Blue Monday

I hope ya'll had a great holiday weekend. We celebrated with my brother-in-law and two nephews who flew down from New York. Friday, after walking eighteen holes I joined them and the rest of the extended family for dinner. Afterwards, the boys went outside for some hoops. Despite the fact that I was tired and wearing flip-flops, I could not resist the siren song of the bouncing ball. Per usual, I got buckets. Am I proud that I dunked* on my sixteen year old, yankee nephew? No…yes. Cancer or not, stop looking at my lemonade!

I wouldn’t say that I lived a sheltered life as a young man, but I had a singular focus that kept me away from the social scene. Basketball was my jealous mistress. While my peers were sneaking beers, partying, and dating, I was in the gym or on the playground. When my serious balling days were over, I (erroneously) felt like I had some catching up to do.  

During the mid-90’s, clubbing was my favorite pastime I enjoyed the odd trip to the club. Nightlife was a microcosm of the elements I thought I missed. Of course, I would eventually find that there is more to life than alcohol, girls, and music. Needless to say, a club is not a great place to learn the responsible consumption of alcohol. Similarly, it is not an ideal place to find a healthy or long-term relationship with a member of the opposite sex. Those lessons on booze and girls were hard learned, but at least the music was good.

The 90’s also saw the rise of ecstasy as the drug of choice for the club-goer. While the drug was never really my thing, I knew a lot of folks who did partake. One of the side effects of the drug is the so-called “Blue Monday”. Two or three days after taking the drug, some users experience a period of depression- a drug hangover if you will. If Friday and Saturday are the typical party nights, then they are followed by Blue Monday and Suicide Tuesday. (Worthy of note: Blue Monday, a club classic by New Order, is one of my top five favorite songs of all time).

Speaking of Mondays and drugs that make you feel bad, let's talk chemo. (Whew. All of that for a segue.) Before all this went down, I didn’t know very much about chemotherapy.  In fact, I knew nothing other than it was used to treat cancer, it caused nausea, and it caused ones hair to fall out. A couple of months later, I know a bit more, but I’m still no expert. I now know that they mix different cocktails (mmm, cocktails) to treat different forms of cancer. I know that different chemicals have different side effects and that these can change depending on dosage and on the patient. I’ve also discovered that the severity of a prescribed cocktail and the severity of a cancer are not necessarily related to one another. Lastly, I have learned that it doesn’t always make you lose your appetite or your hair.

My first two chemo cycles are in the books. Each three-week cycle consists of two weeks of treatment followed by a week off. The treatment takes the form a six-hour IV session. I got differing opinions from the various doctors and nurses about how my particular cocktail would affect me. Everyone seemed to agree that I would be very fatigued. Opinions were split on whether or not I would lose my hair. In a perverse way, the treatment room is like my new club (I've taken to calling it Club Christian). I roll in (fashionably late), get pumped full of liquid drugs, put my headphones on and listen to music. I even have young ladies hitting on me (ok, the nurses checking on me probably doesn’t qualify, but humor me). 

Over the past six-weeks I’ve gone back to work full-time and resumed my typical household duties. I’ve played basketball a few times, played golf many times, and ventured to the gym sporadically. The treatment hasn't really slowed me down at all. The effects of the chemo, however, are cumulative. The doctors told that me that I would feel the side effects a little bit more each week. This has indeed proven to be the case. Of late I have felt myself flagging a bit in the afternoons. The chemo makes me tired, and when I’m tired I get pissy. Accordingly, I have a favor to ask: if you ever hear me complain about the effects of my chemo, please slap the ever-loving mess out of me.

On the Mondays that I have treatment, I share the room with around a dozen other patients. To generalize, my comrades appear to be a bit weaker and most of them have lost their hair. Clearly, some of them are undergoing very harsh treatments. Seeing these folks getting wrecked by these chemicals makes me feel incredibly small for uttering the words “I’m tired”. While I don’t know everyone’s story, it’s appears that as far as the chemo goes, I have it easier than anyone in there. This makes me feel guilty- and if not guilty, a least a bit awkward. Every Monday morning I bee-bop into the treatment room, the picture of health- chipper, robust, and with a head full** of hair (and while we’re at it: tall, handsome, and charming…or something like that). That doesn't seem fair. But of course, none of this is fair.

This is yet another example of just how well life has treated me. Even when diagnosed with an advanced cancer, I feel great, look great, and my treatment is tolerable. When I say I'm living the dream, this is what I'm talking about.

*On a 9.5’ rim, don’t get excited.
**Of course, it’s not a full as it used to be, but in this context it’s close enough.

For this weeks chemo soundtrack, I'm all over the club tracks I loved in the 90's. I can't possibly list all of my favorite songs, but here is a representative sample by Saint Ettienne, Utah Saints, Faithless, and New Order. Is it a coincidence that they're all English? Probably not.

The Victory Lap

When all of this went down, a dear friend who is going through a similar situation gave me a warning: “Be ready, people will say stupid things to you.” I understood what he was getting at, but I didn’t truly understand until this week. I was engaged in a text conversation about my situation with someone close to me. They let fly with this little jewel: “It’s like getting a bad haircut, except it's in a nightmare and you can’t wake up.” Why, yes. Yes. That’s exactly what it’s like. Stage four cancer that you’re not supposed to survive is like getting a bad haircut. Moving swiftly on…

Am I bitter? In a word, yes. A decade ago when triathlon was my passion, I had to travel all over creation to find races. The closest official Ironman? The urbane and cosmopolitan Panama City Beach. Fast forward to 2015- CHATTANOOGA HAS ITS OWN OFFICIAL IRONMAN EVENT! (two, in fact). How damned lucky are these current Chattanoogan triathletes? Let me stop before I enter crotchety old man territory (when I was your age, I had to race uphill, both ways, in the snow…) This weekend, our fair city hosted a half-Ironman event. If you thought that I would let the occasion pass without mention of my previous exploits in triathlon and Ironman, you are obviously mistaken.

I'll mercifully spare you the re-telling of my full Ironman story. But in training for that race, I did a half IM in Clermont, Florida – a race nicknamed “The Intimidator”. Toughest race I ever had. If you're racing in a place where the hills have nicknames, you're in trouble. The memorable story of the race, however, was the finish line. Just after crossing, I grabbed a water, got a hug from a D, and turned around to quite a surprise. There he stood, my boyhood idol, Dominique Wilkins. What a coincidence that at the completion of what was probably my greatest athletic achievement to that point, my hero was at the finish line waiting for me. Cosmic coincidence.

2001, the first time I met Mr. Wilkins.

As the race was winding down yesterday, I had the great pleasure of addressing the current Leadership Tennessee class. The class is made up of VIPs from across our great state, and we were hosting one of their five class retreats. Before I spoke about the role of place in the rebirth of our city, I opened with a story about the place in which we were assembled.

Renaissance Commons in Bluffview is a very special place for me despite the fact that I had only been in that room once before. Sixteen years ago to the month, I was there for a cocktail reception. Having just moved to the city, I was participating in Chattanooga Insight- a Chamber-sponsored program for recent transplants. I showed up not knowing a soul, grabbed my nametag and surveyed the room. I immediately noticed a stunning young lady across the room and made a mental note to introduce myself at some point. But first things first, I made my way to the bar. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the young lady was headed that way as well. This being an open bar I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to offer to buy her a drink. We neared the bar and just before I could open my mouth, she turned on her heels, a ray of sunlight beamed through the cut glass window catching the corner of her green eyes, and she asked if she could buy me a drink. Little did she know that sixteen years later she would still be buying drinks for me. I was literally delivering Sunday’s presentation from the exact spot that I met my wife years before. Returning to that place at this point in my life was another cosmic coincidence.

Where the magic happened.

I appreciated the opportunity to bring things full circle. In fact, it feels like these “cosmic coincidences” are increasingly occurring. I find myself asking, are these indeed merely coincidences, or part of a higher and grander scheme? Am I being the given the opportunity for a victory lap?

I’m fascinated by the way in which humans use their ability to discern pattern to make sense of their experience. Depending on one’s perspective, we see either coincidence or magic. Some see a confluence of events as part of the grand scheme of the universe. Those with imagination can weave fantastic stories from the seemingly unrelated or innocuous (see Dan Brown’s career). But is it more true to say that “the universe is a magical place”, or “with a little imagination the universe is a magical place”? If you go in search of the magic are you not more likely to find it?

The "victory lap" is a beautiful notion. Who wouldn’t want a few months before their passing to revisit special friends and special places? Who wouldn’t relish that time to put their affairs in order? Who wouldn’t want one last spin around the track. Who wouldn’t want to take a victory lap before checking out?

Of course, the challenge is to not to be seduced by a beautiful notion. The victory lap theory is obviously based on the premise of an imminent demise.  That’s a premise that I’m not willing to accept just yet. In any event, the question is moot. Should the timing of my demise, be it this year or this decade, really influence anything? Whether it’s coincidence or by grand scheme, are these experiences any more or less special?

Whoa boy. I have inadvertently waded deeply into existential waters, and I’m clearly in over my head (I am far more comfy in the shallow end of the philosopher pool). I’ll try to get back on firmer footing next week. Until then, ya'll be good.

Weirdness

Last week I thanked The Good Lord for allowing me to see the long-awaited removal of a derelict barge from our riverfront. I also half-jokingly wondered whether or not I would live to see the completion of a rather slowly progressing build in the Southside. That line of thought got me wondering just what else I might live to see. Let the record show that I will be royally pissed if I do not get to see the this, this, and another one of these... (what can I say, I’m greedy)

To reset the table, I’m currently two months into my supposed “year to live”, I have a tumor in my abdomen that’s bigger than a golf ball, and I’m on my second cycle of chemotherapy. We don’t know if the chemo is working or not, but I’m handling it like a champ (knock on wood). I’ve been up in the gym just working on my fitness, I hit the links a few times, and I’ve been dominating nine-year-olds on the basketball court. I get a bit drowsy from time to time, but I don’t let it slow me down. I’m back at work and my days are filled with various and sundry meetings and professional tasks.

Life, for the moment, is weird. Our family has resumed the typical routine- boys are in school, D and I are working, and we spend the rest of our lives at a soccer practice or tournament. While life has been turned on its head, everything is “normal”. If I could hit the pause button and live the rest of my life as things are right now, I gladly would. Unfortunately, the pause button is not an option. To be fair, that’s not an option for you either. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow. Tumor or no tumor, there is only the opportunity to fill our days with love and life.

I’ve never been particular bothered with leaving a legacy or a lasting monument to my time on this earth. Faced with my own mortality, however, I am driven by one question for the future. It is a question of legacy, and it is this:  What kind of world am I going to leave for Keith Richards?

Friends and Strangers
Apologies to my fellow Phi Lou Gehrig, but I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. The amount of love I’ve received over the past few weeks is beyond description. This, however, is less a testament to my lovability than it is my great fortune in befriending people with big hearts. I cannot begin to thank everyone who has sent prayers and positive vibes. I want ya’ll to know that I appreciate every text, email, call, smoke signal, telegram, and instant message and consider your friendship a gift.

I don’t have a large family of blood relations. Those of us who are still around are spread about and don’t see too much of each other. Accordingly, I was most excited to get a letter from my second cousin this week. It was very sweet, and I am grateful for her thoughts and prayers. She told me that she and her friends are praying for me “by name” (it’s a southern thing). She also shared my situation with a friend, which has resulted in me being a prayer focus of a bible study group at Rocky Bluff Baptist Church in Polkville, Mississippi. While the family has deep roots in rural Mississippi (I wrote a post about it a while back), I can't say I know anyone in Polkville. There are a number of prayer groups in a number of communities praying for me, and maybe it’s not fair to single one out. That said, the idea of a group of folks in Smith County, Mississippi praying for a stranger in Chattanooga just makes me smile.

While we’re on the topic of prayer
As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I don’t believe in praying for outcomes. If you believe in God, you believe in something bigger than yourself. It follows that God has a better idea of the big picture than you do. I think it’s small to pray for your team to win, or to hit the lottery, or for that matter to be healed*. Those events fit into your vision for a plan, not necessarily God’s. I am of the opinion that the prayer should be for the strength and character to respond to any situation in a way that reflects positively on our faith. If you are wont to pray, I humbly request that you focus less on my health and more on strength for all of the people that are impacted by the situation (with special attention on my boys). And while you're at it, spare a few words for our friend Keith Richards.

*Disclaimer: I cannot vouch for the scriptural accuracy of my position.

This week's chemo listen: I wore out Alt-J, gave a nod to Mr. Richards, and revisited Nirvana.

More Than A Feeling

Well, let’s just say that I’m thankful that The Good Lord let me live long enough to see this. What remains to be seen is if he will deem fit for me to live to see the completion of this. (sorry boys, you know I love you. I couldn't resist)

After the week in Houston, I was on the road again. While my time receiving cancer treatment in Texas was surreal, this past week represented a return to routine. Over the past few weeks I have jumped back in the saddle and returned to work. While most of my life’s work has been in the Scenic City, I have for the last few years made monthly visits to work on projects in Iowa. Last week marked the first visit since my diagnosis.

In the four and a half years of writing in this space I have shied away from detailing the specifics of my professional work (with the notable exception of the Urban Design Challenge). I will not break that policy in this post. I will say, however, that my relationship with this client and community in Iowa means an awful lot to me. I’m a Chattanooga guy, and my professional fortunes have been inextricably linked to this city. Having worked four solid years in another city, however, is a blessing that has given me a chance to develop a rewarding set of professional and personal relationships. My clients- both the staff and board- are very special people with a passion for making their community better and I love them. My visits to see them follow a familiar routine: a flight out on Tuesday, a day and half of magic on site, and a flight home on Thursday. One of the unexpected delights of the monthly routine, however, is the couple-hour drive from DSM through the cornfields of Southeast Iowa.

Flash back to the early 1990’s: I lived in Montgomery and went to school in Albuquerque. The drive from home to school took about twenty-two hours. On the way out, with pockets lined from working during summer or Christmas, I would split the drive into two days and splurge on a Motel 6 stay in Oklahoma City. On the way back, I was always broke (having dropped my coin on beer and other such things) and I would often drive straight home. As a bona fide introvert, the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts, cassette player, and the American landscape was a little bit of heaven. There was a beauty to the physical transition from home to school. The landscape slowly changes from the pine forests of my home state to the hills of the Ozarks, to the expanses of the southern plains, to the dusty nothingness of west Texas (sorry Amarillo), to the magical panoramas of New Mexico. That drive – time, thought, landscape- facilitated a mental transition from “Home Christian” to “Student Christian”. Those were some of the most cherished days of my year.

My monthly drives in Iowa are just as special. The two hours alone in the rental car are a great treat. The journey does not serve the same transitional and processional purpose, but it is in many ways more special. For the last four years (long before the cancer diagnosis) those drives have been trips down memory lane, and an opportunity to reflect, count my blessings and smile. Music is the catalyst. I maintain strong associations between music and people and events at various points in my life. For two hours I flip channels on Sirius XM and let the music remind me of the good times, the bad times, the special moments, the great experiences, and most of all the extraordinary cast of characters that I have been fortunate enough to know. Those trips down memory lane never fail to put me in a great mood or remind me of just how good I’ve had it.

The other fascinating byproduct of the routine has to do with landscape and the cycle of life. When viewed continually from the same place, the change of landscape over time happens so gradually that it mostly escapes notice. Sure, we are aware of what season it is, but because we are constantly immersed in the environment, it can be difficult to recognize the incremental change. Experiencing the landscape briefly on a monthly basis is enough to maintain the connection with the rhythm of the seasons while providing enough of a break to make the incremental changes noticeable. 

This is corn country. Every month I am treated to a different type of beauty, and can identify the small changes. In January and February the rolling hills (no, its not flat) are bare and stark, save for the snow. In March and April anticipation takes physical form with the preparation of the fields. The  pattern and order of the freshly planted fields of May is a harbinger of things to come. In June, the first green shoots are evidence. July and August see the fields take on progressively different shades of green as the stalks grow. By September the full fields take on an otherworldly hue as the stalks and silks blur in the periphery of the car window. Then there is the abruptness of the harvested fields in October- a stark reminder that the corn isn’t a permanent element in the landscape. The detritus in the November fields, and snows of December signal the winter sleep. The cycle of life as seen through a rental car window.

I could close with the obvious comparison between the cycle of the life of the corn fields and that of each of us. But that angle is formulaic and has been beaten to death (pun intended). Instead, I will share a moment from my drive. I’m not a huge classic rock fan, but I appreciate a good tune. While channel surfing, I caught the first few bars of one of the all-time great road trip songs (one notably ripped off by Nirvana)- More Than a Feeling by Boston.  And there I was- driving through the corn fields, the promise of Spring in the air, sun on my face, wind in my rapidly retreating hair, music cranked, surrounded by friends and family, feeling great despite the chemo. It was a magical mixture of mood, music, and environment. In that moment all the cares in the world evaporated and I felt invincible. As cheesy as it sounds, that is More Than A Feeling.

This week’s chemo listen: Or course, the aforementioned Boston song. As long as we’re going back in time, as I was pulling into the parking lot for treatment this rather appropriate little jewel came on. (If you don’t dance, you have no soul)

In the Hands of the Masters

Yall are going to have a hard time getting me out of this cowboy hat…

I got a blast of reality in Houston last week. It was about a month since my last visit- a month where life largely returned to “normal”. I was back in my routine for the most part, and on most days I could ignore the specter. I feel great here at home, even with the chemo. In Houston, however, things are different. There is no “normal”. There are constant reminders of the situation everywhere. It is surreal and sobering. That said, I am still living the dream and I managed to enjoy myself.

On Tuesday I was scheduled for a 6:45 a.m. blood work appointment (which is cruel and unusual). I left D to catch up on her sleep and schlepped my way over to get stuck. Afterwards I had a couple of hours before my ERCP (that’s an Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography for those playing at home) and decided to treat myself (because, y’know, I’m worth it). I figured that if I was going to be in Texas for treatment, the only suitable memento would be a custom-fitted cowboy hat. I summoned an Uber and trekked out to what is apparently THE place to get a hat in Houston.

I walked in to The Hat Store and was greeted by a couple of gentlemen. They had a cosmic yin-yang thing going on- one tall and lithe, the other short and built like a fire plug. The fire plug, Gary Cohen, is the owner. I told him why I was in Houston and why I was in his store. He probed me about how I would be using the hat and for what purposes. He took his time to show off various models, and describe their relative merits. We found a straw number that was quite clearly meant for me. At this point, all of the hats are unformed- the brim is flat and the top is rounded. The next step, shaping, is pure art.

Uncomprehendingly, he did not ask for my signed photo
for the wall. I think I'll send him one anyway.

He asked if I had a particular shape in mind (which of course I did not). I said that I wanted something functional and relatively traditional - and nothing crazy like the concert cowboys. “Hmm, with your face, you’re going to want the alpine”. Mr. Cohen stepped behind the counter and turned open the valve on his steaming machine and proceeded to work his craft. Deftly maneuvering the hat on and off the steam, he started bending, coaxing, and shaping the straw. He constantly checked his work putting the hat on my head and observing, then taking it back to the steam for more. He was very keen for my input in the shape (apparently, serious hat folk are very particular about shaping). I was quite happy to leave the shape to his practiced hands. In the end, we were both very pleased that my hat was MY hat. He showed me a variety of hatband options, and I went with a peanut brittle crocodile strap (cause, y’know, I’m worth it).  We settled up, Mr. Cohen gave me some tips on hat wearing, care and maintenance, left me with some kind works, and I was off.

I spent more time than planned in The Hat Store, so it was a race to get back to M.D. Anderson to make my procedure on time. (Which I did…barely.) I left my hat with D for safekeeping, got undressed, put on the silly gown and settled in on the stretcher. After getting poked, prodded and prepped by a variety of very pleasant people, the doctor showed up. You will remember Dr. Lee as the superstar endoscopy guy that unraveled the mess that is my biliary system to place the stent that relieved my jaundice and made my chemo possible. I mentioned to one of the nurses that Dr. Lee performed a near miracle on my last ERCP, and he replied in an almost reverent tone “That’s what he does, all day, every day, he’s amazing”. When he arrived, Dr. Lee easily and comfortably deflected all of my praise and admiration, and accepted my thanks. We had a chat about the procedure (a replacement of his masterwork) and he started on his way. Before he left, he turned, pulled out his phone and asked if he could take a picture with me. “Only if I can take my picture with you, and only if I can wear my cowboy hat”. He asked that we not post anything to social media, to which I grudgingly agreed, and he was on his way.

Lee and Me.
(Faces have been disguised to protect the studly)

Coming out of those procedures is always a bit of an uncomfortable time for me. In that drug-induced fog, I apparently have a habit of spilling my guts and emotionally gushing my love and appreciation for everyone within earshot. Dr. Lee came back for a visit and to give another humble report of a masterful performance. He gave me his sincere best wishes and told me that I had won the hearts of everyone on his team. How in the world I could win anyone’s heart with a tube down my throat, sedated, drooling, and lying buck-naked on my stomach is beyond me (I’ll have to look into that), but he made me believe it nonetheless.

The next day, it was biopsy time. They stuck a big ass needle between my ribs and into my liver to get the sample. With the drugs, the experience wasn’t all that bad- although it was disconcerting to hear the doctor say “We’re going to check to see if we have enough material, don’t move, there’s a big needle sticking out of your liver”. The biggest problem was the fasting. Because I had to fast for both procedures, and because there is no solid food after an ERCP, I went from Tuesday at 5:45 pm until Thursday at 5:00 pm with no solid food and only 12 ounces of broth for fluid. On Thursday at 5:01pm I went directly from the recovery room at the hospital to downtown Houston for a steak the size of a toilet seat (cause, y’know, I’m worth it).

So, one week and two masters of their respective crafts. I am quite jealous of people who have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of perfecting one thing in life. My journey has been somewhat different, having spent my time trying to learn as much as I can about as many things as I can. In the end, we can each choose only one path, but it’s certainly a pleasure to watch the master travelers.

This week’s listen: Still on the Noel Gallaher. He is, bar none, my favorite lyricist of all time. This week I’ve been admiring his craft on While the Song Remains  the Same.

Good Grief (or, Basketball is a Young Man's Game)

I've always fancied myself as being self-aware. I’m good at knowing my faults and limitations, and at understanding most of the underlying motivations that drive my behavior. I questioned that self-assessment this week as I tried to place myself in the Kubler-Ross grief model. According to some of the materials I’ve been given, the cancer patient often undergoes similar stages: Denial > Anger > Depression > Bargaining > Acceptance. The problem is that I can’t really tell where I am on that spectrum. Here’s my take:

I’m not in denial. I’M NOT IN DENIAL! But seriously, I’m fully aware of what’s going on and what my prognosis is. I suppose, however, there is a chance that I am in a very deep subconscious level of denial that is allowing me to maintain an even keel. There is a difference, however,  between resolve in the face of tough situation and the denial of that situation. Verdict: Denial? A river in Egypt.

As a man who is prone to fits of temper, the fact that I skipped the anger stage is somewhat surprising (I feel a bit cheated). I keep reading that people often ask “why me?” when faced with a tough situation. Strangely, that question never really occurred to me. I must admit, however, that from time to time when I see a douche bag walking down the street I think to myself “why didn’t that guy catch cancer?” I immediately feel ashamed for the thought, because that’s not what’s in my heart and I wouldn’t wish this on even the worst Delta Bravo. (but I will cop to getting a comedic kick out of it).  Verdict: Anger? Only that we live in a world where Beiber and the Kardashians are “newsworthy”, and Sandra Lee has her own cooking show (two, if you can believe).

A casual observer of my preferred playlist last week might think that I am in deep depression. I’ve been very heavy on The Smiths, Depeche Mode, and The Cure.  Those who know me well, however, know that I would have listened to them during a rainy, overcast week anyway. I’ve been in a great mood and I feel outstanding. Verdict: Depression? Not even on Chemo Mondays.

Bargaining is the one phase that has never made much sense to me. I can’t really see the utility in trying to wheel and deal with God to improve a situation. If you believe in God then you understand that he has a plan. It seems to me that the ask should be for the strength and insight to handle a situation rather than be removed from it. To be fair, I do have hope that our plan for treatment will be successful, and in some of the grief models that is considered bargaining. Verdict: Bargaining? I don’t think so, but I suppose that depends on your definition.

In the end, we have acceptance. I now realize the fault in the Kubler-Ross model. The model works best with an inevitable outcome. I feel like I've accepted the news and the possibilities. I haven't, however, accepted that death from this tumor is inevitable. I suppose the model then dictates that I’m in denial (or bargaining). So, F the model (am I in anger now?) Verdict: Acceptance? I accept that I have cancer, and I accept that death from this tumor is statistically likely. I think, however, that I'll beat it.

When all is said and done, the model is a useful for people and those who care about them to understand their feelings and what they’re going through. Frankly, after this exercise, I don’t have much use for it. I know I’m facing a challenge, and I’m prepared for it, come what may. That behind us, on to the weekly update...

This was my first week of chemo, and it was a good week. The treatment session itself wasn’t a bad experience. I got to sit in a fairly comfy reclining seat while hooked up to the IV pole for a few hours. Having brought my computer, I got to work for a bit, listen to some music, and watch a bit of Netflix. It was somewhat disconcerting as I was, by at least two-decades, the youngest person in the treatment room that day. Around lunchtime, a group of volunteers brought in homemade sandwiches and snacks for us. Oh, the comfort to be found in a good pimento cheese sandwich. In the end, the first day of chemo wasn’t a traumatic or profound experience- just another step on the journey.

The day after chemo I felt great. Good enough, in fact, to join my buddies for a game of old man basketball. The games resembled the first scene of Saving Private Ryan; we had men dropping right and left. My homie blew out his ACL, another strained a glute (no lie), we had a man go down with a back, we twisted an ankle, and I strained a calf. In the end, we played for a couple of hours, and I didn’t hold anything back. After the game we went off to get something to eat and tell lies about how well we played.

My last recorded dunk in July of 2013.
Video Credit: Spence (I was showing off for him)

This was the first time I’ve played where I actually felt my age. Since my mid-thirties, I have attempted to dunk on (or near) my birthday each year. This year (42) was the first that I couldn’t, but I got close and my legs still felt lively. On Tuesday, the legs felt flat. Flat, I tell thee. I am certain that this has more to do with age than chemo, though. I think it’s safe to say that serious basketball is behind me. Don’t cry for me though, as I suspect that this is more a natural function of age than cancer.

The first week of chemo has come and gone, it was a breeze. I didn’t feel the fatigue that doctors forecast, but I did get drowsy a few times. I suspect things will get more difficult in the weeks to come, but for now I’m living the dream. Off to Houston to see the kind folks at M.D. Anderson this week, wish us luck. 'Til next time, keep it ill.

This week's chemo soundtrack provided by my all time favorite Noel Gallagher (who has an excellent new album out). I'm really digging on Ballad of the Mighty I right now.

Death and Taxes

If one is diagnosed with stage-four gall bladder cancer and blogs about it, at some point the topic of death must be broached. I could think of no more appropriate time to bring up the subject than tax week. Some things just go together: peanut butter and jelly, salt and pepper, death and taxes. Considering that I  just wrote a tax check for more than my cancer treatment will cost, I would much rather write about death.

When I was thirty-one, after we were married and before we had kids, I told D that I was ready to die. To be certain, I had no death wish, my comment came from a place of gratitude. This was my way of saying that I was genuinely thankful for having lived a full, eventful and blessed life. I was raised by a close and loving family; I lived in God’s own Alabama, in the majestic mountains of Colorado, in the stark beauty of New Mexico, and in the Scenic City; I played basketball at a very high level; I ran a couple of marathons; I completed an Ironman; I was blessed with great friends; I knew a number of girls, and married the best one; I traveled at home and abroad; I saw Alabama play in bowl games; I saw Birmingham City win at Villa Park; I purchased a house; I had my share of drink and cigar smoke; I saw Oasis play at Madison Square Garden and Ray Charles sing Georgia at the Olympics. (That list could go on for a while). On the other side of the scale, nothing really bad had ever happened to me either: no one very close to me had died (that I was capable of remembering); I never had a serious illness; I never broke a bone; never had a surgery; and despite being “broke” in college, I never had to seriously worry about what I was going to eat or where I would sleep. In short, I had lived a very good full life in three short decades.

Over the past decade things have only gotten better. I started a business with people I love and respect; I started a business for myself; I designed and built a house for my family; I’ve designed and built houses for others; It taught architecture at a university; I’ve been back to England a few times and on to Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Cordoba, Malaga, and Granada; I’ve seen the morning sun bathe St. Peter’s and the evening sun set on the walls of the Alhambra; I’ve played on the white sand beaches at Seaside and on the black sand beaches of Costa Rica; I've cooked fancy food in my house and eaten fancy food in a world class Parisian restaurant. (That list could go on for a while). In fact, things have been so good that I felt like I’ve been getting away with something. From a selfish, personal perspective the idea of dying now as opposed to sometime in the future isn’t really that troubling. I am confident in what I will find on the other side, I’ve lived a very full life, and I have seen and done things that most people on this planet don’t get to.

In the past decade, however, the two greatest things have happened as the boys have entered my life. All of the events listed above pale in comparison to what my boys mean to me. It is because of them that I can no longer honestly say that I’m ready to go. Of course, there is an element of self-interest as I am very keen to watch them grow up for my own personal satisfaction. From a broader perspective, my dread is of them growing up without their father. I don’t want them to feel that kind of pain and grief. I want to be there for them for everything. (I will revisit the father/son topic in a future post, stay tuned).

All of that said, I have no intention of cashing in just yet. It’s easy for me to write about death and to keep a positive attitude because I don’t believe that this will kill me (this time). That belief is most certainly grounded in naiveté and probably sustained by a health dose of denial. I know what the prognosis is, and I am aware of the statistics, but I have a feeling that we’re going to win this one. (If I’m right, then we’ll celebrate. If I’m wrong, then I won’t be around to hear anyone say I told you so.) Over the years I’ve played in a number of games where a team is down big with time running out, when the seemingly impossible happens and we’ve come back to win. There is a special feeling in those instances that despite the score and time, victory is the only outcome. Call it confidence, call it swagger, call it faith- but it’s special and it’s real.

This is also one of those blasted times where the parent has to practice what they preach. From time to time, the boys get upset when they’re losing- whether it be one their own sports games, or watching one of their favorite teams playing on TV. I constantly tell them not to focus on the score or the clock, but to focus on playing each play as hard as they can. I’m also fond of telling them that it is important to play as hard as you can for the entire game, regardless of the score, because that is the measure of a competitor. It’s never all right to quit... We must finish what we start....It’s not over ‘til the fat lady sings...(and so on).  It appears that I am now receiving a full dose of my own medicine. Admittedly, this is an extreme method of teaching, but I will lead by example if only for their sake.

So, there you have it, my obligatory post on death. While we’re on the topic, this week marks the death of one of my heroes. Louis Sullivan died on April 14, 1924. For those of you who are new to the blog, you might enjoy reading about another of my great adventures during the Summer of Sullivan. Chemo starts tomorrow (April 13), and I’ll let you know how it goes. Oh, and don't forget about your taxes, it's the one certainty in life.

One last death-based observation: In August of 1977 Elvis died. That summer he played his last four shows in Des Moines, Madison, Cincinnati, and Indianapolis before returning to Tennessee to die, aged 42. As fate would have it, last summer I visited Des Moines, Madison, Cincinnati, and Indianapolis, then turned 42...will my friends please help me keep clear of  Codeine, Valium, and Morphine prior to heading to the bathroom.