Note: Fortunate Son, Part 2 is sitting half-written in my drafts folder. And there are, I suspect more installments to follow.”
This piece, I think, belongs much later in the Fortunate Son series, but for reasons which should, perhaps, be apparent it seemed necessary to “jump ahead” and get it down now.
When I woke up this morning, I realized I’d been dreaming, pretty extensively, about an old friend I’ve known since my earliest days in sobriety. She has always been one of the most dynamic, powerful women I’ve ever met.
But recently some serious health issues laid her low and she spent several weeks in hospital, many of those unconscious or only barely still connected here. I spent several afternoons, gowned up, sitting by her bedside holding her hand and whispering my love and respect in her ear—wasn’t sure for a while there if she’d be coming back or not.
I’m quite confident that if you had a chance to ask her Cora, like me, would tell you she is, on balance, pretty damned happy with how her life has played out. Her story is far, far different than mine, but it is one that lets her hold her head up.
And thinking about Cora after I awoke, my thoughts turned to the individual who actually first introduced me to recovery. I had met Cora through E, that’s what brought her to mind.
We stayed close for a time, I even turned out to be “that guy” who could step up in 1982, driving her back and forth from the San Lorenzo Valley to Packard Childrens Hospital at Stanford almost daily when her infant daughter was there for an extended period of time teetering on the edge of life. That was one of my first experiences in this Second Half of My Life with prioritizing being of service to someone else; putting their needs ahead of my own.
Eventually though, our paths drifted apart. A few years later, I learned E had returned to drinking, and was living a pretty limited and marginal life. Lost touch completely after that. I have no idea if she left the area, got sober again somewhere else, what? I know I never ran across her again, or heard rumors of her “in the rooms” around Santa Cruz County.
I don’t know if she’s still living. Perhaps she relocated, found her way back to sobriety in another community, and is living a contented life surrounded by grandkids. But it’s equally possible, perhaps even likely, that she died in her disease, taunted by the demons of alcoholism and the lies they whisper just inside our ears. I don’t know, and I won’t project on her.
Contemplating the possibilities though, especially looking at the contrast between Cora’s story and E’s, I had to confront the hard fact that many of us do not reach the end of our run here in a space where we can look at the arc of our time with a modicum of satisfaction and gratitude.
For too many folks, this journey is just a long, grinding, trek through a relentless vale of tears. I am truly, truly saddened that that’s the case.
And I realize yet again (a) how very goddamned lucky I am and (b) that I owe an ethical, even moral debt to those less fortunate. That I am bound both by love and duty to comprehend, acknowledge, and appreciate my good fortune.
I have not earned it, I am no more deserving of it than anyone else. I am profoundly grateful for it.
So much of what I’ve been able to witness and/or be a part of throughout my life are, frankly, the product of Happy Circumstance. Seemingly random occurrences which placed me in the right place and time, with the right people.
Start with the very fact of my existence. It would seem that my old man enjoyed a bit of good fortune himself. As World War II got into full swing, just about every able-bodied young man was expected to play some role in service to the war effort.
Lou elected to volunteer for the Coast Guard, which had been placed under the command of the Department of the Navy “for the duration.” After completing basic training, he was assigned to a ship, and traveled to San Francisco to assume his duties.
The ship was anchored in San Francisco Bay, off Treasure Island, with orders to depart for the South Pacific sometime in the next 48 hours when the hand of fate, as manifested through the military bureaucracy declared him an official Lucky Bastard.
Prior to the war, Lou had some experience working in a teller’s cage for a bank in Des Moines (it was the Depression—you took work where you found it). As a result of that background on his résumé, he’d been declared, in Navy parlance, a Storekeeper, which essentially meant he could drive a typewriter and add a column of figures.
Thus, when some gold-braided officer ashore determined that another half dozen or so enlisted men who were at least semi-literate were needed for clerical work, he was one of those who plucked from the rolls and ordered off his ship.
Thus, instead of spending the war (or as much of it as he survived) engaged in the ongoing floating hell that was the Pacific Theater, Lou’s war was fought in San Francisco Bay on Alameda and Treasure Islands, and he spent most of his off duty time in the City.
So the fact that I exist at all can really be tagged as a happy accident. The odds of him surviving four years in the South Pacific and finding his way home physically and mentally intact enough to father me (given how emotionally damaged he was already) have to be pretty slim.
San Francisco was a hell of a place to be in those years, especially for a guy dressed in Navy blues. It’s hard to imagine what it must have been like for a twenty-something kid from the Midwest who’d never been out of Iowa.
But I know this much. When he was mustered out after the war, he made a beeline back home, told his honey “we are NOT spending another winter in this, you won’t believe what I found” and started packing stuff into the old Chevy.
After a leisurely cross country trip along the Southern Route (US 66), the young couple landed in the Bay Area, initially renting an apartment in Burlingame before buying a brand spanky new tract house in Santa Clara and moving just in time for me to be born just after the New Year in San Jose Hospital.
So, once again: Lucky Me. Instead of growing up in the summer heat and humidity and winter ice and snow of Iowa, I’m a Native Californian. Actually, better than that, I’m a Bay Area native (there are many Californias; each with its own unique personality).
It would be hard to overstate how fortunate I feel having had the chance to come of age in California in the latter half of the 20th Century. Visitors from places around the world come away impressed with one thing or another, depending on their tastes and priorities. Almost all seem to find something to carry away with them they see as memorable and exceptional.
There’s a lot to love. And it’s remarkable for its diversity as much as the special flavor of any particular piece. Whether it’s snow crowned mountains, sun kissed beaches, or stark desert; urban or wilderness, you can find it within our borders, often just a couple hours drive away.
Growing up in The Golden State, and spending the bulk of my life here has infused me with a depth of appreciation born of decades of intimate familiarity. I imagine a first time visitor may be, in some respects, more “wowed” by aspects that have long since become commonplace for me. But the other side of the coin is that living here for so long has built within me a rich sense of love for this corner of the planet. There may have been a time in my youth I didn’t fully appreciate what a privilege it is to be here; if so that time is long past.
It’s difficult for me to find the words to describe my love for this place, and my sense of connection to it. I spent my childhood within a few miles of San Francisco, and once I left home the bulk of my youth and young adulthood found me in the City, at the center of a cultural and artistic moment unparalleled in my lifetime.
So, that I love. I also love spending time under the cool, quiet canopy of groves of redwoods that were already old when the Roman Empire was spreading across the “known world.” I love the subtle but insistent beauty of our deserts.
I am nourished by the soul healing, ever shifting waters of the Pacific Ocean, whether those waters wash the sands of sun kissed beaches or crash dramatically against rock cliffs in the endless dance of dominance along those hard shores. Driving through the grass covered rolling hills of California live oak country infuses my heart with a lyrical gratitude that, after a lifetime of absorbing it, I still don’t understand.
And this barely scratches the surface. I’ve not even talked about the remarkable character of the birds, beasts, and fish that still find space for themselves in our ever more populated state. Haven’t begun to explore the wonders of our climate, and its perfect pairing to the needs of the human body.
Nor have I really done any unpacking of the story of humans on this land, from the earliest first peoples who lived quite comfortably, if simply, in the bounty nature provided for untold centuries on into the stories of successive waves of newcomers to the state (with all the good, and terribly bad those stories encompass); or spoken of the fascinating structures and other artifacts those generations left behind for us to explore and try to understand. And still today, there are parts we get right, and parts we get wrong.
Lucky me. I’ve had the privilege to call myself a California native for almost seven decades, now.
Turning once again to the specific fact of growing up in the Bay Area in the 1950s and ’60s, it’s important to note just how deeply I perceived myself a misfit, pretty much as far back as I can remember.
Some of that, no doubt, was the result of environmental factors, be it a childhood in an alcoholic home or the fact I was a poorly coordinated, unathletic, glasses-wearing kid who was an easy target for schoolyard bullies. Some a function of my own internal dialog. I never really felt a comfortable and confident sense of mastery; that I truly belonged anywhere, really.
And, as I commenced my fitful slide toward adolescence, and beyond, that sense that I didn’t fit grew increasingly to dominate my narrative. That was when the indescribable good fortune of being located a few miles from San Francisco, just as the City was becoming the center of the counter-cultural universe, really made itself apparent.
More on that is ahead in Part 2 of this narrative. For tonight, I’m wrung dry.
So, the new European GDPR privacy protection law took effect today.
I support the aim of it, and don’t really know enough to have an opinion on the specifics (Barlow, where are you when I need you?).
The law mandates it be significantly more “user friendly” than the 87 page long lawyer language stuff we’ve all grown accustomed to clicking as “read and accepted” in order to do damned near anything on line, though I confess I still find the available boilerplate to be pretty snooze inducing.
And you can rest assured that if/when I elect to add any new bells and whistles on this site that impact the data I collect on you, how long I keep it, and what other entities I may share it with, you will be advised and have the ability to opt out.
I posted this up on Facebook late Sunday. And, I confess, reaction was so strong I’ve been persuaded to repost it here so it sticks around.
I’m tired and more than ready to log off, but I wanted to at least acknowledge, and share a thought or two about Mother’s Day.
To those among my friends for whom this day remains a pure, happy celebration of love, my deep and sincere best wishes.
But, I’m keenly aware that there are a number of folks who, for various reasons, land somewhere between “mixed feelings” and “raw grief” this day.
And I send my heart’s desire for peace and comfort your way as well.
For the children who have lost a loving mother.
For those who feel they never knew a loving mother.
For the women who mourn the fact they were never able to have children.
For those who made a thoughtful, personal choice not to have children for good and valid reasons but who nevertheless feel left out, if not judged, on
days like this.
For the mothers who have had one or more children die or go missing, and are living their lives now carrying a gaping, invisible wound that never fully heals and will be with them all their days.
For the single fathers who find themselves trying to be mother as well.
For the grandparents who thought they were headed for retirement but instead are now raising a “second family.”
For the mothers and children separated by incarceration, war, or politics.
And for all the others who’s particular situation I have not called out here, but who found themselves feeling “out of step” with the dominant narrative today.
May you all love and be loved; may you feel peace, safety, and connection; may you all sleep tonight with full hearts.
Note: I found the artwork that accompanies this post a couple days later on a friend’s Facebook page. Seemed to drive the same message so well, I thought I’d include it here. It was created by Boston artist Megan J. Smith for their Repeal Hyde Art Project. You may want to check out the project’s web site here.
I was hunting for something on YouTube this morning that I never did find. But in that way that YouTube (well, all of the internet really) has, my search took me down a couple different rabbit holes, eventually landing me someplace that really got me thinking.
Among the body of film clips and audio files of The Beatles that float around out there in the wild these days (much of it material from the Anthology project, or bits and pieces that didn’t make the final cut for that compilation) there are a number of purported bits of “the boys at work in the studio.” Many of these informal scraps appear to be at least semi-staged, quite likely at the behest of some Under Assistant West Coast Promo Man (in his seersucker suit) who wanted something “special” to leverage.
But what I stumbled upon this morning seems to be authentic “fly on the wall” audio of the band sitting around in studio trying to find the pieces to fit a remarkable new song George Harrison had brought in. The tune eventually became the wonderful Something on the Abbey Road album, but it’s a long way from it at this point.
I listened in fascination for a good nine minutes as the boys stumbled and wandered around the fully formed melody line, searching for the lyrics. As I heard them chase down several false trails, then back up and restart, I silently thanked the studio gods that some assistant engineer in master control had the presence of mind to roll tape “just in case.” It’s a revealing glimpse at process.
I also realized, after a bit, I was getting a revealing look at myself as well. I’m pretty sure I’ve talked here before about my lifelong affinity for music, of all types. Really from the time I was old enough to begin generating fully formed* thoughts and feelings I was attracted to music wherever I could find it.
*hmmmm…”fully formed” may be overly generous, even now.
Whether it was strolling oompah combos at the County Fair, watching variety shows on the huge mahogany black and white Capehart, my folks’ old big band records, or afternoons spent peeking around the corner into our living room as the neighboring teenage girls brought their precious rock ‘n’ roll 78s over to play for my lonely and welcoming mother in the living room (they’d kick off their shoes and dance in their bobby sox all afternoon—nobody at home would permit them to turn up the volume on “that damned noise”), I was locked in by the time I was 6 or 7 years old.
Fast forward a half-decade or so. By the time the first stirrings of puberty were beginning to cloud my young mind, my horizons had expanded beyond pop deeper into the roots of blues, jazz, folk and more.
I even went through a brief phase when I was 14 or so when I saved up, bought myself a used acoustic guitar and some tab books, and worked on reinventing myself as a “folk singer.” But within a year or so, I had to confront the reality that I had absolutely no native talent as a musician.
You know how you hear stories about kids who pick up some cast-off junk instrument, teach themselves how to get a noise out of it, and within weeks are astounded the adults around them? And they then grow up to be famous players, in demand by audiences around the world? If there is a 180 degree opposite of that kid, I was him. I was never gonna “astound the guys and win the girls” with my guitar virtuosity. Eventually I came to terms with that truth and let it go.
But my hunger to find a way to be near the music, to be there for the transcendent moments I already understood it can bring, stayed with me. And it wasn’t long before I came to realize that for every lead guitarist and killer piano player up on stage there needed to be a significant number of “support troops” to make a space for the magic to happen.
And thus, as I came of age in the San Francisco Bay Area in the late ’60s and early ’70s, I found myself on stages and around clubs, dance halls, and bands. Not as a performer, but as one of those necessary crew people. It was in the intensified cauldron of that scene, in that moment, that I began my lifelong, still ongoing, admiration for and relationship with people I’ve come to call The Creatives.
I speak here about artists of all stripes, be they performers (musicians, actors, jugglers and dancers—even, to some degree, athletes and politicians) or practitioners of more solitary arts, such as writers, painters, and the like.
I found, almost subconsciously, that the role of “support” is a comfortable fit for who I’ve come to understand myself to be. I truly do not have that gift/curse of The Creative, whose mind and psyche contains the odd admixture of talent and inspiration that drives them to express something, and gives them access to the necessary skills to execute. But I do have skills, talent and intelligence. And I get great satisfaction in putting them to work in service of The Creative.
I did that for a number of years in and around music.
Also spent a good chunk of time in radio which, at first blush, might seem to run counter to what I just said. But really, in reflecting on my broadcasting career, I was always, again, able to make myself a useful and valuable “member of the team.”
And the nature of the medium means that still put my in front of a mic (and yes, I loved doing that work). But here too, I was never the most high profile personality on air. Most of the time I was “the news guy,” doing important work, but never putting myself in front of the story. And my stints as a music host were all relatively anonymous weekend shifts or fill in work for “the regular talent.”
Recently, I’ve had the opportunity to apply that “support staff” mindset in work with two different authors; one working on an important biography, the other producing fiction pieces after decades of focusing her talents in completely different arenas.
In one case, I served (by remote electronic connection—the internet is a remarkable tool sometimes) as essentially a combination proofreading editor and beta reader. Devising and implementing a system for making notes and communicating them to an author several thousand miles away was an interesting challenge.
For the other, I’ve been more directly involved in virtually all the “non-creative” aspects of producing, packaging and taking to market, two books now, with more to follow.
In the latter case, it’s been a pretty intense learning curve in which I’ve had to bring many aspects of my skill-set to bear in new areas where I have limited, if any experience. Fortunately for me it appears I am, among other things, an autodidactic polymath. Which is, I learned this afternoon, a $20 way of saying I am one adept at self-education “whose expertise spans a significant number of different subject areas.” Impressed? I was.
The thing I’m trying to say about this is that, once again, I find myself sliding easily into that “I’m the support guy” role for a new sub-category of Creative. And, once again, I’m deriving significant satisfaction and fulfillment from being the facilitator.
Look, I’ve come a long way ’round to get back home to this point: While initially motivated as a young person simply by a desire to be present and a part of what seemed to be important and exciting events, that yearning brought me to come to see myself as bringing value to life by applying my skills and talents in support of The Creative.
And, as a result of that, I’ve enjoyed more than my share of opportunities to stand close to the white hot energy of the Creative Crucible as much as anyone not endowed with the gift/curse themselves is likely to be able. Due to that, I believe I have come to have a certain familiarity, if not intimacy, with that process, and a number of people within whom it moves.
That close view has taught me some things over the years. Early on I absorbed the lessons, but did not yet have the life experience or perspective to put the education in context. With the more contemplative mind set this season of my life has brought comes, I think, a deepening understanding of it all.
In younger days, it was hard to get much beyond the basic transactional lessons. “I really love Xyz’s music, but geez he’s an asshole to deal with.” “What a delight it was to spend the evening with Abc. Supremely talented, and so easy to present. She just brings light to the entire building when she walks in.” Stuff like that.
Fairly quickly, because I did spend so much time “inside the bubble,” I also learned that, as a culture, we are damned hard on our artists. We bestow a certain celebrity upon them, but then make demands on their attention and activities that are, frankly, selfish and unreasonable. Then we resent them if they don’t accede to those demands, on our timetable.
But here’s the thing (and this is the piece I find myself coming to somewhat late in life). I feel terribly grateful for the trust Creatives place in me when we take our respective roles and do the things we must. And I have ever-deepening respect and sympathy for those among us who carry the Creative gift/curse.
To be the individual who brings the magic is truly a remarkable gift from the universe, and the gods of the arts. But that gift comes with a heavy, heavy cost to those upon whom it is bestowed. Beyond the often terrible weight of the relationship with “fans” that I touched on above, the very act of creating often generates a staggering vulnerability for the Creative.
And the more profound and moving the art, the greater the extent to which it leaves the one who puts it out there naked before the world. Also, I’ve never known a truly talented individual who wasn’t wracked from time to time with agonies of insecurity and self-doubt; what some call “impostor syndrome,” regardless the level of their accomplishments. It seems an inevitable byproduct of the work.
Different individuals deal with it in different ways. As noted above, some create a deeply loving and supportive “family” among those they work with and all who surround them while others grow prickly and withdrawn.
It breaks a lot of people. That, along with the basic raw talent, is why the ranks of the truly magical are so small. Many, for one reason or another, drop out along the way. It’s also why we have so many tales of alcoholism and addiction, failed relationships, and deaths at age 27.
What I know to be true is this: Being a Creative is a damned difficult job, harder and more challenging than anything most of us ever have to bear and sustain. Thus, today I have deep, deep respect for the courage (even if it’s courage born of desperation) of those who do the work.
The human condition is enriched by the presence of these gifted ones among us. And to whatever small degree I have been able to ease the yoke of the gift for a few of them here and there, it’s a life well lived and it has been my privilege to assist.
Plus, I got to be present for a hell of a lot of cool stuff.
Oh, I expect I owe it to you to show you the video that sparked this almost 2000 words of rumination. Here ’tis.
NOTE for regular readers: As you know, I avoid the overtly political here, reserving that sort of traffic for my Twitter and Facebook accounts. The avowed purpose of this blog is to honor my medical diagnosis and do what I can to “download” whatever experience and—dare I say?—wisdom I’ve accumulated before my run here is finished.
But here’s what happened. A young man from Rockford, illinois who calls himself Jimmy B.O.A. posted the following Tweet, which sparked an exceptionally interesting comment thread (Jimmy clearly has high quality followers). I wanted to join in, but quickly realized my remarks would extend too far beyond the 240 character limit to even build a thread. Thus, a post here which I can link in the comments.
And besides (he adds in his best self-justifying voice), this isn’t about a “news of the day” political issue. It does speak to a piece of who I am which, I submit, gets it past my self-imposed “no politics” rule.
First, Jimmy’s Tweet:
POC can fight against racism until the death of them. Shit will never change, until the minute good “White Folks” speak up, and condemn each and every person that commits “Racial acts” against people that doesn’t look like them.
You. Must. Not. Spare. A. Racists. Feelings.
Let’s set context first, OK? I’m an old white dude, a bleeding edge boomer specifically. And I’ve been speaking up and speaking out my entire life. Attended my first civil rights march when I was, not sure now, either 12 or 13 years old. Was involved in anti-war activities and efforts to support UFWOC (later UFW) by the time I was a freshman in high school. Et cetera, et cetera. So, I’ve “been to the barricades” many times, and I’ve never stopped advocating for what seems right to me.
And I’m grateful to Jimmy for launching this thread. It has kicked off some interesting and useful conversation (something that seems a rarity rather than the rule much of the time on Twitter).
I absolutely concur. Nothing changes unless and until those standing in the way of change are challenged and called out. One of the advantages of being my age is that I have seen this play out time and time again on any number of specific issues over the decades. Barack Obama and Dr. King were right about the arc bending toward justice, but it’s a long arc and it needs our help along the way.
Need to say though, that as I have continued to “do the right thing” as best I can, I have had to learn a lot of new stuff over the years. And a lot of that has to do with privilege. There was a time it all seemed pretty simple to me (if a little risky at times). When I saw something that seemed wrong, my job was to stand up and speak out. That remains my guiding policy, but in recent years something began to happen that confused and disturbed me at first.
And I’ve seen some folks post up about it in this thread. Other white folks whose feels got bruised when they tried to speak out and someone challenged them (sometimes caustically) on their standing to discuss the issue.
See, I’ve come to believe that confliction (a lot of it anyway) is all about privilege. And I’m realizing one of the most pernicious things about privilege is how difficult it can be to recognize when you’ve enjoyed it your entire life.
In today’s context, now that someone has invented and defined the term “ally,” it just won’t work any more for me to roll up and start white mansplaining to folks who are marginalized and disempowered in one way or another howIthink they “should” act to be most effective (let alone how they should feel).
Because I don’t know what I don’t know. Oh, yeah. I’ve spent periods of my life impoverished. I have more than a passing acquaintance with alcoholism and drug addiction. I’ve seen the inside of jail cells for less than noble reasons, lived in “the inner city,” and on and on. But when all is said and done, I remain a white male and therefore, by default, less vulnerable and exposed than many others.
When in discussions—especially discussions about “resistance” of one sort or another, but really discussions of any sort with POC, women, LGBTQ+, and other friends and associates I love, respect, and want to support, I’ve learned I have to listen before I speak. To stay open and receptive. To stop and carefully consider when someone tells me to “check my privilege.” Then, if I still can’t see it, to ask for help.
Yes, it can be uncomfortable at times. Especially when those challenges land in a way that feels like my intentions, motives, or sincerity are being questioned. But I’m finding that beyond the discomfort there is important stuff for me to learn and understand. About myself, and about the people I want to support.
Also, I believe it’s damned important that the conversation has been elevated to the place where privilege is on the table. The fact that certain members of that dwindling dominant white male culture feel so threatened and put-upon by voices for change (and are completely blind to the absurdity of claiming they are somehow “victims of discrimination”) speaks to that importance.
So, yeah. I will continue to speak up and call out my cis male white brethren whenever and wherever necessary. I’ll also participate and, if it seems appropriate, offer my input and opinions to my sisters and brothers in the struggle; but I will do my best to do so with humility, an open heart and mind, and the understanding that it’s not my job to be the lead sled dog.
So yesterday I made the longish drive up to San Jose for the “routine check-in appointment” with my oncologist.
We covered where I’m at, and how things have (and haven’t) progressed since they upgraded me last summer and declared me officially “advanced” now—which was, you may recall, the impetus for launching this blog in the first place.
At the time I graduated to Advanced Prostate Cancer Patient, she’d told me that, given my situation, I should expect to metastasize “within a year,” and that, on average, survivability after that point is generally a year or two. So, I brought that up with her yesterday. Because here I sit, eight months later, jaunty jolly, waiting for the damned shoe to drop and my quality of life to start getting shitty fairly quickly.
Here’s the thing: At the time they escalated my diagnosis, the “doubling rate” on my PSA count was rolling like a runaway gravel truck with blown airbrakes on a stretch of road coming off the mountain. Fast and getting faster.
So, concurrent with my newly acquired Big Boy status, they deployed some new (new to my personal ecology, not new to the field) pharmaceutical weapons which are sometimes helpful.
I’d been receiving injections of a drug called Lupron ever since my number started to creep up again a few years back. They had given it to me for several years after my radiation treatments back when I was first diagnosed in the early ’90s, but then discontinued it when things stabilized. They sent me on my way with instructions to get my PSA checked more often than the average guy, which I did.
If you’re not familiar, Lupron suppresses testosterone production. See, testosterone is like Happy Meals for prostate cancer cells, and the idea is that, by removing that from the body, you starve out the little bastards.
It’s actually pretty effective, for a while. But the thing about cancer is that it’s persistent, and creative. Eventually, when it gets tired of being malnourished, it mutates itself so it can comfortably find sustenance elsewhere, and starts replicating again like cellular level bunny rabbits.
So anyway (sorry this is so “long way ’round,” I’m tired and I guess I’m feeling like I need to spell this out at this point), I’d been back on Lupron for two or three years when they decided I’m officially Advanced (and therefore ultimately terminal) now. And, while continuing the periodic injections, they added a daily oral medication, Casadex, to the mix.
As I understand it, Casadex essentially inhibits the ability of my cancer cells to bind with ANY of the hormones in my body, including any residual testosterone, and the three or four other things I never knew we have that exist on the biological spectrum somewhere between testosterone and estrogen (which, by the way, we all have within us as well).
Often, though not always, this effectively slows down the cancer’s progression until it once more adjusts to the changing ecosystem in my body and gets cooking again.
The good news is that it seems to have worked like a champ in my case. My PSA numbers have been knocked way down, and stabilized at a level that, in a guy who didn’t have the cancer, would be just dandy. Unfortunately I do, so the effect is temporary. In time, we’ll see my numbers start to get away again; but that is then. This is now.
Anyway (finally!), what this all boils down to in the near term is this: The oncologist’s officially operable wisdom at the moment is that I can expect to metastasize one to two years from the time of my advanced restaging (last summer).
So, I’m still on the long offramp, but it’s appearing at the moment that the ramp may be a bit longer, and I may be rolling a bit slower, than we were previously led to believe. Which I embrace, without reservation, as delightful news.
There’s an old joke about the difference between an optimist and a pessimist that goes something like this.
The two old friends find themselves in The Big City for the first time, encountering that modern wonder known as the “skyscraper.” They’re standing on the sidewalk in front of a building famous for its observation deck, debating whether they should go up and check out the views.
The pessimist flat refuses to get on the elevator and go up to check it out. “I just KNOW something will go wrong and one of us will fall!” he declares.
“OK, fine,” responds the optimist. “I’m going up by myself,” he vows and steps into the elevator.
Once up on the eighty ninth floor, he heads outdoors to the observation deck and is immediately vindicated. It’s a beautiful, sunny day, and he’s standing at the highest point in the city taking it all in.
It’s so spectacular, he leans out for a better look and, sure enough, loses his footing and tumbles off into free fall.
But remember I told you he’s the eternal optimist. As he’s falling eighty nine stories to certain death, he calls out to folks looking out their office windows as he passes each story, “Doing great so far!”
Some days—hell, a lot of days any more—I find myself identifying with that mythical optimist. Yes, I know how this ends. But in the meanwhile, I’m doing great so far.
Somewhere in a box of unsorted cassette tapes, stashed somewhere in my stuff, there is (I hope) still a tape I made of Elizabeth Cotten performing live in a tiny club (I can’t even remember the name of the establishment) on Upper Grant Avenue one night in the 1970s.
It was a magical evening for the 50 or so folks who were there.
I’ve spent a significant portion of my adult life in and around music and musicians; I can’t think of anyone more gracious, charming, and warm than Libba Cotten.
The woman (who must have been in her 80s then) just held the room in the palm of her hand all evening, exuding a center of love, peace and humility which was remarkable.
Oh, and yes. Even then, she could play and she could sing. In her simple, direct fashion, to be sure. But in a way that compelled respect; not by force, but by generosity.
One of the privileges of my life to have spent an evening breathing the same air as she.
I actually thought of two or three fresh topics in my sleep last night, and this isn’t any of them. They’ve gone on the list on the whiteboard, and I vow I’m gonna find the time to write some of this out.
But, in the meanwhile, seems right to at least check in, show the flag, and say a little about current events in the ongoing scenic railway of my life.
What follows is essentially a cut and paste of this morning’s Facebook “status update.” But it is words. Describing events of some importance to me. And thus…
The holiday? Well, truth be told I did not observe April Fools, or either of the other major points on the liturgical calendars of believers in a couple of our major faith traditions yesterday.
I did however enjoy the opportunity to spend the weekend in the Big City with some Quality Companionship.
Dinner and a looong hang with a man I’ve known for a solid half-century, who has to be counted one of my closest friends in this life, extending into a lovely Sunday Brunch (featuring another old and valued friend) that took half a day.
Both of us are at the far end of our arcs now (though, if I had to bet money I’d say my offramp is a couple exits ahead of his, but who knows?). There was, at least for me, deep pleasure and satisfaction in comparing notes on rich lives well lived; at times together, at other points in parallel.
And, as a bonus, I even enjoyed finally having an opportunity to actually get to know his life partner of the past eight years a bit better. We’ve met a number of times, but never really the chance to get beyond surface stuff before.
Then, before coming back home to our little valley last night, a chance for some comfortable quality time with another City Denizen who began as an “interesting acquaintance” a few years ago, and has evolved to “good friend.” The funny thing is that we moved in so many of the same circles when I was still in SF some 40 years ago, but apparently never met.
And yet, we “have history.” So many loved ones in common, we’ve even compared enough notes to establish we were actually in the same rooms for the same shows on several, if not numerous, occasions. Have to have been a few nights we actually passed within a few feet of each other backstage, it seems.
I don’t think there are enough years left to either of us to really unpack all the intersections, but it’s a delight to find my regard for someone I initially respected as a writer and musician expanding as I come to understand the amount of heart and passion in play.
I have been, and continue to be, privileged to live a life filled with truly remarkable people and my heart spills over with love and gratitude.
Some days are discouraging, and I almost lose sight of that until it’s time for me to sign off with my wishes that you all Rest in the Love. Other times, like this weekend (and this morning’s retrospection) it would take someone far more obtuse than I can be to miss it.
Because several folks have asked recently (and I thank you for your interest and concern), it appears it’s time for a progress report / update.
I had bloodwork done last week, and got an email from the oncologist on Tuesday advising that my “PSA remains stable .”
So apparently the assumption, based on my numbers, is that the cancer has not significantly metastasized yet, and is still getting its little cellular brain wrapped around the fact that we added Casadex to the mix (I’m also on a schedule of injections of Lupron, which is time-released into my body — how much detail on this stuff do you really want?).
That’s reassuring because I’ve noticed something about myself, and how I’m processing all this. Despite the fact that, as we’ve discussed before, I feel like I’m “in a pretty good place” about the fact we’re working our way through the late innings here, there is a part of me that remains pretty emotionally invested in just how things are going, and is rooting pretty hard at this point for this to take a while to play out.
And, as a result of that, I’m a little “over-vigilant” about relatively subtle shifts in things like when and how I fatigue, my overall pain level — and any new or unexpected spikes in same, along with other new manifestations of aspects of how I am in the world that might be indicative of something.*
At any rate, things remain dandy (all things considered) for now.
Working on some exciting projects with Yoshimi that I don’t have permission to talk about yet, but I think it’s going to be very cool.
We’re still in the process of getting ready for what I’m calling “The Last Great Road Trip” this Fall. At some point I expect I’ll get all self-indulgent and bore you with extensive details of the plans. We’ve been saving up for this since long before I got my diagnosis upgrade last summer. And yes, if you have spare change you’d like to toss in the pot, all support is welcome. Here’s the GoFundMe for that.
One other thing I should make note of, since we’re here talking about prostate cancer. If you’ve been keeping score at home (or, perhaps you actually read the “set up” backgrounder the first time you came here) you know I’ve been living with prostate cancer for 18 years now, and only recently have the medicos finally stood me up against the wall and declared me “advanced,” and therefore a short-timer.
Well, as a result of that I’m always interested in who else is a member of our large, and involuntary “Big C Club.” I count myself lucky, indeed, that I’m able to play the role of Trail Guide from time to time when somebody I know has that initial diagnosis dropped on their head.
No matter who you are, or what the specifics of your diagnosis and prognosis, my observation is that it always seems to rattle us when “The C Word” gets tossed into our lives. It’s a different country out here, and it can be damned helpful to have somebody to hang with, especially early days, who knows the lay of the land a bit.
In that regard, I rode along with a friend and his wife last week to be the “extra set of ears” and, if necessary, advocate at his initial consult with the radiology oncology Doc (he was still in the process of learning about his options and deciding if getting sliced and diced or nuked looked better for him).
A couple cool things happened on that trip. First, while we sat in the waiting room before being called in for our appointment, an old and dear friend and her husband emerged from down the hall. I recognized that “I’m keeping a good front up but my world just imploded and I’m scared as shit” look on her face. As he went to the desk to take care of whatever business was needed with the front office staff she hurried over and asked “what are you doing here?”
I quickly gestured to Ed and replied “I’m just a ride-along buddy today, what’s up with you guys?” This radiology oncology clinic treats all sorts of cancers, not just prostate, so I knew it might be any number of things.
She quickly gave me the bare bones of her husbands situation, which sounds like it’s gonna be no fun, but survivable, and I let her know I’m glad to be available to either or both of ’em to be “that guy” you talk it out with.
It’s such a privilege to be able to offer that unquestioning support. I find these days that the “connectedness” to my fellow humans has become one of the things I’ve come to value the most in this season of my life. So grateful when chances to live out that conviction present themselves.
Now here’s the other interesting thing: This is the same practice where I turned up every freaking morning for two months to get zapped with targeted external beam radiation 18 years ago. And when we were called back for our consult the Doctor looked at me for a minute or two and said “I know you!”
Yup. He swore up and down that, nearly two decades (and god nose how many patients later) he still remembered treating me. Of course, where I go in my head is that “must have been even more of a PITA than I realized” place. But I could see our quick exchange did a lot to boost the comfort and confidence of my friend and his wife, who are still in those early stages when the rational part of your brain is trying to settle down the emotional side, which is seriously freaked out.
So, nice piece of serendipity. Well played, Universe.
One final point about my membership in our huge Involuntary Club. I’m always interested when another New Member arrives at our clubhouse. Thus, I found this video that posted on the internet today of note. Perhaps you will as well.
And that’s about it from here for tonight. As you know, it is not my intention here to wallow in matters medical, but I reckon the occasional update for the interested is a reasonable use of the forum.
*For instance: I am, at the moment, in the midst of a persistent bout with vertigo. Now that’s something I have never experienced in my life, but which has presented itself several times over the last year or so for periods ranging from a couple hours to a day and a half or so. It’s not a big deal. I Googled a couple times ago when, for the first time, it lingered for more than 24 hours. The consensus from a number of mainstream medical sources was “not to worry — odds are, like 99% that it’s not significant. But the fact that I even bothered to look it up speaks to a level of concern that my body may be betraying me that I’ve never had before.