The Gratitude Rollercoaster

The other day I had a great day trading stocks.  I flipped a stock that rose quickly.  It was the most profitable fifteen minutes of my life.  The euphoria had me pacing around the room, yelling, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and making whooping sounds.  What a great way to start a day.

The next day I noticed that same stock rocketing upward and bought it, only to see it collapse.  In a panic I dumped it.  Then it shot up higher than ever.  I ended up giving back about one-third of my profit from the day before.  And I felt really, really stupid.  

Sure, there was still a nice chunk of change left over.  But nobody likes feeling stupid, especially when it costs a few hundred dollars.  This and a few other minor irritants dampened my mood.  It wasn’t a terrible mood.  I’d give it a C- if moods had a report card.

A short time later I went to a checkup with my oncologist.  When I arrived I saw the waiting room was packed.

“Great.  I’m going to have to wait a long time,” I thought pessimistically.  But within three minutes I was called back for my blood draw.  Then I had an even shorter wait to see the doctor.

But, that brief time in the waiting room was enough to remind me of how bad I used to feel when I had cancer and waited to have lab work done and see the doctor.  Looking around, I saw some pretty sick people and their loved ones sitting there with them.  It was never hard for me to realize cancer patients felt awful whenever I saw them.  This time I knew how they felt.

Three years ago right now I was dreading chemotherapy, which began the Monday after Thanksgiving.  The cancer was diagnosed the first week of November, which meant the entire month was spent with a dark cloud over me.

Fasten your seatbelt.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Aside from losing weight, my hair, and my lunch, I knew little else about the side effects of chemo.  I tried to prepare myself physically, mentally, and emotionally as best I could.

Those few minutes waiting to see the oncologist upgraded my mood to an A.

I don’t have cancer!  There is nothing for me to dread.

Cancer Vaccine?

Perfect timing.  I’ve been feeling a sense of relief and accomplishment all day.  It was one year ago today that I had my last chemotherapy treatment.  At Highlands Oncology a patient gets to ring a train bell at the end of their final treatment.  I was so feeble I could barely raise up from the wheelchair enough to pull the cord, but I managed.

I had beat cancer.  But, the most harrowing part of the experience would be in the month to follow.  The nausea, mouth sores and fatigue were the worst then.  It was ironic, but it’s the cumulative nature of chemo.

Today I was watching the local news at noon and they reported a breakthrough on a cancer vaccine.  My day got even better.

They reported that the vaccine would use someone’s own immune system to kill cancer cells.  That part concerned me.  Would an organ transplant patient be able to have this vaccine if it did that?  Then the report went on to name an immunosuppressant (anti-rejection drug) that is actually part of the vaccine.  It’s one that I’ve taken in the past.  So, it sounds like this vaccine might even apply to me and others with a transplant.

Clinical trials are in the early stages, so it may be a few years before anyone knows how effective it might be.  But, it’s good news that gives me hope on the day of this personal milestone.

A Year Since I Met Cancer

Last night, a friend of mine said, “It’s almost winter again.  Seem like it was just last week.”

Most years I agree with that sentiment.  This one has been much different.  This time last year, I found out I had cancer.  At various times, time has slowed to a crawl and (most recently) sped to a dizzying pace.

It had stalked me for seven months.  But, like most stalkers, it wouldn’t be able to keep its identity a secret.  I never associated the on again off again pain in my back with the anything serious, let alone cancer

The chemotherapy loomed in front of me for nearly four weeks.  There were the combined emotions of dread and anxiety to get it over with.

Then I was in the thick of it, having to be hospitalized when my body had a worse than typical reaction to the toxic drugs that fought the grapefruit-sized tumor near my lower spine.  A few days later, my beard and most of the hair on my head fell out—just in time for one of the coldest winters on record.  The cancer provided the perfect excuse to stay inside.

The last chemo treatment was in late January.  February was a blur of mouth sores that kept me from eating or speaking and fatigue that kept me from walking more than a few feet.  I dropped 25 pounds and looked like a stick figure, but was reacquainted with my abs.

In March, I was able to be on my own again, after several weeks of being cared for by my parents at their home over an hour away.  After being frailer than at any other time in my life, being on my own again scared the hell out of me, but I knew it was the only way I would fully regain my strength.

Appetite, weight, strength—they all came back gradually, in lock step with each other.  This was unlike an organ transplant, when the medications caused my appetite and weight to increase faster than any other time in my life.  Maybe that’s why this time all the weight came back lean.  By mid-July, I had regained all that I lost, but my pants have been loose since then.

I don’t recommend the cancer diet plan, so don’t envy me.  But it’s ironic that I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in.  After a couple or organ transplants and cancer.  At 47.  I have to laugh every time I think about it.

This was more brief but more intense than anything else I’ve had to face.  All that other stuff helped prepare me for this.  Just before I got out on my own again, my dad told me, “As determined as you are, I know it won’t be long before you get your strength back.  You’ll do what you have to do to make sure of that.”

It meant going to the gym again, something I’ve liked to do for 25 years.  It meant not being self-conscious about how thin and weak I was when I first went back.  It meant getting to watch the man in the mirror become less pitiful and more familiar.

This summer, I got to meet the latest version of myself.  He’s much more confident than the previous one.  The chemo left the hair thinner over his ears (of all the weird places for that to happen) so he wears a slightly shorter haircut to keep it from standing out.  He has to wear a belt more often.  He has a more intense side that he allows to come out and play (and write) once in a while.  Most things just seem easier for him now.  He’s much more driven to succeed.  And he looks older, too.  But, he’s quite comfortable in his skin, even if it has a few more wrinkles. 

Most important, he has a better sense of what he’s capable of.

In many ways, the cancer was a gift.  Even though I lost valuable time moving the writing career ball down the field, I just wouldn’t be the same man today without the experience.

This is my latest dance with “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.”  I know it by heart, but I wish the band would learn a new song.

To celebrate this milestone, I’m flying to Philadelphia this weekend to visit my friend, Alan, a fellow cancer survivor.  It’s the first time I’ve flown alone in almost ten years—since before my vision worsened.  I remember an old Elton John song from the 70s, Philadelphia Freedom.  The lab numbers from a few weeks confirmed that I am free of cancer.  Flying doesn’t make me nervous.  Once I’m past airport security and high above the clouds, I might feel even freer than I do on the ground these days.

Hard to imagine, but possible.  After the past year, I don’t put limits on my imagination or the possibilities.

Eight Years With Her Kidney

This post is a couple of weeks late.  I was in a funk for a few weeks, feeling pretty overwhelmed by how fast the publishing industry is changing and all the stuff a writer has to do these days to self-promote.  You’d think someone with a degree in advertising wouldn’t be bothered by this, but it’s all online these days.  A visually-impaired, right-brained artistic type can be intimidated pretty quickly by it all.  Worst of all, it can make me feel pretty stupid and inadequate.

But, I’m coming to terms (again) with all that and moving forward (again) at the pace of a snail—one that can’t see where it’s going.

I was also overwhelmed by life in general.  Who?  Me?  If that surprises you, carefully read the subtitle of my blog again.  Just saying it is a mouthful.  Living it is a bit more challenging than that.  I try not to complain about it, but there are times when it’s every bit as hard to do as it sounds.  The problem was, I allowed myself to focus more on how hard it is for me and ended up throwing myself a big ol’ pity party--complete with balloons, a live band (playing only sad songs, of course), a sad clown, and games like Pin the Fail On the Writer.

The other day, I located the Live Strong bracelet my Aunt Judy got for me when I had cancer and have started wearing it again.  Not only does it remind me of how much of stronger I am after surviving that, but it serves as a rubber band I can use to snap my wrist when a negative thought overstays its welcome.  It’s working and I don’t have welts on my wrist, either.

Part of the blues was due to September being a minefield of unpleasant anniversaries.  I’ll spare you the list of disappointments and traumatic events.  Even as a kid, I used to get wistful in September, missing summer and already discontent with the still-new school year.

But, there is one very happy even that took place in this otherwise intense month.  On the 4^th I celebrated eight years with my kidney Connie gave me.  This was one of the rare years when I got to actually spend part of the day with her.  I took her and my parents to lunch at Red Lobster.  I had the coconut shrimp—two great tastes that go great together.  Whoever came up with coconut shrimp is a genius.

As you can imagine, having a live donor is a very different experience than a transplant from a deceased donor.  I know this because my pancreas and first kidney came from a young man who died in a car accident.  There are so many questions about him I wish I could have answered.  That isn’t the case with Connie, who had us laughing at stories about her granddaughter born last year, now at a very cute and sometimes challenging age.  I hope she’s proud of her grandma someday.  She has plenty of reason to be.

Most people who have known me for the past several years will tell you I’m a survivor.  That I’m at times feisty, stubborn, sassy, tenacious, optimistic, driven, ambitious, and creative.  It was that way before 2003.  I may have received a boost in those qualities when I got Connie’s kidney, because all those terms can be used to describe her as well.  Unlike with the pancreas and first kidney transplant, I never had to wonder if part of the donor’s personality was asserting itself in my behavior.

Thank you, Connie.  I’m doing all I can to make you proud of me.  (Not that it was ever a condition of the gift).  I need to remember God wanted you to give me this kidney.  If it’s God’s will, my memoir will be published.

Seeing Connie again has given me the nudge (shove, fire lit under my butt . . . ) to renew my efforts at getting my memoir published.  I have an unusual and inspiring story to tell.  I’ve lived with my odd situation for so long now that I sometimes forget that.  Sometimes I forget (and other times I’m only too aware) that not everyone is a legally blind former diabetic writer with a transplanted kidney and pancreas (from two different people) living in a quirky college town.  Oh yeah, and now I can say cancer survivor, too.  One or two people might be interested in hearing me speak about it.  With any luck, a few more will be interested in reading about it, too.

My YouTube Debut

Last year, I joined Toastmasters as suggested by a book on how to write a non-fiction book proposal.  The manuscript for my memoir has been complete for quite some time, but it takes an impressive proposal to impress agents and editors—especially the ones in New York.  Part of that means building a platform.  One way to do that is public speaking. 

Back in 1998, I discovered I no longer feared speaking in front of a live audience when people started doing fund-raising events to raise money for my kidney/pancreas transplant.  I found myself thanking those in attendance, or speaking to the congregation at the Methodist church my parents attend, and even doing a brief interview on Channel 5 News.  Like it or not, I was in the public eye and had to sound intelligent.  It turned out to be easier than I ever imagined it would be.

When the cancer let itself be known and I started chemo, I had to stop doing everything I once enjoyed, including Toastmasters.  Several weeks ago, I decided it was time to get back to it and wanted to start out with a speech explaining my long absence.  So, here it is: my YouTube debut.  In the speech I mention how the chemo changed my voice, but it doesn’t sound different in the video.  I’m not sure how that happened, because it is more raspy and hoarse-sounding.  I’ve grown accustomed to it and even like it now.

Remember, I’m still polishing my speaking skills.  Listening to myself, I hear a bit more of a Southern accent than I’d like to have.  Overall, it’s not bad for someone who had been away from speaking for several months.

JimFairbanks July 20, 2011 Toastmasters

For Dad

Sometimes I wonder if I would have become a writer without my father’s influence in my life.  I certainly wouldn’t have developed the skill and desire to read at the level or quantity that I do.  When I was seven, my dad read Tom Sawyer to me every night after supper.  Second-graders didn’t have much homework in those days.  It’s a nice early memory I have of him.

Now that he’s retired, he has time to read several books a month.  He also refinishes antiques, paints houses, and keeps an immaculately landscaped lawn.  Did his joy of working with his hands contribute to my artistic ability?  Hard to say for sure, but that craftsman’s eye influenced me for sure.

One reason why I write humor is because I inherited the smartass gene from him.  From what I’ve gathered, I come from a long line of them.  From Dad I get the ability to find the humor in almost any situation.  That’s a trait that has served me well in dealing with vision loss, failed kidneys, organ transplants, cancer, and hundreds of less serious situations I’ve faced in my life.

This past winter—one of the coldest on record—my dad had his hair cut to a very short buzz cut after chemotherapy caused most of my hair to fall out.  It showed me that I wasn’t going through it alone.  Not that I had any doubts of both my parents’ love and support through that crisis.  I ended up staying with them for several weeks because I was just too frail to be on my own.

I took over the recliner in the den—“his” chair—though he’s never been as territorial about it as Archie Bunker was.  It’s where he reads, watches TV, and naps (sometimes all at the same time).  But, it was the only piece of furniture in the den I was comfortable sitting in for any length of time, even sleeping there when congestion from a never-ending cold kept me from sleeping in bed.

He shared it willingly, never complaining, and kept the fireplace next to it roaring and stocked with extra wood on the coldest days. 

And when I’d gotten so weak I could barely walk, Dad literally caught me when I fell. 

The most impressive accomplishment of his took place over several decades.  He worked, supported his family, didn’t drink too much, and made sure my brother and I had a stable environment while growing up.  Those are all things he wasn’t fortunate enough to  have as a kid.  When it comes to fathers, mine did a much better job than the one he had. 

Somehow, he gave us so much more than he was ever given—but not too much.  He taught me that I couldn’t expect the world to just hand me everything I wanted, that I would have to work for what I wanted out of life.  So, when the health problems began, I’d already experienced enough hard to work to keep trying, no matter how much of a struggle it might be.

Thanks, Dad, for being part hardass and part smartass.

Happy Birthday to Me--And All the Other Survivors

I rarely call much attention to my own birthday, especially since I passed 40 so long ago it’s almost disappeared from my rearview mirror.  If you count the two transplant surgeries, I get to celebrate three birthdays a year.  Unlike the original one, I can remember those two. 

But, this year is different. 

Last year, my birthday landed on Memorial Day.  It’s something that happens every few years.  It’s a bit surreal having a birthday that occasionally lines up with a roaming holiday like Memorial Day, Labor Day, or Thanksgiving.  At the end of May, cold and flu season is long over.  You don’t have to worry about being sick on your special day.  But, last year, there was some kind of bug going around and I coughed and sneezed all weekend.  I wondered if it was some kind of omen about the year to come.

It turns out that it was.

In the late fall, I was diagnosed with cancer.  It was a highly curable form of it, but it was cancer just the same.  That meant chemotherapy and all the nasty side effects that go with it.  By the time I had been at it for nine weeks, I was cured.  The word that keeps coming to my mind is ‘intense.’  It was a relatively brief encounter with The Big C, but it left me reeling for a few months afterward.

Last winter, I spent a lot of time watching TV.  Beside sleeping and checking e-mail once in a while, it was the only thing I felt like doing.  I saw a commercial in which a woman sang “Happy Birthday” and said it was for everyone who had survived cancer to celebrate another birthday.  First of all, it was nice to see a commercial where no one was trying to sell me anything.  It was a relief to see one that wasn’t so weird and vague that I was left wondering just what the message was.  And it was really special to be honored in such a way.

That commercial was months early for me, but I had faith that I would live to mark another year.  I’ve always loved having a birthday this time of year.  It was always during those first, sweet days of summer vacation from school.  It put the period (sometimes the exclamation mark) at the end of the school year.  Move on to the next grade, then turn a year older.

I share a birthday (May 31^st) with celebrities Clint Eastwood, Joe Namath, Brooke Shields, and writer Walt Whitman.  Now, there’s a mixed bag!

This year, I share the celebration with everyone who has beat cancer and those living with it that made it through another year.  After cancer, life just doesn’t look the same.  We’re part of the same tribe now.  We have a bond.

You know what they say about getting older—it beats the alternative.

I belong to a few other tribes who know this fact better than most people do.  There are the others who had a kidney/pancreas transplant.  There are those who had another type of transplant.  There are the diabetics—that includes the current and former ones (like me).

This birthday will be especially sweet.  The cancer was timed well in my case.  I get to look and feel like myself again on that day.  I’m a year older, but thanks to the cancer, I’m “new and improved” in many ways.  Once you’ve dealt with cancer, everything else seems pretty easy.

And so, to all of us who have survived something intense, whether it was health-related, a natural disaster, or something caused by the malice or carelessness of another—Happy Birthday.  Not matter what day it is.

Hair and Now

Most of the hair on my head fell out a couple of weeks after starting chemotherapy.  There was a short, thin swath down the middle that stubbornly held on.  Otherwise, it was gone.  And it was during the coldest time of the year, too.  I never fully realized just how much even a short haircut kept my head warm.

My last chemo treatment was January 25^th.  About six weeks later, the first sprouts of peach fuzz appeared on the bare part of my once thickly-covered scalp.  Around that time, I shaved again for the first time in three months.  Life was reappearing on my face and head, though tentative and tender.

The weeks passed and I concentrated on regaining lost weight and strength.  My appetite returned, clearing the way for more energy and stamina.  All the while, the hair on my head slowly and quietly increased.  It was barely noticeable for several days.

When it finally grew long enough to really feel it, I discovered my hair was softer than I could remember it ever being before.  Gradually, it grew longer and thicker, but stayed just as soft.

Friends who hadn’t seen me in several weeks remarked on it.  “Your hair is back!”

“It sure is.  And feel that.”  I then removed the ball cap I wear most of the time and bowed my head, offering my newly-carpeted dome for inspection.  Normally, I don’t much like people touching my hair, even though it’s too short to mess up.  Now, it was a trophy of my survival.  It not only hadn’t grown in dark and coarse (as other cancer survivors had warned me it would), it was like velvet.  At first, a little lighter in color than before, but quickly it returned to the shade of light brown it has been for the last ten years or so.

For the past several years, I’ve kept my hair short—in a “buzz cut” or crew cut.  I bought some electric clippers with different sized guards and started cutting my own hair.  At that short length, even a visually impaired guy can get it right.  Part of my choice of hairstyle is that I have a problem a lot of men (and some women) would love to have.  I have too much hair on my head.  If I don’t keep it short, it’s hard to keep my scalp clean or rinse out all the shampoo.  I’ve got a whole bunch of hair.  My recent temporary hair loss was a rare opportunity for me to see how the “other half” lives.  I came away from the experience with a better understanding of what it’s like for guys who lose their hair from natural causes.

I’ve put off cutting my hair again as long as possible out of concern that the fresh, post-cancer hair which bravely repopulated my head was a one-time shot.  If I cut it, would those baby-soft locks be history?  After trying to ignore the hair tickling the tops of my ears as long as I could, I broke down and cut it today.

What’s left isn’t any softer than what I had last year.  I looked at the soft tufts of hair in the sink and felt sentimental.  Realizing I’ll only have that velvety post-chemo hair once (I hope), I scooped up some of it and put it in a small plastic container.  Maybe it sounds weird to anyone who hasn’t had cancer—and maybe it sounds weird to some who have.  Or maybe it’s a “blind thing.”  But, I want a tactile reminder of those early days in the recovery, when my body gradually returned to normal.  That tender hair was as tender as my body and my overall health were.  When I put my hand on it and felt how soft it was, it seemed to be saying, “Hey, I’m back!  And I’m even better than before.”

That’s exactly how I feel about every aspect of my life since the cancer: even better than before.  And just in case I forget, I have a little reminder I can run my fingers through.

I'm (Still) Here Because of Mom

It was probably just a miscalculation.  It makes more sense than the other explanation for the tardiness of my grand entry--my debut, so to speak.  Whatever the reason—mathematical or biological—I was born six weeks after the due date.

I’ve never liked being rushed.

In those days, they didn’t induce labor.  Dad took Mom for a ride on a bumpy road hoping I would take the hint, but it didn’t work.  You can’t rush quality, as I’ve pointed out to my mother on several of my birthdays.  I even held out until a few minutes after midnight, just so it would be a day later.  But I was born on her grandmother’s birthday.  That counts for something, right?

She’s been putting up with odd and willful behavior ever since.

Actually, I was an extremely well-behaved kid until my teens.  I was easily entertained, made good grades, and my teachers never had to yell at me (much).

Then, right after hitting puberty, I was diagnosed with diabetes.  Suddenly, my parents didn’t quite know what they had on their hands.  Still basically a good kid at school, my mother discovered that I had inherited her strong will, which sometimes clashed with hers.

What can I say?  I am my mother’s son.

From her I also got a positive attitude and just enough Cherokee blood for dark blue eyes and skin that tans easily in the sun.  I’ve been told the three make a nice combination.

On the surface, she’s like millions of Southern women from her generation.  She writes Thank You notes by hand and organizes the main food entrees whenever someone at her church dies.

But, she was tough enough to sing to me and my brother when I was four years old while a killer tornado ripped through the town where we lived.  She’d placed us under my parents’ bed, but only her head and shoulders would fit underneath.  There she was, singing to us so we wouldn’t be afraid, while most of her body was left vulnerable to whatever might land on her.  Fortunately, our home was spared.  But, it was my first real hint of the tough survivor beneath the sweet exterior.

Ever the maverick, the nomad, wanderlust took me to Tampa, Kansas City and Dallas.  I was out of college and anxious to experience the world—at least some of the urban U.S.  She stayed in Arkansas and worried about me.  Her little boy was on his own in the big city, an environment she never much cared for.  I had only lived in Austin a few months when the diabetic complications began.  Then I was back with her and my father in their home, terrified of the big, dark question mark that loomed in front of me.

She had to draw up my insulin shots when internal eye hemorrhages made it impossible for me.  She put the drops and ointment in my eye in the first few weeks after I had surgery to remove the blood inside my eye, staring unflinchingly at what must have been a gruesome sight.  She shared my despair and joy as my vision fluctuated.  And that positive attitude never wavered.

A few years later, my kidneys failed, and she was right there beside me; at the training class for new peritoneal dialysis patients; driving the two hours to Tulsa, where I lived, to help me until I regained some strength; and always offering words of encouragement over the phone.

A year later, my parents’ endurance would be put to a big test when I had the kidney/pancreas transplant.  There were a few complications and I ended up spending more than three weeks in the hospital.  They had to watch me struggle and suffer.  At one point I almost died.

But, with their help, I pulled through.  Mom does so much for me and would do much more if my independent nature allowed it.  She sets out to take care of everyone she knows and cares about.  Yes, I got that kind of mother—one who can cook and bakes sweets no one can resist.

She won’t touch a computer, but remembers birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and every other occasion in the lives of people around her.

Over the years, she’s nursed me back to health more times than I can count.  This past year, she did it again.  This time, it was cancer.  There were times I was nauseous and too frail to make it to the bathroom.  I had to use a plastic container, which she emptied without complaint dozens of times.  When the mouth sores made it impossible for me to eat solid food, she spent hours searching the grocery store for something soft enough.  She had to watch her boy take on the appearance of a frail old man.  The worst part for her, like any mother, was watching helplessly while I suffered.

You eased my suffering more than you’ll ever know, Mom.  It’s no exaggeration when I say I couldn’t have survived this without you.  You gave me life, and you keep helping me hold on to it.

The Many Faces of Jim

I’m starting to recognize myself in the mirror again.  What I see looking back at me is a slimmer version of what I saw last fall.  It’s funny how a serious illness can make you feel more satisfied with the former status quo.  Not that I was dissatisfied before, but the cancer put things into perspective.

Today a good friend told me, “No offense, but last month you looked like death warmed over.”

None taken.  I already knew that.  I avoided looking at the mirror, even when I brushed my teeth.  After the beard and most of the hair on my head fell out, the bottom half of my face looked like a twelve-year-old boy’s.  The top half?  An old man.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to adjust to drastic changes in the way I look.  When my kidneys failed in 1997, my weight dropped to where it was in college (where it happens to be once again).  My skin was sort of grey.  In other words, I looked about like I felt.

I looked even worse when I got out of the hospital a year later after having a kidney/pancreas transplant.  A purple hematoma shaded the right side of my face and neck.  My arms and legs were like twigs.  I looked like a junkie with little bruises on my veins from blood tests and IVs.  Within a few months, my color was back and the Prednisone (a steroid and anti-rejection drug) had quickly increased my weight, and it showed in my face.  At first I welcomed it.

Then my looks started changing even faster.  Some days, I woke up to find I looked different from the night before.  No, it wasn’t after a night of heavy drinking, either.  I was still on high doses of Prednisone.  (In addition to weight gain, it has some other unpleasant side effects, but that’s another post.)  I bulked up like never before.  I loved how my shoulders looked like a football player’s.

My face, on the other hand, looked like Charlie Brown.  I moved back to Fayetteville and some people didn’t even recognize me.  I had to buy new clothes to fit my bigger, healthier, post-transplant, non-diabetic body.  That didn’t bother me.  What bothered me was having to buy 36-inch waist pants at my heaviest. 

For the first time in my life, a doctor cautioned me about putting on more weight.  “It’s easier to keep it off than to take it off later.”  Really?  I’d never had to think much about it.  Perpetually scrawny Jimbo had attained a maximum healthy weight. 

Welcome to the world of the non-diabetic.

The Prednisone dose gradually tapered off and the bulk went with it.  Most of it, anyway.  A year after the transplant I had the body I was meant to have.  With a normal metabolism, I could work out at the gym and hold on to the results.  Before, a day of two of high blood sugar could undo several days’ worth of weight-lifting.

So, at 35, I was more satisfied with my appearance than at any other time in my life.  My body had undergone changes more rapid and drastic than adolescence.  For several months, it was one surprise after another—some welcome, some not.  But it had been worth it.  For the next few years, I carried myself with more self-confidence than I’d ever known, secure in the knowledge that, finally, I didn’t look diabetic, or like a dialysis patient, or overweight, or underweight. 

When the kidney failed a few years later, I looked just as I had the first time around.  After a second transplant, my body and appearance returned to what had become normal for me.  I landed on 40 not only glad to be alive, but grateful I didn’t look ill--and happy that my face wasn’t steroid-plump and round like Charlie Brown’s.  Had I really dreaded f-f-forty?  Once again, a health issue had put things in proper perspective.  Getting older sure beats the alternative.

Then along came cancer.  I was too sick to even care how bad I looked.  Not just vanity, bold cold weather made sure I had my head covered whenever I left the house.  One nice thing about having cancer in the wintertime—it kept me inside, so few people saw just how sickly I looked. 

Several weeks after the chemo, my hair gradually began to sprout, along with the first signs of green in the spring.  My beard—and especially the hair on my head—are much softer than ever.  Who knows if or how long that will last?  I’ll just enjoy it as long as I have it.  It’s just the latest twist in the ever-changing story of my life, illustrated by my appearance.

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.

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.