When Hope Breaks Through

I’ve been back on my own for almost three weeks.  My strength is gradually returning, but it still has a long way to go.  It’s good to be in my own home, around my own things again.  I’ve found it hard to get started writing again.  It’s been hard to focus.  My brain feels as heavy and lethargic as my arms and legs do.

Maybe it’s a post-cancer depression.  I’ve found it hard to take pleasure in things I like to do.  After several days of cold (what happened to spring?), cloudy days, my mood has come to match the weather.  It doesn’t quite feel like I’ve beat the cancer yet.  The past few days have been especially low and I’ve slept more than I needed to.  I went to bed last night resigned to the possibility that this dissatisfaction with life might last quite a while.

But, when I woke up this morning, a positive attitude and dare I say it—happiness—was trying to sprout through the cracks in the depression, just like weeds in a sidewalk.  There it was, just under the surface.  I almost didn’t recognize it.  The dark mood that has dominated my thoughts for so long wanted to stomp on it, but I didn’t let that happen.  This, I knew, could be the cure I needed.  It could stop me from thinking I can’t do anything anymore.  And here I am, writing again, and feeling like I can do more than just sit and stare at the TV.  This is the first glimmer of hope that I am returning to my former self, or at least to a life I recognize.

What a gift this morning was.  I’ll make sure to remember how it felt to wake up in a much better mood than when I went to sleep.  I want to wake up every day feeling like that.  One way to help make sure of that is to shelter and nurture this sprout of newfound happiness and protect it from a late spring frost.

A Legally Blind Guy Drew THAT

From the time I could hold a crayon, it was obvious I was a gifted artist.  I could spend hours drawing my favorite cartoon characters and scenes from my imagination.  In grade school, I was the class artist and took private lessons in junior high.  By high school, my interests had become more social as well as earning money.  Art was placed on a back burner.

I majored in advertising in college so my creativity was exercised from time to time.  There were art class electives for me to choose from and graphics classes to fulfill my degree requirement.  After graduation, art took a long hiatus.

Fast forward several years to 2001 when I was living in a funky loft apartment in downtown Little Rock.  The Arkansas Arts Center was within walking distance and I decided to see what I could do—in spite of vision loss which had left my acuity at 20/200.  I could see most things just fine, just without a crisp edge.  I decided a pastels class might be best for me.  It’s a “forgiving” medium, meaning it’s easy to fix mistakes.

This would be a good time to mention my color blindness.  I’d always had a touch of it, but it grew worse in the early 1990s when my vision started its downhill slide.  Now it’s very hard for me to tall apart dark shades.  This class was going to be interesting for me, entertaining for my classmates.

The teacher, Dominique, was very patient with me.  In spite of my vision, my skill was right where it had been when I was a kid.  With guidance and practice, it improved to a higher level than it had ever been.  Nine years earlier, with my eyes covered in bandages after surgeries to remove hemorrhages, I never would have imagined I’d be doing this.

Dominique taught a figure drawing class the next session.  I had taken a class previously in college, but that was before 500 hours of anatomy and physiology class in massage therapy school.  I wondered what it would be like to draw people after knowing what muscles look like under the skin.  And because I had worked on so many different body types, I knew what they felt like, which would make it easier get the texture right.  One of the things I love about working in charcoal and pastel is using my fingertips to soften and blend the edges of an image.

My hunch was correct.  This came easy for me.  My limited vision didn’t slow me down at all.  As you may have guessed, the models were young, attractive, and nude.  No, I wasn’t there for a cheap thrill.  Art lessons aren’t the cheapest way to get a thrill in the age of the internet.  Needless to say, I did endure some teasing from my friends, though they were impressed when I showed them my work.

Fast forward again to September, 2010.  Since 2003, my vision has hovered around 20/400, so I haven’t been doing much art.  That doesn’t mean I wasn’t interested.  I had a feeling that in spite of, or maybe even because of, my current vision I could create some interesting works contrasting light and dark.  I heard about an open figure drawing session at The Fayetteville Underground, an artists workspace in an old bank building downtown.

With old art supplies in hand and almost no self-confidence, I went to check it out.  I had called the number provided in the NPR announcement and had spoken to a nice gentleman about model fees, times, stuff like that.  I mentioned I’m visually impaired.  It’s always a good idea to let someone know ahead of time in any new situation—especially if a nude model is involved.

The room had glass walls and door, so draperies hung just inside to make it private.  I went in, pushed through the curtains and saw about ten or twelve artists at work.  When I tried to follow their gaze to get some idea how close to the model I might set up, I saw . . . no model.  At the Arkansas Arts Center the model was usually in the center of the room, so that’s where I looked.  Tentatively, I walked between the easels, trying not to get in anyone’s way or clumsily knock something over.  I suddenly felt very self-conscious, probably even more so than the unclothed model—wherever he or she might be.

This was a bad idea.  You can’t do this.  What made you think you could do this?  Face it, you don’t see well enough anymore.  Get out of here.  This isn’t for you.

I started groping for the break in the curtains so I could get out of there.  It was obvious I needed help, which someone offered to do.

“I can’t see well,” I muttered in a tiny voice, keeping my head down.  I felt like a fly working its way to the slightly opened car window.  Once I escaped, the others would remember me as the blind guy who wandered in that time, if they thought of me at all.

“Yes, I spoke to you on the phone,” he said.  Then he helped me find a place.  There was a man seated lower than everyone else.  He was clothed but I thought he must be the model, but he didn’t have light shining on him.  He was in the dark.

“I don’t know if there’s enough light,” I said, pointing at the ceiling above.

“Maybe you should look over here,” he said, indicating someone behind me who stood on a platform about two feet from me.  The model’s back was facing me.  All I saw was lean, pink flesh and I felt very embarrassed.

OK.  I’m here.  I’ve located the model.  I’ve found a place to set up.  Breathe.  Relax.  Draw.

Because I needed to be rather close, I was near the stage, at one end of the horseshoe-shaped array of artists setup around the room.  The model’s arms were raised and I couldn’t see a face or other features determining the gender.  Something about the raised arms suggested femininity and I started to draw.  It was rough at first, but it was coming back to me.  Maybe I would get through the evening without feeling stupid.

The model changed to a different pose.  And HE turned out not to be feminine at all, but an athletic young man who could come up with artistically interesting poses, most of which were lost on me due to my vantage point off to the side.  If it was a pose I just couldn’t draw, I took the opportunity to walk around the room and look at everyone else’s work.  It encouraged me to find that my drawing didn’t compare unfavorably to theirs.  Maybe I could still do this after all.

So I went back in October.  This time there were two models—one male and one female.  It was hard for me to draw both in a single pose.  It was, after all, only my second time back after several years.  So I usually drew one or the other.  This time, I used white pastel on black paper.  It’s easier for me to draw light onto dark, probably because my vision is slow to adjust to abrupt changes in light.  Whenever I enter a dark room, the lightest or shiniest objects take shape first, followed by the next brightest.  My world literally comes out of the dark.

Here’s a photo of the piece I’m proudest of from that night.  She only held the pose for 20 minutes.  At the end of the session, other artists were surprised to find out I’m legally blind.  I LOVE that feeling!  It’s one thing for people to be impressed by my accomplishments when they think I can see as well as they do.  When they find out that I can’t, they look at me in a while new way. 

What WAS That?

Now that a recent health crisis has brlown through my life like a storm I'm left to analyze it.  I'm still a long way from full recovery.  In fact, my strength has been very slow to return.  The side effects of the chemo are gone, but I'm left with the worst cold I've ever dealt with.  It's certainly slowed my progress getting over the chemo.

Comparing my bout with cancer to the kidney failure, it ends up looking like a tornado, while both my experiences with kidney failurer were like hurricanes--slow moving with lots of advance warning.

No so with the cancer.  It was here with no warning and little time to prepare and look for shelter.  It was also more intense, with more damage and destruction crammed into a shorter duration.

My first experience with kidney failure and dialysis lasted exactly one year.  There was the same amount of misery, but spread out over a much longer period of time,  just like a slow, plodding hurricane.  The recovery period afterward was slow, just as this recovery appears to be turning out.

The second kidney failure required me to do hemodialysis, which is more miserable than the peritoneal, the the kind I did the first time.  It lasted six months and was the same level of discomfort squeezed into half the amount of time.

The chemotherapy lasted nine weeks.  That's quite a bit of unhappy discomfort squeezed into a fairly short, intense experience.

It's been over for three weeks and I'm still looking around at the mess, trying to figure out where ot start.  I guess I still have that "thousand yerd stare" people get just after a disaster.  This thing has swept in from nowhere, done more damage than I can calculate, and here I am, waiting for The Salvation Army.

Looking Back to Feel Better Now

Recently, my friend Micheal made a suggestion on my Facebook page.  "Hold on to the memory of a time that you felt really good and project that onto tomorrow and the next day."  Good advice and something I try to do, but chemotherapy-induced fog and the passage of time didn't make that any easier.  But, last night I got on YouTube and listened to a bunch of songs from my youth.  I found myself smiling more than I have in weeks, thinking back on better times.


There were too many for me to list here (or even remember now) but there were a few standouts I searched for or stumbled across. 


One thing I re-discovered was how great the soundtrack to Beverly Hills Cop is.  In 1985, I bought it on cassette and kept it in my car to listen to while driving--meaning it was one of my favorites.  I wore that cassette out from playing it so much.  There were plenty of hits from that soundtrack that year and plenty of other songs on there which had potential.  My favorite was "Rock and Roll Me Again" by The System http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwJVAjftml0.  It's a good example of what rock sounded like in the 80s.  To me, it just sounded like summer.  I liked listening to it while driving around at night with the windows down, feeling the warm moist air moving through my car.


That was the summer I turned 21 and was about to begin my senior year in college.  So much of life was still ahead of me.  My future sparkled and shimmered, tempting me onward, propelled by youth, optimism, and self-confidence that grew stronger with each passing month.  My body (finally) started to "fill out" and put on weight in the form of lean muscle, after too many years of being skinny and underweight.  For the first time ever, I felt attractive from the neck down.


Speaking of optimism, another song from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack was "Stir It Up" by Patti LaBelle http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raxKQH7TQFQ&feature=related.  It did me a world of good to hear it again last night.  Pay attention to the lyrics.  She's singing about being down and out but knowing the future is going to be better.


I stumbled across "Sweet Freedom" by Micheal McDonald http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SykNSv-1Dks.  It was being played on the radio a lot right after I moved to Tampa right after graduating from college.  For the first time since I was five years old, I was out of school and I felt more freedom than I'd ever known.  Life in a large city near the beach only added to that feeling.


Around that same time, "Girl Can't Help It" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXcWloohyy4 my favorite song by Journey was popular.  This wasn't one of their biggest hits but I've always loved it.  The best part is the drumbeat, loud and strong like a heartbeat--a young, vital heartbeat, ready to take on the future.  I can never just listen to this one once.  It has to be at least twice, sometime half a dozen.  It reminds me of being young and confident and making new discoveries of what I was capable of.


But, my favorite song from the 80s is "Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone" by Glass Tiger  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxGVEMW1cNI , probably due to its ability to instantly transport me back in time.  Whenever I hear it, it's 1986 and I'm living in Florida, on my way to the beach with windows down and the music turned up high.  My only care at the moment: making sure I got enough (but not too much) sun, looking good, and finding a good parking place.  That summer, I started using a health club and lifting weights.  My body looked better than it ever had and for the first time in my life, I received compliments on it.  My confidence in my appearance was at an all-time high and it carried over into other areas of my life.


After a couple of hours of music-enhanced memories, I felt better, healther, than I've felt in several weeks.  No, I'll never be twentysomething again, but I WILL feel stronger again when the cancer is behind me.  There will be more good times in my life and more reasons to look forward to the future.

C

Cancer--probably the scariest word in the English language beginning with C.  Now that I'm living with it, I realize it brings a host of other words with it that start with C.  So, at the risk of sounding like a

Sesame Street

lesson that didn’t make it past Final Edit, I present my Comprehensive Compilation of Cancer-Centric C’s.  It's a mixture of things you'll need and things that just come with the territory. 

Chemotherapy.  Short for "chemical therapy," it's a planned attack on the tumor by using strong--and I mean serious ass-kicking powerful--chemicals.  They're toxic to even the strongest, otherwise healthy bodies and can cause nausea, diarrhea, constipation, mouth sores, anemia, fatigue, loss of appetite and hair, and a long list of other gruesome party favors.  One of the meds in my arsenal is Platinum.  While it may be a benchmark in CD sales, it's a heavy metal.  The week I have this drug, there is a nasty metallic taste in my mouth that won't go away.  Even my sweat and urine have the bitter aroma of it.

Some people with a severe case of cancer opt to quit doing "chemo" and choose death instead.  It can be that intense.  I have a highly treatable form of cancer, so this option isn't even on the table as far as I'm concerned.  But I can understand how anyone would make that choice.

Courage.  Courage isn't fearlessness.  It's feeling the fear and doing what needs to be done anyway.  I've often been told over the years I have courage.  I'm not so sure about that.  It's always been a matter of live or die.  You simply do what you have to do to keeping living.  For some of us, it's harder and more complicated than for others. 

And I've been lucky enough to experience fearlessness.  Right now, my energy is low and I wish I felt better.  But I'm not afraid.  I'll get through this and move on to what life has in store for me next.  But I'll take some courage in the meantime, anywhere I can find it.

Coping Method.  This is for real.  Maybe spirituality is already a part of your life.  If so, you know how it can help you cope with life's smaller setbacks.  Don't worry, I'm not going to shove God down your throat.  Just don't be too quick to count God out, either.  Meditate.  Pray.  Count your blessings.  Visualize.  And if none of that is your thing, lean on your friends like never before.  And if you're old enough to be reading this, you're old enough to know the difference between healthy and unhealthy coping methods, so I won't preach to you about that.

Compassion.  My definition of compassion is to have sympathy for those on a different road--even if it's a road you've never travelled or even wanted to.  Cancer is one of those diseases most people can feel a high level of compassion for its victims.  That's good.  Right now, I'm too tired to be my typical feisty self.  But, with any luck, it won't be long before I'm ornery, feisty, and--if not feeling well that day--a total bear.  Middle-aged men (make that mean of any age) can be short-tempered and downright hostile when we feel like crap.  Please remember to have compassion for me than.

Challenge.  This word has become so common in the past 20 years, I'll leave it alone here.  Everyone gets this one.  Yeah, it's a challenge to fight cancer.  I'm also "visually-challenged" and once in 1983 I took The Pepsi Challenge.

Vitamin C.  The chemo reduces your ability to fight colds, viruses, and anything else.  Last week, my white blood cell count dropped to zero.  That means no immunity at all.  The numbers have improved, but I'm making sure I get my Vitamin C so I can hedge my odds.  This winter, I hope I have enough white blood cells to rub together with Vitamin C to ward off those nasty bugs waiting to ambush me.

Check-In.  Just having someone call and ask if there is anything they can do is a source of comfort.  This is especially true in the case of someone who can't get out and drive to the store even when they're feeling fine.  It's easy to feel forgotten by the outside world--the healthy world--passing them by.  Sure, it can be uncomfortable talking to sick people.  They can sound so frail over the phone.  You tell them what's going on in your life and suddenly feel as if you're flaunting your health in their face.  I've been on both sides of this equation, so I know what I'm talking about.  Maybe the sick person has grown bitter and resentful.  If they weren't like that before the illness, you can bet that when it's all over, they won't be then, either.  My friends have called to check on me.  I've told them, without going into unnecessary details, what's been happening with me.  Then I want to know what's happening with THEM.  I've already caught myself saying, "Tell me something good.  Tell me something interesting."

If you remember to check on people in my situation, I GAURANTEE you, if they're any kind of human being, they'll love and appreciate you the rest of your life.

Creativity.  Maybe you've never been a particularly creative person.  You might be someone who says, "I can't even draw a straight line."  Really?  Wnen was the last time you tried?  Maybe you have a lot to say, a lot to get out, and writing might be the best way to do that.  Whether visual, musical, or whatever, you could end up creating art which moves people.  If nothing else, creative pursuits can sure help take your mind off things.  When my kidneys failed in 1997, I took up art after a 15 year break from it.  To my astonishment, my skill level was right where it had been--even though I had lost some of my vision.  With practice, I actually improved.  This brought me greater peace than anything else I did, and it made me feel closer to God.

Communication.  This is another word that doesn't need much explanation.  We all have our own definition, but I feel it's worth mentioning here.  Communication is going to be even more important now.  For some of us, just asking for help when we need it is the first step.

Comedy.  Humor.  Laughter.  It really is the best medicine.  If you haven't experienced this first-hand, YOU NEED TO TAKE MY WORD FOR IT.  From my personal experience, laughter and fear cannot coexist.  OK, there's nervous laughter, but even that's a great pressure valve.  There's evidence of the positive effects of laughter.  It helps strengthen core muscles, breathing, and whole bunch of other physiological benefits.  There are now exercise classes devoted to laughter.   Through all the current and previous health issues, I've maintained my sense of humor, often to the surprise of others.  It's been one of my best survival tools and I simply cannot recommend it enough.  Laugh.  Giggle.  Chuckle.  Guffaw.  It's your God-given right and now that you're trying to stay well, it's more necessary than ever.  I know people are worried about me these days.  The only time to worry about me is when I stop laughing, or making other people do so.

Conquer.  I WILL conquer cancer.  In my case, I've been lucky enough (yes, lucky) to have already survived some serious, potentially fatal health issues.  I got through it and it has given me a type of self-confidence regarding this that I just wouldn't have had otherwise.  I hope you'll continue to follow my progress and share this adventure with me, because eventually, when this is over, we will . . .

Celebrate.  I'll celebrate the good news when I've conquered this.  And I'll celebrate the smaller victories along the way, even if it's something as minor as having more energy than the day before.  Celebrate every bit of good news.  Celebrate life. 

At War With the Grapefruit

I’ve never liked grapefruit.  First of all, it’s too bitter.  Or maybe it’s sour.  I’ve seen people sprinkle sugar on grapefruit halves and eat them that way.  I have to admit that looks good, but I would need a layer of cake icing to make it work.  And I admit there’s something appealing about how a small spoon fits those wedges, making perfect bite-size chunks.

But I’ll be content to watch other people enjoy them, thank you very much.

Then there’s the name—grapefruit.  Who looked at one of them and thought of grapes?  I happen to like grapes and don’t appreciate their good reputation being tarnished by grapefruit.  Yes, grapes are fruit.  It’s like saying, “beanvegetable” to describe a vegetable that looks more like cauliflower than a bean.

Grapefruit continued to stay on my bad side when I started ordering Screwdrivers in bars.  A Screwdriver is vodka and orange juice.  According to vodka folklore, the drink was first popular with construction workers who ordered it after work and stirred it with their screwdrivers.  The addition of orange juice to the vodka makes it seem so healthy, too.  Kind of like washing down a donut with Diet Coke.

The problem there is that at times I’ve been given a Greyhound—vodka and grapefruit juice—when the bartender was out of OJ, lazy, or distracted.  At the risk of receiving a second drink watered down with orange juice or spit, I called it to their attention and told them I wanted a real Screwdriver.  If they’re out of OJ they can give me a Cape Cod—vodka with cranberry juice.  Now there’s a drink name that makes sense.  Cranberries grow in New England, where Cape Cod is.  I have no idea how the Greyhound drink got its name.  Don’t care, either.  It’ll never be more than a Screwdriver Wannabe in my book.

In 1998, when I had the kidney/pancreas transplant, they told me there was one food item I must avoid because it could render the anti-rejection drugs useless.  Grapefruit.  This would be the easiest adjustment to make to my new lifestyle.

Since then, bartenders don’t give me any attitude when I make them do a Screwdriver do-over, telling them, “I can’t have grapefruit juice.  It’s for health reasons.”  If they act skeptical, I launch into graphic descriptions of kidney/pancreas transplants and their immediate aftermath.  They rarely have the time or the stomach for much of that.

It seemed that I had successfully kept the evil grapefruit at bay.  Well, except for occasionally buying one by mistake because the grocery stores keep them next to the oranges and it’s not always easy for me to tell them apart.  But, this has happened less often than you might think.

Now the grapefruit has found its way into my life.  Actually, it’s found its way into my abdomen—in the form of cancer.  Yesterday, I met with the oncologist for the first time.  I was diagnosed with cancer a few weeks ago.  I had done some reading online about cancer treatments and their side effects, so I was well-prepared for this appointment.  One thing he told me surprised me, though.

     “You have a mass in your abdomen the size of a grapefruit.”

     It explains why my back and belly have ached the last several days.  The pain should subside a few days after starting chemotherapy next week.  Now, I’m actually looking forward to chemo—one more ironic twist to my ever-changing situation.  So, look out, grapefruit.  I’ve got some serious backup.  And we’re going to shrink you down to the size of a real, authentic grape.  And then keep shrinking you until you’re all gone.  And when I get through this, I’m going to celebrate—with a tall, cool Screwdriver, of cours.

Introduction

Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Jim Fairbanks and to call me unique is a bit of an understatement.  Ditto terms like atypical, unusual, unordinary, or odd.  I guess One of a Kind best sums it up, though I’ve known several people who were also one of a kind, but for reasons very different from mine.

Where do I begin to explain?  If you read the subtitle of this blog, you have an idea of my situation.  There are a lot of adjectives there, so let’s start with the most obvious ones first.

I’m middle-aged.  Most people (especially those who haven’t reached middle age) guess my age at around five years younger than it is.  Part of this is no doubt due to my personality, which can best be described as “smartass.” 

I live in Fayetteville, Arkansas.  This funky, picturesque city in the Ozarks is home to the University of Arkansas, where I graduated in 1986 with a BA in advertising/public relations.  About half my childhood was spent here and I’ve left and returned a few times since college.  This place has a way of tempting U of A graduates (and other former residents) to return.  It has a way of drawing eclectic, artsy, college town Bohemian types from all over.  I fall into both categories.  A guy like me isn’t as out of the ordinary as I would be in most towns this size.

It should come as no surprise to you that I’m a writer.  I’ve been a writer my entire life.  But, I was in denial most of that time, refusing to believe anyone would be interested in what I had to say or that I had enough talent.  It wasn’t until 2006 that I finally got serious about it and started writing my memoir.  That’s when I accepted that I could do this and that maybe, just maybe, people would be interested in what I wrote.  I’ll share excerpts from the book now and then.  I’m looking for a publisher and this blog is a way of putting myself out there.  I also write humor set in the Ozarks and you’ll get a sampling of that, too.

Legally blind people with a certain amount of usable vision can often “pass” for sighted.  This has led to quite a few funny situations, which I will share with you here.  How well I can see depends on several variables—contrast, time of day, how tired my eyes are, and the quality of light.   Artificial and natural light are different.  The angle and direction of light makes a difference as well as if it’s at eye level, above, or below me.  Reflected light usually works best.

The transplanted pancreas, which I received in 1998 at the same time I got a new kidney, makes insulin.  For 21 years I had to inject myself with the stuff, now I eat whatever I want and don’t take any shots.  I don’t have to think about what my blood sugar is doing.  Life as an ex-diabetic is, at varying times, miraculous and surreal.  This really was an unexpected turn in a life brimming with surprises.  Five years later, the kidney failed and I got another surprise.  Someone not related to me gave me a kidney.  It’s lasted longer and works better than the other one ever did.  Taking care of two transplanted organs is a challenge, but well worth the effort.

As you can see, my situation is unique.  There are so many aspects of my life that most people just can’t imagine experiencing.  Not long ago, I was complaining to a friend about all these things which make me different.

     “People just don’t know what to make of me, so it makes them nervous.”

     A few days later, I realized it’s up to me to explain what life is like for me.  Because all of these things make me so different from most others, I have the responsibility—and the freedom—to define myself to a greater degree than the average “normal” person.  Limited vision means having to grope around to find or identify things.  In this case, I’m groping for focus, in more ways than one.  Magnifying devices—some fairly high tech—help me get some focus.  I’m also on the lookout for medical breakthroughs that could improve my vision.  Then there’s focus in the more esoteric sense of the word.  With so many surprises and unique situations in my life, I often have to step back and take a look at the bigger picture.  By taking you through that process with me, I hope to find a deeper level of understanding—your understanding of me, and my own understanding of the world around me.