Well, Cancer, here we are. Ten months after my seizure, and now a week removed from what will hopefully be the last time I ever have to ingest poison to cure my body. It's been an intense process, to understate the obvious, and I've been in survival mode until now. First through the radiation, and these past six months through the chemotherapy, using swimming and skiing as my breaths of fresh air, my place to get centered and recharge the batteries of my body, which feels so alive in water and in the woods.
On Sunday morning I threw up a little bit - just once; not all day long like I did on the fourth day of the fifth round of chemo when I ran out of anti-nausea pills and thought I was strong enough to handle the Temodal on my own. But it was enough to send me into a mini-spiral of self-pity and depression, which are unnatural conditions for me. Ever since going into rehab at 19 I've learned to live just for today, to commune with the Great Spirit in sweat lodges and in Nature, and to use all the pursuits that feel good (swimming, hiking, singing, playing guitar) as forms of prayer. My mantra throughout this period of treatment has been: kill the bad, keep the good, give me long life, which I say to myself as I synchronize my breathing in the sauna after every time I swim. I also start and finish each session with Mitakuye Oyasin, the Lakota phrase for All My Relations, which my Micmac sponsor out in California taught me to pronounce as 'me talk, we awesome.'
But on Monday morning I woke feeling empty, energy-less and depressed. Anette and I had talked the night before and she counseled me to call the Kreftforening, which I did promptly at 0900 when they opened. As she was driving our kids to the barnehage I told my story to a woman from the North of Norway, who listened well and gave me good advice. I then picked up the phone again (again, using the tools of recovery) to call a woman who was listed on the brain tumor society's page of people willing to be contacted about their experiences. As I suspected from her area code, she is the mother of a student in 10th grade at my school, and she remembered me from last year's parent meeting. We had a good talk and I got some further perspective on what has happened to me - she has had two operations and been left with epilepsy, even having an attack with her son next to her in bed. Later that day I talked to Jake and Nick, and that helped a bit, but I was still feeling blue.
So, Cancer, you have changed me in ways that recovery never did. If staying clean for 19 years has brought me closer to who I really am, allowing me to pursue all my dreams to the fullest, you have threatened to take all of that from me. You have slowed life down and forced me to live just for today - not in the same liberating way of recovery. I haven't been able to see the future because it's been too far away, too uncertain. Even now, with the next couple of years of immunotherapy as part of this clinical trial, I'm not sure how much to plan, which for a dreamer like me is like a death sentence.
The next several months are full of wonderful things: Olivia and Chris arrive in a week, then in March we're going to Lanzarote for two weeks with Camilla, Mikael and Eric, and my parents will meet us there for the last week of the trip to celebrate my chemotherapy being over. In early April Julia (cancer survivor) Ben and Sophie will visit us, and in late April Nick and Nicole will be here. In May I'm planning to (very carefully) go back to work, and in June Andre and Elise are getting married in Ålesund. Again, Olivia and Chris are coming to babysit the kids so we can enjoy the wedding, and everyone will enjoy the beauty of one of Norway's most spectacular places. Then in July we fly back to the US, where we'll have the barn dance on July 21st and then the Fab Four Reunion in Orlando with our relay on August 1st, which just happens to be our ninth wedding anniversary. In September we'll be heading back for a quick week so I can be one of the best men in Matt's wedding.
Many of these experiences will be the pinnacles of people's lives, and it will be a joy to participate in them, but I need the energy to do so. You have drained me of all my energy, and I just need this week to recharge, which I've already been doing by skiing on Tuesday and swimming yesterday.
.....
Instead of finishing this post, Anette and I snapped at each other in the morning rush to get the kids to the barnehage, and by the time the car was back in the garage we were both in tears. The day got no better, as we tried both painting and making sweet potato fries to get ourselves out of our funk, and before leaving to pick them up we took a quick walk to Drafnkollen where we ran around in the snow like little kids and felt a bit better.
Dinner turned out to be a chaos like we haven't had for a few weeks, and I was still in a funk even after the kids were in bed. I lay with my head in Anette's lap and tried to work through my self-pity, and when talking about Olivia and how hard this all must be for her, I started crying again. I told Anette how it had been unnatural for me to talk to my folks several times this week without sharing what I was really going through, and she suggested that I call my mom.
I sent her a text and when she didn't answer after a couple of minutes I called her, and fortunately she was able to listen. She too was sitting in the car, having just come home from town, but Dad was inside the farmhouse being interviewed about the Sawkill. I broke down and cried and told her all my worst fears, about them attending my funeral, and how things like that should never happen, but do. I told her that I feel like we're being robbed of the chance to have our 'golden years' as a family, because our kids are so young, and we still have so much we want to do with them. We will be their heroes and their primary source of care and entertainment for at least the next twenty years, and I want to be around - and vigorous enough - to participate fully in their lives. Is this more important than work? I don't even have to answer that question.
So, Cancer, you have brought me to my knees. I began and ended the day in my prayer position from the sweat lodge: on all fours, hips opened as wide as possible like when I swim breaststroke to press my forehead to the ground, synchronizing my breathing to commune with the Great Spirit. This morning was on the third floor, our meditation floor, and this evening before bed it was on the shower floor. It's now 4:30am and I'm writing again, and I do feel better. I can hear Johannes coughing downstairs, which means we'll probably have to take him to the doctor on Monday, or sooner. This weekend should be a blast.
....
As I look over my writing now at 10:00am, I am satisfied. Sunniva is taking a nap downstairs and Johannes is practicing his burgeoning language with his mommy. I am happy and have a new resolve to bring everything I have to this race, one day at a time.
