. It is for all appearance sake a dynamic, vibrant and growing list of life itself.
Instead of the usual Hollywood “Finis” I get the message that I am to be of service.
The next morning I make a decision that this process of living with cancer will be blogged, my wife is informed that whomever she cares to tell of my cancer is her business and her business alone, and, and this is probably more important than I realized at the time, anyone who expresses a desire to visit is more than welcome to come.
My spiritual decisions have always been just that a decision. I certainly don’t know how to implement it; I just decide that I am willing to be different. The cancer calling card was my next spiritual instruction and my decision to do it differently was choice that has set in motion a full week of inspiration from family, friends and acquaintances I barely knew cared enough to notice.
This spiritual journey moves forward, merely by my deciding to move with it in whatever shape, form or direction in may go in.
But how the hell is one to deal with something this big. I don’t feel persecuted, nor do I feel that the divine retribution committee deemed fit to finally get my attention after all these years. Nope. This showed up with all the hoopla of an ordinary weather report.
In the semi‑darkness of the room my minds eye formulates a large white vinyl steamer trunk. It’s not reflecting light, it’s emanating it, the white surface concentrating the reflected white light and choking out any color that may temper its intensity. The steamer trunk, in all of its horrible brilliance, is trimmed in highly polished brass adding to the reflected light. There are no visible catches, latches, locks or lids to be seen.
My diagnosis had morphed from word to image and I continued to stare. It wasn’t a hallucination or a sudden burst of psychosis, I’ve had plenty of them, it was just a mental image that I could neither touch nor manipulate, I could only stare and ponder it.
In the silence thoughts of my father came to mind, which I do not have very often. He was a man of few words, a limited amount of gestures and smoldering anger that barely hid itself behind the surface, but in 1985 he was diagnosed with the same disease and after a seventeen year hiatus I was willing to see him and clear up some unfinished personal business that had been long over due on my part.
The first time we met was quite the shock. He was happier and more content that I had ever remembered him being. His conversation was animated as was his spirits and he talked about his impending death with a clear sense of what it was going to be and how it was truly supposed to be that way. We parted as friends for the first time in our lives.
Six months later he is in remission and I decide to visit once again, expecting more of less the same, or shall I say someone in an even lighter shade of mood than six months ago. Not to be. My dad is in a profound depression, like the ones he had when I was eight years old and you had to remove the lit cigarettes from between his fingers at 3:00 am because he would fail to notice and then go back to the next room in the railroad flat I grew up in and hope he didn’t light another. Tenements built in 1900 of timber and tar burn much faster and brighter than the Xmas trees I would find in June and torch with my friends and I had no desire to burn along with the building. Inevitably he would either get another beer and light a cigarette or he would slump along the kitchen wall and fall into a dreamless, REM free sleep. A few months later he was out of remission, happily residing in a hospice and was pronounced dead in fall of 1987 much to his liking I’m sure.
By now my steamer trunk is fading from my mind’s eye and my thoughts are gathering once again. I tacitly acknowledge the debt I owe my father in instructing me on how one can die with some sense of satisfaction and composure, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stare life in the face with a profound depression, something I’ve implicitly known how to do since I was extraordinarily young. No, this diagnosis required that not only I react differently, but that I take different action to address it.
The trunk is gone and I’m pondering how does one truly deal with this differently and slowly my mind informs me that I now get to do things differently. I cease to criticize, I allow people to love me in way I never had before. The arms length approach is no longer going to work, the fear that I am in so indebted to the universe and I don’t need another upside down loan from someone merely offering me love and support will have be given up in its entirety.
“Well Backmann,” I say to myself, “nice sentiments and possibly good copy but it still doesn’t answer the question of how to do this.”
The next thing I know is that there is a gratitude list scrolling through my head. Not a list of what I own, or the great set of tunes I get to listen to on demand or the comfortable condo that is truly a home or any of the physical things I would normally associate with a list of items to grateful for. It is a seemingly never ending list of names of everyone that has ever contributed to my life in a meaningful way. Friends, lovers, enemies, some dead other alive, yet others state and whereabouts unknown, nor is this scrolling like some end credits at the end of my life. It is for all appearance sake a dynamic, vibrant and growing list of life itself.
Instead of the usual Hollywood “Finis” I get the message that I am to be of service.
The next morning I make a decision that this process of living with cancer will be blogged, my wife is informed that whomever she cares to tell of my cancer is her business and her business alone, and, and this is probably more important than I realized at the time, anyone who expresses a desire to visit is more than welcome to come.
My spiritual decisions have always been just that a decision. I certainly don’t know how to implement it; I just decide that I am willing to be different. The cancer calling card was my next spiritual instruction and my decision to do it differently was choice that has set in motion a full week of inspiration from family, friends and acquaintances I barely knew cared enough to notice.
This spiritual journey moves forward, merely by my deciding to move with it in whatever shape, form or direction in may go in.
Monday, June 8, 2009
From Ground Zero to Here
Sometime in May a friend in Frisco, TX requested that I speak at a Saturday evening event, to which I gladly said yes. Meanwhile, in the back of my mind my entire head is being dominated by what I think is a wicked bad thermo-nuclear attack by airborne allergens. After all, it had been snowing cottonwood allergens here in Dallas for what seemed like a month and I’m hoping that this evil miasma of fluffy white will have dissipated by then.
Well, the sinuses go from evil to malevolent, with spontaneous nosebleeds to spice up the usual inability to breathe normally, so it’s off to the doctor for a check up. Several months earlier I had some blood work done, which came back normal and in November I had a complete hip replacement and a cyst on my femur removed where I was scanned with everything but a live cat and rayed by every letter designated particle in the atomic spectrum. All negative.
Upon further consultation I am off to an eye, ear, nose and throat doctor, who is in total agreement regarding evil allergens, cauterizes some veins in the proboscis and sends me on my merry way.
Well, two days later, not only am I not any better but my face has taken on the color of purple sage. I look like John Cougar Freakin’ Melonhead, with a face color that harks back to Jimi Hendrix and 1966 for cryin’ out loud.
Ear, nose and throat doctor number two pokes about a bit, comments on my unusual flesh tone and suggest that I get a CAT scan of head, sinuses and throat. Tubular devices here I come.
This time the CAT scan catches not only a tumor atop my right lung, but a metastasized spot on the medulla. That was May 29th, 2009, just two weeks and four centuries ago.
The same day I am in the office of my trusted and loved internist of seventeen years willing to let go of whatever it is I think should happen next. She notes that “this is not good” but places a call to an oncology team that she said she would call if in the same situation. It is now sometime near 3:00 pm in the afternoon and I am shunted off to Medical City Hospital here in Dallas. By 4:30 pm I am in the largest single bed hospital room I could have ever imagined and being introduced to my first sure fire cancer doctor named Dr. Wait. Who, well, doesn’t want to wait? “We have to find out what kind of beast this is don’t we?” An apparently rhetorical question if I’ve every heard one. “When was the last time you ate” she asked, and when I said the day before she whipped up a team of five, equipment, some kick-ass drugs and did a bronchostomy right in my very room so she could typecast the tumor.
By Saturday the tumor is typecast, by Sunday I’ve been dosed with my first round of chemo, followed by additional MRI’s and full-body bone scans that do not find cancer anywhere else. By Monday I am released, fully mapped for the radiation therapy that will follow for the next 7 weeks, 5 days a week for the coming month plus and regrouping at home.
In any event, I met my speaking engagement, although it was not the canned, “ha-ha I can’t believe that you really did that” kind of talk, but it was the most cathartic event I’ve had in some time, and I have not even touched upon the love and support I have been the recipient of for the last week, not only from family and friends but from total strangers. My fervent hope is to give some back.
I resolve to allow my tongue to savor the roughness of a strawberry before its sweetness on a hot summer’s day, I promise to run through the meadow in my mind’s eye to feel the rain pummel my face during the 3rd movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral, I am desparate to feel the love in your hug and taste it in your kiss.
Onward to the future…
Sometime in May a friend in Frisco, TX requested that I speak at a Saturday evening event, to which I gladly said yes. Meanwhile, in the back of my mind my entire head is being dominated by what I think is a wicked bad thermo-nuclear attack by airborne allergens. After all, it had been snowing cottonwood allergens here in Dallas for what seemed like a month and I’m hoping that this evil miasma of fluffy white will have dissipated by then.
Well, the sinuses go from evil to malevolent, with spontaneous nosebleeds to spice up the usual inability to breathe normally, so it’s off to the doctor for a check up. Several months earlier I had some blood work done, which came back normal and in November I had a complete hip replacement and a cyst on my femur removed where I was scanned with everything but a live cat and rayed by every letter designated particle in the atomic spectrum. All negative.
Upon further consultation I am off to an eye, ear, nose and throat doctor, who is in total agreement regarding evil allergens, cauterizes some veins in the proboscis and sends me on my merry way.
Well, two days later, not only am I not any better but my face has taken on the color of purple sage. I look like John Cougar Freakin’ Melonhead, with a face color that harks back to Jimi Hendrix and 1966 for cryin’ out loud.
Ear, nose and throat doctor number two pokes about a bit, comments on my unusual flesh tone and suggest that I get a CAT scan of head, sinuses and throat. Tubular devices here I come.
This time the CAT scan catches not only a tumor atop my right lung, but a metastasized spot on the medulla. That was May 29th, 2009, just two weeks and four centuries ago.
The same day I am in the office of my trusted and loved internist of seventeen years willing to let go of whatever it is I think should happen next. She notes that “this is not good” but places a call to an oncology team that she said she would call if in the same situation. It is now sometime near 3:00 pm in the afternoon and I am shunted off to Medical City Hospital here in Dallas. By 4:30 pm I am in the largest single bed hospital room I could have ever imagined and being introduced to my first sure fire cancer doctor named Dr. Wait. Who, well, doesn’t want to wait? “We have to find out what kind of beast this is don’t we?” An apparently rhetorical question if I’ve every heard one. “When was the last time you ate” she asked, and when I said the day before she whipped up a team of five, equipment, some kick-ass drugs and did a bronchostomy right in my very room so she could typecast the tumor.
By Saturday the tumor is typecast, by Sunday I’ve been dosed with my first round of chemo, followed by additional MRI’s and full-body bone scans that do not find cancer anywhere else. By Monday I am released, fully mapped for the radiation therapy that will follow for the next 7 weeks, 5 days a week for the coming month plus and regrouping at home.
In any event, I met my speaking engagement, although it was not the canned, “ha-ha I can’t believe that you really did that” kind of talk, but it was the most cathartic event I’ve had in some time, and I have not even touched upon the love and support I have been the recipient of for the last week, not only from family and friends but from total strangers. My fervent hope is to give some back.
I resolve to allow my tongue to savor the roughness of a strawberry before its sweetness on a hot summer’s day, I promise to run through the meadow in my mind’s eye to feel the rain pummel my face during the 3rd movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral, I am desparate to feel the love in your hug and taste it in your kiss.
Onward to the future…
Kev's Chem Lab is finally underway
Although this is not the creative route I would have chosen it is the route the have been dealt. This is my very first blog post and I assure you that there is more to follow, should one be so inclined actually comeback and read it.
Suffice to say that this is post number one, written in haste and as the day’s progress I will be adding the content necessary to make this readable. Do note that I said readable, not necessarily interesting or rewarding.
To those of you who already know and have professed the love and support I cannot thank you enough. As for family, I couldn't have a better, more loving (exceptionally beautiful one too) than I have at this very moment
As for now, my beautiful wife and I are off to glean the benefits of Hiroshima and cop some radiation therapy.
Love & stuff,
Kevin Backmann
Suffice to say that this is post number one, written in haste and as the day’s progress I will be adding the content necessary to make this readable. Do note that I said readable, not necessarily interesting or rewarding.
To those of you who already know and have professed the love and support I cannot thank you enough. As for family, I couldn't have a better, more loving (exceptionally beautiful one too) than I have at this very moment
As for now, my beautiful wife and I are off to glean the benefits of Hiroshima and cop some radiation therapy.
Love & stuff,
Kevin Backmann
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