Merry Christianmas! (2015 Edition)

Today marks the end of my forty-second year on God’s green earth. That’s a long time. That’s not very long at all. 

Another week, and another excellent trip to Iowa is in the books. (That's the second leg of my Three Week, Three Trip, Three Continent adventure). The cloud to that silver living of a trip was a conference call I had with my oncologist on Wednesday. When he and I last spoke, we were talking about how well I seemed to be responding to chemotherapy. Our plan was to stay the course and return to Houston in September for another scan. Since that time, the June scan was scrutinized and my case taken back before the tumor board.  After further review, it appears there is a new lesion on my liver. That coupled with an increased tumor marker number from a couple of weeks ago has them quite concerned. The new plan was for me to head to Houston in a couple of weeks for another scan.

How quickly did those plans change. Over the next couple of days, operating under the assumption that the chemo is not actually working, the doctors have been trying to pair me with a clinical trial. It turns out that there is one that seems to be perfectly aligned with my condition. The problem is that it is a globally competitive trial that has only twelve spots, ten of which are filled. To sign on, I have to go to Houston today to do the paperwork. The rub is that by the time I get there, those final two spots may be filled. Rub or not, if there is a chance I have to take it. (By the time you read this, it will be decided one way or another- I’ll do my best to update below if I can).

Ain't that some ----. C'mon Delta- it's my birthday!
(Also, not an encouraging sign as I'm racing across the country
to get one of the final slots of a competitive clinical trial.)

 
The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Moving past the obvious disappointment that my condition may have taken a turn for the worse, this is a bummer on a couple of levels. First, today is Christianmas, and I would much rather spend my birthday with my family than on an airplane or in a Cancer Center. Secondly, I had plans and appointments for today and tomorrow.

Over the past four months I’ve been doing a pretty good job in pressing forward with life as usual (if I may so myself). I schedule my treatments and trips like any other piece of business. I’m at crucial points in that work, both in the implementation of a riverfront master plan in Iowa and in the reestablishment of a Design Studio in Chattanooga. Between the tumor and the chemo I’m not 100%, but I’ve been able to hold it together well enough during business hours to work effectively. When the last minute call was made to travel today, I was almost more ticked about having to cancel my meetings, than I was about the condition being worse. Apparently, I am so convinced that I will win, the ole priorities have shifted around.

This is a reminder that I am not in control. Of course, in the greater cosmic sense, none of us are in control of anything anyway. That I’m not in total control is frustrating. The acceptance of that fact is liberating.  Focusing on the things I can control is a much more manageable and productive exercise. For now I can control how I comport myself. I can, to some extent, control how I spend my time. In the end, I suppose this is all we can ever ask of life anyway.

For now, I plan to treat myself to an obscenely priced Christianmas dinner. With any luck I will return to Chattanooga tomorrow with a spot in this clinical trial. Delta-willing, I will depart on Wednesday for the final leg of the Three Week, Three Four Trip, Three Continent tour. God-willing I will be back in time to tell ya'll about it on next Monday.

UPDATE: Yes, I did make it into the trial.

Let’s play a game! Please venture a guess at where in the world I am going this week and send it to me before the end of the day on the 28th. If you guess correctly, I will bring a treat back for you. (If you know, keep it to yourself). For those keeping score, I have made two trips in two weeks, but have only been on one continent. (Therein lies a clue)

Clue #2

Veins on a Plane

Writing during my chemo session is a tricky proposition. I’m not my “normal self” during this time, and more tellingly it means I’ve procrastinated saved my weekly writing for the last minute. I’m also more likely to vent than if I were to write at a time of lesser duress. Case in point: I would typically not channel my inner (Chattanooga native) Samuel L. Jackson if I were writing from the comfort of my bed. As I sit in this chair, however, I feel compelled to declare that I have had it with these (expletive deleted)  needles in my (expletive deleted) arms.* Whew, much better. Lest you worry, please know that once I esacpe the needles, I return to my normal jovial self- still living the dream.

Three weeks, three trips, three continents. The first one is now in the books, and I’m off to quite a start. Two more weeks like this one and it won’t be a tumor that gets me. With D out of town for a few days, I thought this would be the perfect time for a boys getaway. My heirs and I took off for a long weekend, and this is our tale.

I once observed the fact that the barista at the airport remembered how I took my coffee was proof that I traveled too much. The second clue came as we were boarding the plane last week and the CHA Delta gate agents had a birthday card waiting for me. (Perhaps Delta does this for all medallions, but I prefer to believe that it is unique to our Chattanooga people). That it was not my birthday is somewhat beside the point, they were close. After a couple of uneventful flights we landed at DCA, and hit the ground running. A quick ride on the Metro and we were in front of the White House.

That's about right.

My traveling companions know I have patented the Walking Death March™ system for seeing new cities. My boys would not be spared. That first afternoon was tough: White House > W > Washington Monument > Lincoln Memorial > King Memorial > Jefferson Memorial > Korean War Memorial > Vietnam Memorial > WW II Memorial. At that point, the six year old was a bit grouchy, the ten year old was unfazed, and I was wiped out.

The march to the hotel was a serious test of stamina. Just as we were nearing the Washington Monument, three massive helicopters approached from the south. We could see that the streets in the path of the ‘copters were closed. They flew over our head, past the monument, and made for the White House. The two outside ‘copters peeled away and what we would later learn was Marine One landed on the south lawn. We gawked for a bit, watched the ‘copter take off and finished the last stretch of our trek back to the hotel.

Marine One is pretty cool.

No sooner had we crashed on the bed and turned on the TV, than the station cut to live statement from the President. Mr. Obama went on to address the attack in Chattanooga. What a surreal moment. There was the President, who we just saw fly by, sitting in the White House which was 621 feet away, talking about a tragedy in the city that has defined my adult life but was 600 miles away. Unreal. I don’t have anything to add about the events in Chattanooga last week (other than the fact that I am taking a break from browsing Facebook for a while).

Speaking of Facebook, as we were relaxing in the hotel, I got a message from a dear friend that was heading to D.C. for the weekend. Joe Edward was one of the first Phi’s I met in New Mexico. He was the leader of our chapter’s re-founding and unquestionably the adult among us. Friendship, Sound Learning, and Moral Rectitude are the Cardinal Principles of our fraternity, and there was no greater embodiment of those values among us than Joe.

I haven’t seen Joe since the early nineties, but we’ve had some close calls recently. We were at the same ‘Bama game last fall- but missed each other due to cell phone problems. We missed each other by a day at Disney World last month. This third time proved to be a charm. These days, Joe works with the Dodgers and was in town for a series with the Nationals. He invited the boys and I to join him and his daughter for the Saturday evening game. We had a big time catching up- it was a wonderful and unexpected treat to see my brother.

The next morning we were up before the sun to take the first flight home. Upon arrival the youngest and I crashed. The oldest proceeded to hit golf balls, play baseball, and shoot some hoops- all during the muggy heat of the day (oh, to have the vim and vigor of a ten-year-old).  One week, one trip, and one continent are in the books. More to come...

*Sincerest apologies to my Mother, and all of my God-fearing friends and prayer warriors. Indelicate, but needed to be said.

For chemo tunes suitable for foul-mouthed venting I turn to NIN. Survivalism, Only.

Running Through Cheese Grits

Sorry to keep you waiting- last week was a bit of a slog. I felt like I was running through cheese grits, but I got a great deal accomplished. I had a heck of a week at work- taking my board through a strategic planning process, preparing a presentation for Iowa, interviewing potential employees, and working on a very cool conceptual plan for a site in the Innovation District. I got my golf in with the guys (wasn’t spectacular but made my quota), and stepped on the tennis court for the first time in a dozen years (wasn’t spectacular, but beat my wife and son- playing as doubles- handily).

Five cycles into chemotherapy, it may be starting to catch up with me. It’s tough to say how much can be attributed to chemo and how much to my advancing age. Would I not be worn down after a tough workweek? Would I not be fatigued after a round of golf in 95-degree weather? Would there not be a bit of grey hair in the shower drain? Maybe it’s the chemo, maybe it isn’t. I don’t suppose it matters either way.

I promised in the beginning to share the good news and the bad. This week my tumor markers were up. Not good news. That number tends to fluctuate, however, so it’s not catastrophic news. The biggest problem it poses is one of morale- it’s much easier to stay up when the news is good. As the kids say- I’m aight tho. I try to equate this with the ebb and flow of a game- winning doesn’t require that you be in the lead the whole game. There is time on the clock yet, and I'm up for it.

Slow day at the office.

The Snake
Had I heard it earlier in life, I might have adopted this quote as a personal motto: “There’s nothing wrong with studying the playbook by the light of the jukebox.” That, of course, from Alabama great Ken Stabler.  He died of cancer last Wednesday. As he was at the Capstone before my birth, I have no memory of the Snake playing for ‘Bama. He was nonetheless a legend among the youth of the state. Kids at school would tell second hand stories of his exploits that they overheard from their parents. The man was is a legend in his own time.

After a bit of reflection, I am reminded once again that life is not fair. I’m no saint, and lord knows I have spent more than my fair share of nights out on the town. But I was no Ken Stabler. God bless him, he lived hard. Despite that, he made it to 69. For those counting, that’s 26 years older than I am now. Ain’t that some shit. (and don’t even get me started on Keith Richards again). Please don't get me wrong though, I'm not hating on The Snake.

More on Waiting
There is no doubt that waiting sucks. I suppose this is why patience is a virtue. The thing about waiting is that the time spent in anticipation is essentially lost. When we spend time focusing on the future, we miss out on now.

Living in the moment is simultaneously the easiest and most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Given my situation, it's difficult not to appreciate every moment. The shock of a serious cancer diagnosis gives one a different perspective on life. After my prognosis I realized that every time I do a particular thing it is potentially the last time I will ever do it. It’s impossible not to appreciate everything a little more.

On the other hand, as I’ve noted before, I have every intention of beating this particular tumor. The current course of treatment, however, has involved a good deal of waiting. The first stint was a three-month wait between the start of chemo and the first scan. That went well, and the reward is more chemo and another three-month wait until we go back to the tumor board.

The result: I’m not waiting...and, I’m waiting. In not waiting, I’m working hard on getting the Design Studio up and running, and on a Riverfront Renaissance in Iowa. I’m doing my damnedest to play golf, I’m booking traveling when I can (stay tuned for an exciting run- three weeks, three trips, three continents), and I’m jealously guarding my time with D and the Boys.  On the other hand, I’m waiting- seven weeks until I go back to Houston.

As for this week in chemo music, I feel like an underdog. I hopped in the time machine for this one. Let's bridge the gap with this. And finish with obligatory Noel.

Let's Wait

I spent a large portion of my last week waiting. After being out of town for a few weeks, I was incredibly excited to rejoin my buddies for the weekly golf game. After waiting in the clubhouse for a couple of hours desperately hoping that the rain and lightning would stop, we went away disappointed. Unfortunately, I must leave you waiting as well. I'm working on a couple of things for your reading pleasure and none of them are fully baked just yet. 

I'm doing well- feeling good, looking great. I'll be back next week. In the meantime, if anyone has a hankering to play golf please get at me. 

Game On

After hunkering down in Houston for Tropical Storm Bill, I spent last week being chased by tornadoes in Iowa. More accurately, I spent the night before my flight glued to the hotel TV as the warnings and watches rolled through (nobody chasin’ me boy). Fortunately, the few tornadoes that were spawned were relatively small, and I don’t believe they did much damage.

Ah, the joy of sleeping in one’s own bed. ‘Tis one of life’s true pleasures, and one that I have too often taken for granted. The weekend was nice, and punctuated by the visit of one of my brothers. While he and I fought like dogs and were ultra-competitive in our youth, we have mellowed a bit in our old age. Mellowness aside, the highlight of the weekend was an impromptu head-to-head sprint. Goaded on by our children, we faced off over a distance of about 40 meters. In full view of God, our wives, and our children, I beat him by a good 2 strides. Yes, little brother was beaten in a sprint by a cancer patient in chemotherapy. Did I mention that my brother is a sheriff’s deputy? I hope the criminals of Pitkin County don’t discover running as a valid means of escape. The stage is now set for a September rematch when the family gets back together. Is it possible he can lose to guy who has been on chemo for 6 months?

If you haven’t figured out by now, I love to compete. I love testing myself against standards, and against others. This whole cancer ordeal plays right into that. I get to compete against the cancer and use each of my scans and labs as a scoreboard. There are two ways to judge whether or not I win*. The first is to live long enough to die of a cause other than this particular cancer. The second is to live longer than my original prognosis (1 year). In the spirit of competition and evaluation, I offer the C.Rushing Big C Countdown Clock. The clock is ticking down to the one-year anniversary of my year-to-live prognosis. If I’m still ticking after this clock stops doing so, I win. Game on.

In other sports related news:

I got a card from Nick Saban’s charitable foundation this week. I must admit that at almost forty-three years of age I felt a bit awkward getting a card from Nick’s Kids. Receiving an autographed card from Coach Saban (that's actually autographed), however, made me feel like a kid again, so I suppose it’s ok. Regardless of the age issue, it is always nice to know that others are praying for you and thinking of you. Big thanks to the Coach and all of the people at Nick's Kids.

For the past couple of years I have been involved in a regular golf game with some of Chattanooga’s finer gentlemen. We play weekly (and weakly) during the season and end the summer with a Ryder Cup style tournament. That this group of very creative people could do no better than “The Ryder Cup”, as a name for our tournament was one of life’s great mysteries. In my absence last week, however, the group rectified the situation by renaming the event “The Rushing Cup”. I am honored and flattered, but must remind the gentlemen that I’m not dead yet. This also raises several questions: Do I have to hit a ceremonial first drive to start the tourney? How many additional strokes does this honor come with? Am I now on the hook for purchasing an actual Cup? Does one still get to play in tournament if it’s named their honor? If so, and we lose, how awkward will that be? Do they know that there is already a Rushing Cup and that I retained it via a forty-meter sprint on Saturday? While questions remain, I appreciate my friends thinking of me, and I look forward to getting back out on the course this week so they can take my money.

*Note: The game is rigged, and I’m going to win- even if I have to redefine victory in some hippy, bleeding-heart, liberal way in which losing is actually winning, and everyone gets a trophy. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.

This week's chemo listen courtesy of Hot Chip.

Bring on the Summer

After leaving the Mouse and Wizard behind, we headed to the ATL for the last soccer tournament of the spring. The CFC u-10 boys acquitted themselves well against some of the best teams in the Southeast, and the boy scored a few goals (with a couple of gems). After sitting in the sun for a couple of days, the family went in four separate directions- the youngest went to my in-laws, the oldest went to the beach with his friend, D headed to Chi-town, and I took off to Houston to see the kind folks at M.D. Anderson.

We were all a bit tuckered out. Shout out to Clark Griswold.

 Even without chemo, a week of walking through frenzied theme parks in the June heat of Orlando would be enough to wear me down. Throw in a couple of days of Atlanta heat, several hours of driving, a couple of delayed flights, and I was limping into Houston. I caught an Uber from the airport straight to the medical center for my first CT scan since we started chemotherapy.

As I was waiting to be called in, I got a face-time call from my oldest. (Did I mention that he was on his second vacation in as many weeks?) I knew I was in trouble as soon as I heard his voice. I was tired as hell and totally unprepared for his call. I probably looked like shit (believe it or not, it does happen), and there was a room full of cancer patients in the shot behind me. He was very sweet in asking about me, but I could tell that seeing this version of me in this setting disconcerted him. I managed to hold it together just long enough to get through the call. I told him I loved him and hung up. Before the echo of my goodbye faded, I lost it. Fatigue from the past couple of weeks, the fact that I was eighteen hours into a fast, and anxiety over what was to come in the next few days contributed to that moment of vulnerability. That’s the first time I’ve lost it throughout this whole ordeal. I must say I was pissed off at myself. Not necessarily for crying, but for doing it in front of people who are in the same boat. In the three months of coming out here I haven’t seen anyone else cry. I had to be that guy. Tsk, tsk.  On the bright side, however, I held it together in front of the boy, which is far more important.

After that sucker punch, I put on the headphones, listened to some pre-game music, and managed to get my swag back. After the scan, I repaired to the hotel and treated myself to a movie and room service. I ordered so much food that it took two stewards and two carts to wheel everything to the room. The food buzz and dulcet tones of Tropical Storm Bill contributed to a great night of sleep.

My first appointment of the next day was with Dr. Javle to review the results of the scan. The scans showed what I had suspected all along. My cancerous tumor is orange and white checker-boarded and shaped like a 102,455 seat shithole. The CT techs also reported that it appeared to be emitting sounds in the form of an annoying song played in a non-stop loop. God, I hate this cancer. Thankfully, the chemotherapy is delivered on a tide of my Crimson blood.

What my tumor probably looks like.

Fortunately, it appears that my treatment has been working to some extent. The tumor marker is down by about 40%, and the tumor appears to be shrinking. There is no evidence of metastasis, and the rest of my blood work looks good. The plan is to continue chemo for the next three months and then get in front of the tumor board at MD Anderson to review progress and establish next steps. The hope within the C Team is that the tumor responds in such a way that the surgeons will feel comfortable with resection. Fingers crossed.

What my chemo probably looks like.

Everyone seems to be pleased with the results. This is definitely better than the alternative, but I’m not terribly impressed. I fully expected that the tumor would be responding. I’m not content with just good news- I wanted great, F’ing outstanding news. I suppose this is one of the dangers of having high expectations.

I will remain true to my original promise, however, and celebrate every victory along the way. It appears that I have been gifted another three months of relatively normal life (with the obvious caveat that tomorrow is guaranteed to none of us). The summer should be fun: I will be spending time with D and the boys; I’ve got plenty to accomplish from a work standpoint; I intend to play a bit of golf; and I have some travel planned. I will try to try to keep up the blog, but may fiddle with the length, frequency, and/or subject matter. Who knows what the summer holds…


Last week's pre-game music at MDA included a C.Rushing all-time favorite: Take me into the night, I'm an easy lover. Take me into the fight, I'm an easy brother.

Breaking the Cycle

So sorry I missed ya’ll last week. I took the family on a road trip to Orlando to see the see The Mouse and The Boy Wizard. Over the course of the week I saw things- great and terrible things. The upshot is there is no hope for human civilization. I will most certainly write about the experience, as the list of potential blog topics is long. Alas, that must wait, as I need some space and time to digest what I saw.

That was my first trip back to The Happiest Place on Earth since my father took my brothers and me in the early ‘80s. Speaking of fathers, I’ve wanted to write about this topic for years, and what better time than the week leading to Father’s Day. This post may contain TMI, but these days I simply write about what I want. The topic never seemed appropriate in the context of a blog dedicated to urban design, but the events of the past few months have changed my writing focus (and put a potentially tragic twist into the tale I wanted to tell).

Like many boys, I grew up revering my dad. On the plus side, he was a handsome, charming, intelligent, and athletic man. On the down side he was an asshole with a temper. My father has two brothers, each of which he was estranged from. I also understand that his relationships with his parents were strained. He and my mother separated when I was eight (I think) and divorced when I was eleven (I think). (He went on to have a prolific marriage career. After divorcing my mother, he got married again. Then he got divorced again. Then he got married again. Then he got divorced again. I have heard that he is now married again.) After the initial divorce I saw him every other weekend for a couple of years until he took a job in another state. After that we would stay with him for a week or so each summer. While in reality he was not a major presence in my life, I made him one in my mind.

Despite his shortcomings, I idolized the man that was a thousand miles away. I wanted to be a banker like him. I wanted to dress sharply, as he did. I wore bow ties like he did (long before the fad I might add). I played basketball like he did. My longing for fatherly approval went essentially unrequited. He just wasn’t there to provide the type of validation that young men seek of their fathers. Through my teen years and into college I got to see him once or twice a year. In hindsight, however, there was no real relationship there. He had his life and I had mine.

The spring before I was married, he had a dust-up with one of my brothers via email that I somehow became entangled in. In the end, he said that the lack of any relationship between him and his children was because we didn’t make the effort to establish it. We are all entitled to our opinions, but I had a hard time fathoming that a grown man could actually believe that the primary responsibility for establishing, cultivating and maintaining relationships lies with the child rather than the adult. He then offered us an ultimatum on the terms under which we could continue a relationship. I told him, in so many words, what he could do with his ultimatum. That was the end of that.

The point is not that my childhood or up-bringing was poor, or that my life is somehow worse for these circumstances. In fact, one could argue that my life is far better and richer for it. The endeavors I originally hoped would earn approval have ended up being rich life pursuits. Had my mother not divorced, I would have never established the deep and loving relationship that I have with my stepfather. I offer those impressions of my father for context only- he is not the point of this particular story. As usual, this is about me.

After we fell out, I didn’t spare him any thought. There just wasn’t anything there. It was only several years later, when my own children were born, that he sprang to mind. My relationship with the boys was a mirror that showed what my father and I lacked. In my weaker moments of parenting I could see echoes of my father in the ways I interacted with them. In examining our dysfunctional son/father relationship, I learned lessons to make sure they're not repeated in my relationship with my kids. It’s not as simple as doing the opposite of what my father would have done, but that’s not far off.

The original version of this story ends with me patting myself on the back. There are at least two generations of dysfunctional father/son relationships in this strain of the Rushing clan, and I was going be the one to break that dreadful cycle.* Not only do I get to lay claim to being a better man, I  get the more important and fulfilling benefit of a long-lasting, loving relationship with my children.

With my current situation, this victory is in jeopardy. What a cruel twist of fate. I'm utterly devoted to the boys, and can’t imagine going through life without them. Should the cancer win, however, their father won’t be there for them. This was the case for my dad, the case for me, and a fate that the boys mY share. What a gut-wrenching, soul-crushing prospect.

The failed Rushing relationships of the past boil down to choices made of free will and out of selfishness. In my case, however, it takes death to separate father from child.

Father’s day has more than one meaning. It's not only a day for the family to acknowledge the role of the dad (and buy him ties and soap-on-a-rope), it's a day to celebrate the most splendid role I could ever play. In the end, all I can only continue to love my boys, and make sure they know it. I'll do this until I draw my last breath, and after. 

*More accurately, my brothers and I will be the ones to break the streak. Despite being the ugly ones, they're both devoted husbands and doting fathers. Obviously, by going three for three, credit for breaking the streak extends to my Mom and Stepdad- well done!