A New Chapter

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all” - Helen Keller

So far, my life continues to feel like an adventure, even with the mounting challenges. Tomorrow I begin a round of chemotherapy. I had hoped to avoid this treatment but am now finding myself curious about what it will mean, how I will experience it and what changes, inner and outer, it may necessitate. Already, as I learn more about my nutritional needs, I have made changes in my eating habits and am better informed about nutrition generally. For some time, I haven't felt much like eating, although when offered food that someone else has prepared, I'm hungry. For the moment it seems that eating is not the problem, cooking is. When Carol said she was preparing a turkey breast, could she bring one over to us, without hesitation I gratefully accepted the offer. That is new behavior – my midwestern upbringing, a control issue or just a habit has always required much protest whenever someone offered their help.

When one part of a system changes, the whole system is altered as a result. That is what has happened to the system that is me. As I continue to accept, without resistance, the abundant and generous offerings of food and assistance, my experience of myself is changing. While the creaks and twinges in my body may be associated with the process of aging and exercising less, I am noticing the adjustment my body is having to make as ancient tensions are releasing. I know from my study of psychology that our defenses must resolve slowly lest the exposed vulnerability be too tender to endure the experience of pain. It would not surprise me if, similarly, there is discomfort in the body as the long standing patterns of holding slowly let go. The pain is in balance, though, with an ease in relating to the outer and an absence of worry. The welcoming of these gifts of food, time, loving attention and support with thanks instead of protest, validate my belief in the mutuality of the process of giving – that people really mean it when they thank me in return for receiving their offerings with an open heart. I am not surprised since I know that my service to others benefits me perhaps more than it does those I serve.

I have never felt more connected to my fellow humans. I am now sitting in the chemotherapy suite, a long room with several reclining chairs stretched along the windowed wall. My chair is tucked in a corner, facing the windows, where I can see the tops of autumn-colored trees against the blue sky. Across from me is a very fit-looking young man, working on his laptop with his earphones in place, hooked to the machine which is infusing him with whatever drugs his disease requires. I will probably refrain from asking him what brings him here, although I am curious. There are many young people here, some my age, and some in between. I, too, have my laptop, earphones, and books, and, maybe most appealing, the opportunity for a nap! I'll be here a few hours, at least two, maybe four. I will come back in a week for a second infusion, then there will be a week off. This sequence will repeat four times, interrupted once for my annual trip to Palm Springs, with the blessings of my doctor.

I have been writing this post over a week's time now, having arrived at the Saturday before my second Monday infusion. I am propped in my bed, writing on my laptop in bed, another “first.” So far, my spirits are not impacted by the chemo, but I do feel less energetic physically. Laurel just brought lunch, gave Van instructions for preparing it, and came up to visit me, in my bed. At this point, working from my bed is a luxury, rather than a confinement; learning how to be active and rest at the same time – so many new experiences.

My cancer will not be cured, but the healing continues and deepens.

Another Round

Quoting from Mark Vonnegut (son of Kurt) in his new memoir,

"My father gave me the gifts of being able to pay attention to my inner narration no matter how tedious the damn thing could be at times and also the knowledge that creating something, be it music or a painting or a poem or a short story, was a way out of wherever you were and a way to find out what the hell happens next and not just have it be the same old thing."

When I read this, I knew why blogging has become so important to me. Caught up in the busyness and demands of my life, I have not been giving myself any creative time lately, and it's beginning to take its toll. I am becoming increasingly aware of Francoise (the harpsichord) sitting in silent rebuke and of the lament of my inner voices growing more insistent. It's been over a month since my last report, and, while my inner psychic responses are holding steady, the cancer is not. I'm well into another round of radiation, targeting a tumor in the subcutaneous layer of my right side just below the rib; and also a tumor on the pelvis which is beginning to invade the cortex of the bone. Except for being able to see the lump on my right side, I experience nothing from these presences. If I hadn't seen them on the scan, I might think it was all a hoax.

As with my previous radiation treatments, I have no side effects, except for an adjustment to a new routine. My body's natural alarm is 7AM but, to be ready every day for a 7:30 radiation treatment, a biological clock change was necessary. It has become a part of the adventure, to be awake and out in the darkness with the other early risers, something warm in the to-go cup and music playing that I have been wanting to hear. I've learned to go to bed earlier, and I'm hoping that after the treatments are over, I can maintain this schedule as a way to regain the lost creative time – an unexpected gift from the radiation.

Nevertheless, I have not felt a lack of creative spirit since life itself seems so creative to me now. At the end of September, I turned 79, beginning my 80th year. In fact, by Chinese reckoning I am 80, since in China you are one year old on the day of your birth. Van woke me up on my birthday with a youtube concert of “our songs,” songs from the days of our courtship and early marriage, evoking the sweetness and depth of 60 years of memories. Steve and Laurel created a CD of the concert for us, inspiring us to try dancing again!

I am surprised and delighted these days by the joy I am experiencing with my friends and family. The big events - the births, marriages, deaths - and the simple shared moments –a hug, a conversation, a concert, a meal. To the hundred years of blessings that our home holds in the being of its structure, was added this month the joyful family shower for beloved cousins, Natalie and Eric, expecting their first baby in early November; and the exquisitely touching wedding for Angie, Tenzin, and baby Loden, particularly meaningful because I had been deputized to perform the lovely ceremony created by them.

Also this month, The Stanford community, our neighborhood, and friends and family came together to remember Nelee Langmuir, our friend and neighbor who died in August. Nelee held a salon, attended by the coming and going of many, many friends, during the days she was dying. Conversation, food, and wine flowed, as Nelee flowed in and out of alertness. Her services were held this month in Stanford Memorial Church, another structure of more than a hundred years, holding a rich store of blessed memories for me and thousands of others. How fortunate I am to have this model as a guide for my future!

No less meaningful for me are Robert's hug on a Sunday morning; Laurel's sharing of her time, talent, and hospitality; Frank's friendship and shared appreciation of Philharmonia; Jim's treating me to personal organ concerts; Faith's constant and comforting presence in my life - only a glimpse into the riches nourishing me from the people in my life. I am very grateful.

What Now?

Thank you all for your generous support and feedback! I am feeling so well-nourished by your heartfelt responses, as well as safe and secure. I know when the time comes to cross over, I will have to go alone, but I find my fear of that moment diminishing. I am reminded of the 17 year old Barbara leaving for college, the 19 year old leaving for Europe, and the 21 year old leaving for a whole new life of marriage, all with a mixture of fear and excitement, all with loved ones left in their grief, happiness and a little relief, waving good-by. What I know now, that I was not consciously aware of then, is that the separation was eased for me by all the caring and love that I had unwittingly absorbed from that community of friends and family. The adjustment afterwards for me was fraught with the difficulties and resistances of growing up, and I don't know what I have waiting for me in this instance. What I have learned from all the sturm und drang of my life is that I do better when I can stay focused on what is right here to do now.

Thanks especially to those of you who have been questioning me. Some of you are asking ,”Where is the fight,” as in Lawrence LeShan's well-received book of many years ago, You Can Fight For Your Life. “Are you just accepting it?” Others are wondering if I've given any thought to the emotional, psychological, personal relationship to my cancer. Hasn't much of my life been devoted to the search for understanding those connections? Yes, but has it been too much in the service or desire to control the lives of others without enough regard to my own life and process? Sweet Courtney gently says, “You know, you worry a lot about others...” And I am asking myself, “Is this another opportunity to confront lifelong issues of avoidance and boundaries?”

My internal response to “are you fighting” is a mixture of contemplating the philosophy of aikido, which I find attractive but actually know very little about; realizing that I may have accepted the diagnosis, but not really the prognosis; determining with the force of a fight to stay conscious and actively live in every minute. The question of psychosomatics is knottier for me. I have spent a lifetime exploring this terrain, beginning with my childhood in Christian Science. My family left the church when I was still quite young, but not before I had learned how to disempower illness and bodily discomfort. Much of my early professional work centered on incorporating practices of the mind-body connection into western medical settings. Yet, should I be asking myself, “How did I invite this cancer to grow inside me? Am I doing everything I can to keep it from flourishing?”

I'm not sure there are certain answers to these questions. I certainly don't know. What I do know is that we are all powerless over the forces of nature, not helpless, but powerless. How I treasure the hours spent in the garden with Jeff gently demonstrating this truth over and over again ( I am NOT a quick study in this regard). “We'll plant it at the right time in good dirt, where we know it might be likely to grow; we'll give it the right amount of water and food; then we'll see what happens.” Sometimes, although we tended them well, the plants did not flourish; sometimes they died.

So far, my pondering leads me to invoke the prayer that says it all:

God, grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

Results

I can't remember a day in my life that was harder than today, unless it was yesterday. Everything in me resists causing others pain or discomfort. One of my life's lessons is learning to bear the suffering of others, but to be the agent of pain feels unendurable. Yet, here I am enduring it. Yesterday's news was not what we had hoped it would be. Like a weed popping up in other spots in the garden, the cancer is spreading. The good news is that I will have time, perhaps a year, perhaps more, hopefully not less, in which, with consciousness, to soak up all the blessings of my beloved relationships, the comforts of the music I love, the numinosity of nature. I plan to continue my life as it is, continuing to watch it unfold as it will, but making choices in consideration of an ending that may come sooner than I had planned.

Much more research must be done before treatment of lung cancer can be as effective as that of some other cancers, but I am grateful for the huge gains in pain management. As symptoms develop, chemotherapy is an option to reduce pain by shrinking tumors, but it's efficacy in prolonging life is limited. Except for the pain of having to be the bearer of these tidings, I am feeling so good that there is a screen of denial protecting me from what I know in my mind is an excruciating reality. I can see through the screen, but what I see is hazy, muted. My benevolent inner guide is holding me in the moment, a difficult moment though it is... I think I will go take a walk before continuing.

Back now, with the residue of my thoughts while walking still on my mind. I was thinking about how well-timed our road trip was, including, as it did, so many people dear to me, so much natural beauty, and the satisfaction of feeling a part of it all. I left you (a blog or two ago) driving across the Canadian prairies, listening to country music. After a long day's drive, delayed at the border by the rather sour border patrol (no fooling around since 9/11), crossing the more populated, seemingly less expansive North Dakota prairie lands, we came into northern Minnesota, to Grand Rapids, and finally to our destination, Twin Lakes. The community there of family and friends epitomize the warmth, inclusiveness, and hospitality I associate with life in Minnesota. It crossed my mind that this might be the last time I would visit the cabin, hear the soulful, lonely cry of the loon, swim in the fresh, clear water of the lake (don't have the strength to swim across anymore), rest in the gracious acceptance of that family – my family. In China, when a girl marries, she leaves her people to become a part of her husband's family. Often she feels isolated, unaccepted, bereft. Young, insecure, spoiled, and prideful, without having to give up my own, I married into Van's family, one of the gifts of my charmed life. Reading the cabin log book, I realized how many times over the years we had been to Twin Lakes and recovered memories spanning the whole 57 years of our marriage. Memories of the tough times were there, too, but mellowed and sweetened by the passage of time.

Next, we drove south with daughter Elizabeth (Betsey), and grandchildren Joe (15) and Jesse (12) to Faribault. Their home sits in the beautiful rolling farmland characteristic of southern Minnesota. A gift of Betsey's husband, Bill, was his love of the land. He devoted some of their land to the restoration of the prairie, put in 1200 plants to create habitat, and cut a path through the woodland for me to walk. Betsey has a huge garden, from which she provides food, preserved, frozen, canned for the winter. She is a true Minnesotan! The weather in the north had been spectacularly beautiful, typical of the best in my memory. The weather in the south was too hot to do anything outside – Van didn't even go out to play golf. The day we left, the heat lifted, reminding me of how lovely it can be, especially in the fresh, clean air of the country.

The last chapter is our drive home, a route we have taken many times - through South Dakota , sharing the road with lots of Harley motorcycles returning from the famous rally in Sturgis; into Montana, where we visited Steve, Hilary, and baby Chase, who hadn't been able to join us at the lake; down to Yellowstone, with suggestions from Hilary, a bearologist, who lived there while studying the resident grizzlys. She said we'd be likely to see more animals on the east side instead of taking the more familiar road on the west. Very soon, we spotted a magnificent elk, further on a pronghorned elk, herds of bison grazing in the grasses and sporting in the river, and finally, a bear! The drive out of Yellowstone was a little tedious, but rewarded by the Grand Tetons, rising suddenly out of the plains.

Forgoing the expense of staying in Jackson, we went on to Twin Falls, Idaho, and the next day, into Nevada. On one of our former drives through Nevada, we had discovered a pottery studio and workshop in the tiny (only 14 year-round residents), remote town of Tuscarora. We were surprised to find that the artist was a Stanford graduate, whose family had relocated to Tuscarora and established the workshop in this little artist's colony. We decided to see if the shop was still there, which indeed it was,and, to our delight, so was the artist, Ben Parks. After buying another souvenir to match the one we had purchased before, Van was willing to continue on the remote, unimproved road, leading eventually back to the highway. The last time we had taken this road, we did not have an appropriate vehicle, which made Van very nervous. It is not in my stubborn, determined nature to question the wisdom of such a venture, which is why being married to Van is another example of my good fortune - as is, that time,making it safely back to the highway! This time, however, we had our all-wheel drive new car, the only risk being that we would be covered with dust. Along the way is the reward for the effort – a beautiful reservoir, solitary in the midst of the astonishing silence of this high desert. Only walking in the snow through Betsey's property, or maybe above the treeline in the Sierra, have I experienced such quiet. We ate our picnic lunch without talking, taking it all in. Back to the highway, on to Reno, down, down to the flats of Sacramento, stopping to see son Peter in Vallejo, across the Bay Bridge, down #280, and home.

Many years ago, in her 80's, musing about her life, Van's mother said, “Oh, but I have my memories...” As I approach 80, I'm beginning to understand what she meant. Memories are the riches of the old, sustenance for the soul. Our trip awakened old memories and created new ones. I am feeling very wealthy and well-nourished, ready for the continuing adventure.

Interim Report

When I returned from work Tuesday evening, there was a message that Dr Gillis had called and would call back the next morning at 8AM. My heart skipped a beat. I hadn't expected to hear about Monday's scan so soon. At first, I was thinking that maybe she wanted to let me know quickly that the radiation had shrunk the tumors, and all was well, but Van said, no, in fact she had indicated that there were some areas of concern. Disturbing dreams; wide awake at 5AM; dressed and ready for the call which came at 8:10. The good news that, indeed the original tumors were greatly reduced was overshadowed by the “areas of concern:” several new spots of cancer, one on the pelvis, one on the rib, and two more above the heart, all small, but nevertheless, indicating that the cancer is spreading. Hard to hear; glad Van was listening in - I've had to keep asking, now what exactly did she say? She did go on to say that there are treatments, and that Dr. Canales will be prepared to outline the possibilities at my appointment with her on September 10^th.

Helen, with whom I was supposed to meet that morning, was waiting for my call to say what time I'd be ready. “I might as well go on with my day as usual...I'll be there abut 9:15.” So that's what I'm doing – going on with my life as usual – so strange, everything's changed and nothing's changed. The last two days I've spent getting used to being a person with a chronic illness. I'm sure there will be treatments, lasting one, two, maybe more, years. I'll let you know what I find out about that next week – that's why this is “an interim report.” I'll also continue with the other three chapters of our wonderful trip, since several of you have been asking. My thoughts are full right now of all the things I want to do, a kind of bucket list, I guess. Not a bad thing, having time to indulge in the gifts of life, with full knowledge that it is going to end. Already, the sights as I ride my bike to work are more vivid, the people I meet are dearer, the experience of it all, sweeter. I don't know if this heightened awareness can last – I'll keep you posted...

A Journey Within A Journey

It's hard to believe that the next benchmark on the journey is only two days away. On Monday, I will have the PET/CT Scan which will show how the cancer is responding to the radiation treatment. I am not without some anxiety, particularly since I returned from our wonderful trip with a couple of troubling symptoms, which may or may not be related to the disease. I saw one of my docs today, who said that we will just have to wait for next week's scan. Here I am, reaching out again for your supportive thoughts and prayers. I'll let you know the results just as soon as I have them. Meanwhile, the waiting is providing more opportunity for reflection on all the possibilities. Dr. Canales was quite clear that we can't expect a cure, but that there is a good chance of containment. My night thoughts are mostly about preparing for the ultimate inevitability, while my day thoughts focus on what I have to do today.

Our auto trip (the journey within) was enormously fulfilling for me and full of wonders, beginning with the drive up the splendid Oregon coast on a stunningly gorgeous day. We stayed in Tacoma, within walking distance of the Chihuyi and Tacoma Art Museum and in view of Mt Rainier, stately, ethereal Mt. Rainier, appearing and disappearing in and out of the Washington clouds. It reminded me of our trip to Huang Shan – we arrived there in a heavy overcast, and I expressed my disappointment to our guide that I wasn't going to be able to see any of the beauty. He brushed aside my concerns with “Don't worry, don't worry.” As he said it, the mists were clearing away to reveal a Chinese painting of mountains and valleys, which continued to disappear and reappear. The on-going life of the natural world is so comforting to me...the little hummingbird that faced me in the window over my kitchen sink, hovering with it's tiny beating wings, saying, “It's O.K., we're all here,” and just staying there until my pain could melt into the vast and blend with all of life.

The next step of our magical journey was Jeff's 50th Birthday Party. One approaches Jeff's house through a nondescript neighborhood, entering an overgrown, dirt road alley. Finding a stairway, constructed of grates nestled into a hillside (not good for high heels, but Jeff says no one that ever comes to his house wears high heels), one feels thrust into the story of “The Secret Garden.” A breathtaking profusion of flowers and plants, familiar and unfamiliar, in pots, in beds, surrounding sweet little lawns, room after room of them, cascading down the hillside, the rest of the world out of sight, out of mind; the burgeoning vegetable garden, the cozy chicken coop, the house, restored and decorated as only two strong, able, creative men would do it. The whole evening was out of another childhood storybook - when Bert took Mary Poppins and her charges into the picture he had drawn on the sidewalk (his day job) to have tea in an English garden. Amazingly delicious food, lovingly prepared and served by Jeff's friends, the table beautifully and simply set outdoors in one of the garden rooms, attended by his parents, who have finally, after all these years, embraced their son as he is, and also his four wonderfully individual older sisters who never stopped doting on him – all of it was magical.

Two days later was the storybook wedding of Jimmy and Annette, Barbara Toothman's son and now daughter-in-law. Annette's father is on the music faculty of The University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, and all of her family are performing musicians. The wedding took place in a sea of music, graceful tradition, hopefulness of bright, fresh youth, and palpable love. Along with nature, this is the kind of experience that helps me in the discouragement about the future that I often feel these days. I'm thinking, though, that it's just a part of growing older, the “what is this world coming to” feeling that threatens my mood and serenity. Hasn't every generation come to that in its later years?

Now we go from magic to magnificence, the Canadian Rockies - Jasper, Banff, and Lake Louise. This is our first visit to this part of Canada. We've been through the Rockies in the U.S. several times, and, of course, the Sierras, then a couple of years ago drove through the southern Utah canyon lands. Those trips were like lead ins to the main show, the mighty, rugged, exquisite Canadian Rockies. We spent three days, exploring Jasper and Banff; lunching in the historic Lodge at Lake Louise; catching sight of a grizzly, preventing us from taking a planned hike because, when present, she and her cubs reign supreme; on to Moraine Lake, into which Van fell, attempting to get just the right picture (the only wound sustained being his pride); and ending with Van surrendering to my earnest desire to go on to Emerald Lake and Takka Falls, in the Yoho Preserve, often missed because it exists in the shadow of the much more widely known Banff National Park.

We could have spent the entire vacation time there, still only scratching the surface of the richness of the area. The gorgeous scenery is marred only by the devastating pine beetle infestation. Normally, the pine beetle is naturally controlled by cold winters, birds, and fires which destroy the older trees. Now, with the winters significantly warmer and fire suppression allowing trees to mature ( the beetles prefer the older trees), it has proved impossible to contain the destruction. They are doing what they can in an attempt to control it, as well as harvesting as much of the destroyed forest as possible, (which has to be done as soon as possible after the trees' demise). It's heartbreaking for me, like nature's equivalent of war or genocide. I comfort myself by remembering the recovery of the forests after the Yellowstone and Point Reyes fires.

Very suddenly, driving along the next day, we found ourselves in a totally opposite natural setting. From the intense verticality of the mountains, we were in the equally intense horizontality of the Canadian plains. The sky became huge, the land stretching out endlessly, the restfulness of the prairies allowing for processing the magnificence of the mountains, of life. It was time to listen to music. Van and I have different musical tastes, and our road trips give us a chance to share our differences with each other. Driving across the plains calls for country music, which we both can get into and which the radio abundantly provides. There is often some wisdom embedded in the hokiness: “Hindsight is knowing where you've been; Foresight is knowing where you're going; Insight is knowing when you've been here too long.”

At this moment, my insight tells me that this blog entry is getting too long. I'm only reaching the end of Chapter Two of our journey – there are three more to go. I'll leave you for the moment with my request for your good thoughts on Monday, and, as always, with my gratitude for your attention.

To be continued.

Interim Report

I started this new blogging experience in order to keep all those interested informed about a possibly life-changing event in my life. After the positive, if still preliminary, results of the scan in May, I just returned to living my life as usual, almost as if nothing had happened. Since there seems to be no reason not to, that is just what I'm doing. Nevertheless, I'm finding myself responding to each of you, one by one, as you ask the question, "How are you?" So for those of you who haven't asked yet, but may be wondering, here is my situation. On August 30th, I will have the Pet Scan which will indicate the results of the radiation and whether further treatment will be necessary. Perhaps it is just protective denial, but I don't think about it very much. Maybe that's why I haven't written about it, though, and why I seem to be almost pathologically busy right now. As I say that, I'm reminding myself that we ARE preparing for a month-long road trip, which adds astronomically to the to-do list! It is also reminding me of all that I haven't been keeping current, as I prepare at work and at home to be away for a month.

I am very excited about the upcoming trip. Van and I have so many activities that we engage in separately, but we both love road trips. We haven't done one in a long time, and we're thinking we better do it before the kids have to take our car keys away from us. It has provided a great reason for buying a new Subaru Outback, although the decision to trade in Van's truck left him with a little nostalgic grief. He and that truck had shared many lovely and memorable experiences over the years. On the 20th of July, we will head north, up the coast, through Oregon, and on to the Seattle-Tacoma area, first, for Jeff's 50th birthday celebration (see previous blogs for the history of Jeff), and then to the wedding of Barbara Toothman's son, Jimmy. From there, we go north into Canada (yes, we are remembering to take our passports), through Banff and Lake Louise, and finally down to Twin Lakes in northern Minnesota, where Van's family has a cabin. For all of our married life (our 57th anniversary is on July 11th), we have periodically visited that cabin, so it carries many treasured family memories. Some of those who people the memories will be there, as well as daughter Elizabeth and her children, Joe and Jesse. Then we will go to southern Minnesota with Eliz, Joe and Jesse to their home, spend a few days, and hit the Blue Highways for a return trip to California.

Before we leave, we must say goodbye to our good friend and neighbor of 40 years, Nelee Langmuir. During the Second World War, Nelee and her sister were among the" hidden children," sheltered by brave French citizens from the occupying Nazi's. After the war, she was reunited with her parents, coming to this country. Her second marriage was to Gavin Langmuir, a medieval scholar, our neighbor and a colleague of Van's. Until retiring fairly recently, she taught French at Stanford. Gavin died a few years ago, a grievous loss for her, which she bore with her usual grace and courage. Two weeks ago, she received a clean bill of health, with no evidence of the breast cancer she had suffered previously. Shortly after, experiencing unusual back pain, another galloping cancer was discovered which will very likely take her life before we return on August 20th. When I called to lament my sense of loss, she said, "Well, yes, but I'm getting lots of help... now, how are you?" She is so remarkably balanced - sensitive and sturdy, always interested in and helpful to others, at the same time tending well to herself. It is hard to see such a bright, spirited light go out.

For the first time, I have a laptop to take with me on a trip, so it will be possible to blog. At least, I will be able to register impressions along the way. If any strike me as worthy of passing on, perhaps you will hear from me. Otherwise, August 30th will undoubtedly inspire an update.

P.S. If any of you in the Bay Area can scare up a kid, or have enough kid in you, DON'T MISS Peter Pan, playing at Ferry Park until Sept. 5th www.peterpantheshow.com. Faith, Alice, and I took Mollie. No wonder I picked that scrappy little Tinker Bell as my special helper!

Mollie and "Wendy"

Good News!

To the many requests for results of the latest scan, I have been saying, "No news is good news." I think Van was wanting me to call, just to check, but I was figuring that if there was anything I needed to know, they would tell me. Yesterday, we met with the radiation oncologist, Dr. Gillis, and I was right! There is no spread of cancer, and it appears that the radiation is working. There were three sites being radiated, two of them involving nodes. One of them appears to be totally clear; the other is barely visible. The third site is a mass which is fuzzy, indicating that it is breaking up and seems to be smaller already. The next scan, in July or August, will be a better indication of the results of the treatment. It also seems clear that the sternum fracture is healing. Van and I celebrated with breakfast at the Main Street Coffee Company, tucked in an unlikely neighborhood in Redwood City. One wouldn't want their old-fashioned hearty breakfasts everyday, but it is fun every once in a while. (Google it for more description).

I am thanking the Powers That Be on a daily basis for evidence-based medicine and for my trust and faith in the power of Right Thought (and prayers), my own and the stream surrounding me from all of you.

Fifth Week of Waiting

The big event of this week was a reunion with my old friend and colleague, Glenn Olf, and his wife, Jeanne Ewy. Glenn and I worked together for many years doing couples therapy and facilitating groups. During my stint at Midpeninsula Health Service, Jeanne was Executive Director (my boss). I grew up professionally during the years that Glenn and I were partners, and I am indebted to him for his role in helping me see myself more clearly. That was an exciting time in my personal history. Working at MHS with Jeanne, I could follow my intent as a social worker to be on the forefront of social change, particularly in health care. They were also years of transition from wanting to save the world to realizing that the only life I could save was my own. There is something reassuring about these re-connections, a comforting sense of continuity. Perhaps this harvest season of life is a time of gathering the fruits of a lifetime of sowing and cultivating. It is gratifying that there is a sense of bounty, in spite of the droughts and devastations of fate, and the neglect and wrongdoings of unconsciousness.

Somebody, this week, referred to "ever since you got sick", meaning ME! It was jarring, because I don't think of myself as "sick." Perhaps it's because of my upbringing in Christian Science, or perhaps it's because, while I am a person who has cancer, there is more of me, as that person, than the sickness. Couldn't the spirit be healthy, even if the cancer were to ravage the body? My personal bible would include the following parable:

Two Wolves

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a
battle that goes on inside people.

He said, 'My son, the battle is between two 'wolves'
inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow,
regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt,
resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride,
superiority, and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope,
serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy,
generosity, truth, compassion and
faith.'

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then
asked his grandfather:

Which wolf wins?'

The old Cherokee simply replied, 'The one you feed.'

Fourth Week of Waiting

Indeed, the weather turned beautiful again, the roses are busting out all over, and Van is back, recovering from jet lag. Last Friday, I attended a celebration honoring the publication of C.G. Jung's "Red Book" (writings and illustrations representing his inner images - a kind of magnificent journal). The talks were very interesting, but the highlight for me was an all-too-brief reconnection with my friend Bonnie, whom I met in graduate school and is now a Jungian analyst. Ours is a tried and true friendship of many, many years, during which we would have periods of close association, separated by years of little contact. The sharing over the years of the joys and pains of our lives has created a sturdy bond that stays strong, even through the years of separation. One of the gifts of my confrontation with mortality is the experience of exquisite sweet affection that wells up in the presence of these people so dear to me.

Therefore, I was surprised to find myself feeling low the next day. A little inner dialogue revealed a sadness over the losses that come with aging. Bonnie is in her 60's - the most glorious decade of my life. I don't like the feeling of being left behind, but I'm no longer interested in trying to keep up, either. These thoughts were interrupted by a call to son John about going over the next day to Susan's (John's wife) open studio in Benicia. Very quickly, plans developed that included son Peter and Denise, grandson Holden and Courtney. It felt like divine intervention, bringing me quickly back to where I am, and who I am. I was talking with my granddaughter, Jesse, shortly after her daddy died, about her feelings. She said, "Oh, Nanny, it's like the clouds come over the sun from time to time, and then they drift away, and there's the sun again."

The sun was shining brightly the next day as we headed over to the East Bay to join the family at Susan's studio in Benicia. Her work is inspired, creative and varied. Currently, she is involved with interior design, creating amazing decorative surfaces for floors, walls, counters, using unusual techniques and materials. Her artistic sense is so natural to her that I wonder if she even realizes how talented she is.

I'm later than I had intended in posting this - my train of thought was interrupted by a call scheduling the CT Scan that I was questioning. I understand, now, that it is intended to see if the cancer has traveled anywhere else. Van heard me making the appointment - "it's a nail biter, isn't it", he said. When I told Helen, she said, " Oh, that will be reassuring, won't it." I think I'll go with the theme of reassurance, although you can imagine me waiting and wondering. I'll let you know as soon as I know - keep the good thoughts coming.

Second and Third Week of Waiting

My life is continuing so normally - I forget that I'm in a waiting-to-see mode. My friend and surrogate son, Jeff, who has been here for the last two weeks, accused me of faking this "supposed" illness. We had as good a time as ever hanging out, cooking, chatting, watching movies, and, most importantly, refreshing the garden. Jeff came into our lives about twenty-six years ago and taught me everything I know about gardening (with all the metaphors for life), while making beautiful gardens for us year after year. About twelve years ago, he relocated to Seattle but continued to come down once or twice a year to care for those of us, and our gardens, left bereft in his absence. When he comes, it's as if the plants know that he's here - they wake up and clamor for his attention. Everybody (the plants and I) feel rejuvenated by his presence. Missing in this wonderful mix, however, was Van. We had to get along without his remarkable insights, questions, suggestions, and humor. I even missed our gardening arguments, which Jeff is masterful at mediating. Van will be returning from his China trip on Tuesday, the day the weather is supposed to change. I was hoping he'd arrive on a day as beautiful as those we're having this weekend.

Like the weather, there are occasional clouds. I got a call requesting that I schedule a CT scan. I was surprised because the radiation results won't be reliable for another couple of months. Apparently, this one is to see whether the cancer has appeared anywhere else. Today, I attended a seminar about Professional Wills, something I've been procrastinating about for 30 years. Now it seems urgent. I will pay "right attention" to these cloudy issues, while basking in the sunshine of music, the poetry of Sri Aurobindo, and the outreaches from all of you - soup from Gretty, memories from Dean, an upcoming visit from long-lost Glenn - keep 'em coming!

First Weekly Report While Waiting

With all the distractions of my life, I'm not really aware that I'm “waiting.” Van left, with some ambivalence, for China on Wednesday, reassured that I'd be O.K. because Jeff (my gardening pal and surrogate son from Seattle) was to arrive on Friday. Jeff's presence alone is healing, and working in the garden, especially with Jeff, has always been good for my soul. He got here early enough to go for a Dish walk (for those of you who are not local, we call the satellite that sits way up in the open space above Stanford, “The Dish.”) It was the first time I'd been up there since my diagnosis. I took it slowly with walking sticks and camelback (for water), not as easy as it used to be, but the exercise felt great. Also this week, I went back to riding my bike to work, and that feels so good.

Yesterday (Saturday), we went plant shopping at a very interesting nursery in South San Francisco – The Flora Grub – and brought lots of treasures home to plant in my garden. Today it's raining, good for the garden but not inviting us to work in it. Except for a walk around Lake Lagunita (started with a little sun, but ending with a good soaking), Jeff and I are hanging out – he's working on a design project and I'm finishing my to-do list for the weekend.

Thanks for all your ongoing support – Cousin Brigie continues to stop into the temples in Taiwan to offer up prayers; Virginia sent a Medicine Buddha, as an assist to Tinkerbell; Grace is wondering what happened to this week's blog update, as is Laurel. I am quite surprised and touched by people's interest in this unfolding, rather ordinary story. It certainly is helping me, so I shall continue to write weekly updates during this waiting period.

My First Photo Blog!

Here's the photo story of my last treatment:

(1) standing by my 'Healing Machine'

(2) going in for very last treatment (32 in all!)

(3) with 'Team Yosemite', Adella & Nate

(4) on the way out the door to celebrate!

The Sixth – and Last - Week

My, that went fast! As one of my friends said, I am now Radiant. I have a “CERTIFICATE OF COMPLETION, Given this 2^nd Day of April, 2010.” As with all graduations, the relief is mixed with the sadness that comes with endings. I've always had difficulty with “It's Over.” It helped today that my friend Helen was there to take pictures and go out afterwards for a celebratory coffee.

This week, I felt a little more fatigued than I have before, so I welcomed the several rides that were offered and the company of these great friends. I was not too tired, though, to take a lovely walk last Sunday with my sister Portia. She brought me a Prayer Plant – yes, that is the name of it -- how could I not be O.K. with the people in my life coming up with such thoughtful support? I have a lovely collection of heartwarming cards, letters, emails, and a bunch of beautiful lilacs on my kitchen table.

Now the waiting begins – three months for the unseen work of the radiation to be completed. Tinkerbell will be very busy, sweeping up dead cells, maybe working a little magic. Then we'll see what happened in there. Dr. Canales, the team leader, wants to do a CT scan after six weeks, just to check progress, I guess, but we won't have a final result until after two to three months.

As the first chapter of this story comes to an end, I'm reminded of my childhood love affair with Christopher Robin, who was described at the end of his Measles Drama (quite a story – look it up in Now We Are Six) as follows:

"Christopher Robin woke up in the morning,

The measles had vanished away.

And the look in his eye

Seemed to say to the sky,

Now, how to amuse them today?”

Stay tuned - we'll see...

Week Five!

Only one more week to go – hard to believe. I will have mixed emotions, though, at graduation, because it will also be the end of my association with the great people at Oyster Point who have shepherded me through this, particularly Adella, Justin, and Nate, my techs. My friend Bobbie accompanied me one day this week and, as I got my gown and blanket out of the cupboard, she said, “Like a spa”- an image that really captures the feeling of the place.

Still no side-effects to speak of, although Nate did notice today that my back is showing some effects of the burning. I never thought to look at my back! I thought the radiation was all through the front of the chest. I've been a little more fatigued the last couple of days, but I think I just need a little more sleep. I'm seeing Faith (Breath therapist and healer) regularly, as I did ten years ago with the breast cancer radiation, and I credit that work for much of these serendipitous results.

That's not all, though. My treasured friend, Jim Welch, has offered all along to play me a personal concert of the organ music of J.S. Bach. As many of you know, I grew up surrounded by this music (my Dad was a professional organist), and it is soul food for me. I'm a believer in the advice of one of my mentors: “Try and listen to at least a little Bach every day – it can have a profound effect on one's thought process and sense of well-being.” This morning, after the treatment, I drove right to St Mark's in Palo Alto where I spent a glorious hour listening to toccatas, preludes, fugues, sonatas. He ended with an all time favorite of mine, the Toccata in F Major, after which I always feel like I've died and gone to heaven.

Breath, music, friends, family, good medical care delivered in a healing environment – it's a recipe for well-being, no matter what the circumstances.

P.S. For those of you interested in the nutrition and cooking workshop mentioned last week, check out my friend Annabelle's blog, annabellesbigadventure.blogspot.com

End of the Fourth Week

Can it be? Is it four weeks already? Still no dreaded side effects, although this past week was a stretch.

For the first time since I was 3 years old, I slept for 10 hours! My take-away from this week, therefore, is that I need to get more sleep on a daily basis, and I need to start the re-org to free up Mondays again. Because of radiation schedule demands, I had started working a bit on Mondays, normally a non-work, discretionary-time-for-Barbara day. I miss it terribly. So physically, I'm doing pretty well, but I think I may be regressing psychologically as these old patterns re-emerge, i.e., the “too much to do” syndrome.

I asked my doc if she thought the treatment was happening, since I don't feel much different, last week notwithstanding. She assured me that it is, and reminded me that it's not over yet, and that, even after treatment ends, there could be residue. This week, Van and I attended a great “Orientation to Radiology” program at the Oyster Point facility. I have a better understanding of what is happening and how – pretty amazing.

Yesterday, at the instigation of my wonderful daughter-in-law, Susan,* who accompanied me, I went to a workshop on “The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen.” It was sponsored by the organization, Healing Journeys, and presented by Rebecca Katz (chef) and Jeanne Wallace (nutritionist). Much of what they talked about is good nutritional advice for all of us, but the focus was on particular nutritional strategies to complement cancer care. Another blessing at the presentation was the opportunity, over a delicious, healthy lunch, to share cancer stories with a couple of other women, most of which were about what what we're GETTING out of this experience – the silver linings. At the least, I'm learning to cook and to blog - that is the least, the most being the deepening relationships with friends, new and old, and with my blessed family.

*Susan's mother died two years ago of lung cancer. Her mother's journey was truly amazing – she lived two and a half years beyond her prognosis of 6 months by engaging fully in her life and availing herself of all the healing resources possible. Susan cooked for her and was introduced to Rebecca Katz at that time.

End of the Third Week

This is the end of the third week. I'm half done, hard to believe that it is going so fast. I still feel fine, have my appetite and no problems eating. Several people have accompanied me to a treatment and been introduced to my techs, the beautiful healing machine made by Varian, my doc, nurse, fellow patients, etc. We get a chance to schmooze all the way up and back. I'm already looking forward to preserving the time for myself that I now spend on treatments.

Van leaves for China right after we celebrate the end of radiation. Right after Van leaves, our surrogate son, Jeff, is coming down from Seattle to do some work in this area, and he will stay with us. He and I always have a great time, talking, walking, watching movies, gardening, cooking, eating, philosophizing. So there is lots to look forward to as well as lots to appreciate in the moment.

My plan is to report in at the end of each week from here on out. I'll send a short email in addition to reporting on the blog.

The Second Week

I've completed the Second Week now, and still feel very much like myself. The first couple of days, I was a little fatigued with having to get up so early to drive to the Kaiser Cancer Center at Oyster Point for my early morning appointment and, at the same time I was cutting off the caffeine, I go right on to work from the treatment but have a little down time to eat, rest, and prepare for the work day. At the end of my treatment today (Friday, 3/5), they told me to rest well this weekend – side effects usually start now, mainly fatigue, and, for me, possible trouble swallowing and eating. We'll see...

The Kaiser Oyster Point Cancer Treatment Facility is extraordinary. Every person working there is welcoming, friendly, helpful, supportive – doctors, nurses, techs, dieticians, receptionists, admins, - it makes for a truly healing environment. The process is superbly efficient and well-organized as well as flexible – if one arrives early, or late, they are easily accommodated. Since we are all assigned regular times for treatment, we have our own little radiate-mate groups, and follow one another's progress. My good friend Helen took me the other day, and everyone went out of their way to welcome her. The techs offered a tour of the radiation room and equipment, and she went in to see the doc with me (Wednesday is “Doctor's Day”, when everybody touches base with their doctor.) It's possible that I may welcome some help getting there if these promised side effects manifest, so others of you may have the opportunity to see it for yourselves.

I'll “graduate” the first or second week in April. Then comes the waiting – two or three months later, I'll have the tests to determine the state of the tumors. Maybe they will be shrinking, or at least contained. I'm working on getting rid of them – many sources recommend visualizing some sort of violent action against the bad guys (cancer cells). Being an advocate of non-violence, this wasn't working for me, but I did discover that imagining Tinkerbell (“Believe, just believe!), sleeping inside me and waking up as the rays start to penetrate, using her wand to hasten the death of dying cells (putting them out of their misery), and then sweeping up the dead cells and throwing them into the waste stream – that works for me.

Welcome to my new blog

As part of my new adventure, I'm learning how to blog! My purpose in doing this is to be able to provide a running commentary to those of you who are interested, and for you to be able to communicate easily with me. And, I expect to need some help along the way, so I will use this format to send out my SOS's. This will also give me an opportunity to share what I'm learning, resources, books & articles that I find helpful etc. For those of you that don't know the history, read the posts, from the bottom up, and you will have the whole story. More to come...

The Waiting Is Over

Boy, my family and friends must have a lot of pull with the universal gods. Today was the big day - my consultation with the radiologist. I liked her VERY much and feel very safe in her care. The cancer is stage IIIA, and I will be having the full course of radiation, 6-7 weeks of daily treatments, starting next week. Tomorrow I have the CT scan to determine site, position, etc., and later this week the dreaded MRI that I thought I'd avoided. ( to scan the brain as a base line for the future.) I'm familiar with this treatment from the breast cancer, but it is likely to have more side effects than I experienced then. They will be radiating two sites, the tumor and the lymph node. The latter is close to the trachea and esophagus, so I may have pain or discomfort eating. Also, it may be more tiring - but that's what they said I would feet last time and I didn't. There remains a question about the sternum - it is hot on the PT scan, as if there were cancer there, but it's more likely that it is the injury from my fall that causes it to show up like that. In about three months, we'll test again...if it shows less, than we can assume it is the injury which is healing. So you can all help now by visualizing a healing sternum...

Honestly, I feel quite positive about what's unfolding. There is the possibility of cure, or at least containment. I'm planning to have the radiation in the AM, and then work in the afternoon, so life will continue pretty much as usual, at least to begin with. I'll cut out the extras and be prepared to cut back work if, in fact, it is too tiring. Truthfully, I really don't know what to expect in the way of discomfort, pain and/or fatigue, so I'm planning to take it one day at a time.

Stand by for updates from time to time - and maybe even calls for help...

Love,

Getting Ready

O.K, here's the report so far: Dr. Canales just called, responding to my call earlier today inquiring about the status of the test results. As we had surmised, the reslts were being analyzed by many folks in order to determine the exact nature of the problem. It is not the breast cancer; it is non-small cell lung cancer. The tumor is about 2 centimeters, in the left lung; the node that is also involved is on the right. There is some question about the bone, which is probably the injury from the fall - that we will know as we see if it heals.

There are three levels of treatment, which is what is being determined now: 1) radiation - this would be best, but may not be possible if the radiation I had for the breast cancer would rule it out; 2) chemotherapy - my understanding is that it is pretty intense for lung cancers; 3) surgery - not desirable from any point of view, if it can be avoided. So your job now is to pray, God Willing, for the radiation to be feasible.

The news could be better, it could be worse. I must confess that my anxiety level is up a bit. They will be calling as soon as my radiation records are retrieved from Palo Alto Medical Clinic, and it is determined whether that can be the treatment. Of course, you will know as soon as I know what's next.

So here we go - it's a little more scary than exciting at the moment, but, for now, I'm staying in today. Right this minute, I am about to take off for an organ concert at Mem Chu. My Ipod is full of wonderful cantatas, and I plan just to stay in the experience of each moment. The most reassurance of all is the presence of each and every one of you in my life.

Stay tuned,

My New Adventure

It's time to begin sharing what's happening in my life right now. During our visit to the Desert in December, on a perfectly lovely hike, I fell flat down, injuring my sternum. As a result, I had an X-ray to be sure everything was O.K. The X-ray revealed an ominous shadow on the lung that needed further investigation. I had a CT scan just before New Year's which confirmed that, indeed, there is a mass in my lung. Next Tuesday (the 12th) I will have a CT biopsy to determine the exact nature of the mass and nodal involvement. I have just returned from an appointment with my oncologist, whom I have been seeing regularly since thebreast cancer of ten years ago. I'm feeling very good after talking with her - she described a whole range of possibilities, for all of which there are treatments!

The results of the biopsy probably won't be available until the following week. A Pet Scan is scheduled for Wednesday, the 20th - that's the one that is scaring me right now, frankly - 45 minutes closed up in a tube! Van went with me to the appointment, took good notes, and promised to help me prepare for the PT scan. (Feel free to talk to him about any of this - I have given my permission for him to know and discuss any of my medical issues.)

I am feeling very calm about all this (except for the scan on the 20th) - the hardest part is letting it out of the privacy of my own head, but my experience tells me that things go better with support. I'm taking it one step at a time; so far, it isn't too interruptive - I've been able to schedule work around the medical appointments; I'm starting up again with my harpsichord lessons that were on hold for the trip to China and the holidays; and I'm beginning an ongoing workshop study of the great Indian epic poem, Savitri, a symbolic myth about life, love, and death. Most important, now I have all of you to help me hold whatever is coming.

I'm "staying in today," "letting my breath come and go on its own,", and experiencing enormous gratitude for family, friends, my Kaiser health team, and even for falling and hurting myself so badly that the trouble inside could be discovered.

Thanks for being there,