Faux Pas

I threw up at Christmas dinner yesterday. Major party foul, right? Don’t worry, though, it wasn’t all over the nicely set table or anything like that. No, I made my way to the bathroom in plenty of time. Unfortunately for everyone else, though, the bathroom is attached to the kitchen, so they got to hear the entire show and exchange what I’m sure were very sympathetic glances and quietly whisper about “poor Levi”.

I committed another minor faux pas earlier, too, when I fell asleep right in the middle of the talk-to-all-the-relatives-you-haven’t-seen-in-a-while portion of our first Christmas dinner of the day. Some of my morning cancer pills kicked in just then and they make me impossibly sleepy.

And then there was the drive home well after dark when I had to pull over and let my wife drive me the rest of the way home because the passing lights on the highway had morphed into long lines converging at a single point in the middle of my vision. Although I did feel a little like Hans Solo making the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs, that was a real shot to my pride. I know I’m a little old-fashioned and the #metoo movement would probably hate on me, but it seems a little weird when women drive and men ride, right? My big male ego likes to drive, but I don’t often feel well enough to do so these days. But I had jauntily hopped into the driver’s seat when leaving our last Christmas dinner, only to be humbled by the pills again.

And then there was my grandfather, who made fun of my lack of eyebrows. At least someone is seeing the humor in all of this.

So at first glance, it may seem like cancer was the Grinch who stole Christmas. It was at least very present all day.

But that wasn’t the whole story. A friend of mine also sent me a picture of a letter he received as a Christmas gift that said the sender had made a donation to Emily’s and my GoFundMe as a gift to my friend, because the sender knew my friend cared for my family’s situation deeply. What outrageous kindness!

And last night, alone with my thoughts as I fell asleep, I realized that I had witnessed a lot of kindness that day. My cousin and uncle who assembled a basketball goal for my kids. The other uncle who cooked pizzas for the whole family. The people who didn’t even notice their own gifts piled beside them because they were so excited to see others open theirs. So despite cancer’s best attempts to bring sorrow to the celebration of Christmas, it had failed- kindness had instead transformed its efforts into acts of love, just like the act of love we were celebrating- the sacrifice of Christ all those years ago. And just like I’ll never be able to repay the debt I incurred that day, so I’ll never be able to repay all the kindness I received yesterday.

And this makes me really thankful. So I just want to explicitly say, “thank you” to all of you. Emily and I have been the recipients of so much kindness that there’s no way I could list here all the people who have given this kindness or what they’ve done, but that doesn’t mean that each and every act hasn’t been noticed and appreciated. You know who you are. You are the people who have brought us meals and put up our Christmas lights. You’ve written thoughtful letters and prayed for us. You’ve covered shifts for me at work and given up your time to work on our flip house. You’ve donated your hard-earned money to our GoFundMe to help us cover all these medical expenses (and by the way, it’s important to me that you know that not a dime of that has been spent on anything but medical costs). You continue to care enough to ask how I’m doing, even months after my original diagnosis. In these and a thousand other ways, you all just absolutely insist on caring for us, expecting absolutely nothing in return, and it’s humbling in the most complete way. So for all these mentioned and all those unmentioned ways you all have cared for us- thank you. It’s so unbelievable how much good has come of cancer because of you.

And now, because there’s already no way I can repay you all, I’m going to ask one more kindness. Pray for me today. I have a call with my oncologist scheduled this afternoon to discuss surgery. The thing is, we’re not yet sure surgery is going to be a viable option, and if it’s not then there aren’t a lot of effective options left for me. So what this doctor has to say today could be the difference between life and death. The tone of our conversations thus far have been positive, so I suspect this call is more to schedule the surgery than anything else, but still, I’m scared. My life hangs in the balance. Until now, waiting to hear about the possibility of surgery, there was always the possibility that it would be an option. But once the decision is made, I may be robbed of that option, so the knowing is actually harder than the not knowing. So send up a prayer for ole’ Levi if you think of it today.

P.S. I received a lot of hoodies for Christmas this year, perhaps because people intuitively sensed that this bald dome of mine needs some warmth. But when I wear them with the hoods up, and especially the black one, I look exactly like Emperor Palpatine in Star Wars. Seriously, y’all. Bald. No eyebrows. Sunken eyes with dark circles underneath. And I think that we should all take a little time out of our day to recognize that This. Is. Hiliarious.

A Christmas Gift

We saw the oncologist in Houston today, and Levi’s Christmas wish came true: no more chemo infusions!

The adrenal tumor has shrunk quite a bit, as has the spot on his lung, but the real reason for no more infusions is the level of side effects Levi experienced this most recent round. For almost a week he was in so much pain that he required help to get out of bed, and he could barely walk. The doctor said another round of chemo could cripple him for life. 

So that means we’re on to phase 2, surgery. The oncologist will put together a surgical team to discuss the possibility of surgery, taking into consideration the current size and location of the mass. It is likely Levi could lose parts of nearby organs, including his spleen, kidney, pancreas and stomach. They will also discuss removing his lung tumor during the same surgery. 

We won’t hear back from the surgical team until early January, but the oncologist is shooting to have surgery at the end of January or beginning of February. The extent of the surgery likely won’t be known in full detail until the surgeons get in there, so continue to pray with us that there would be margins to remove the adrenal mass without damaging nearby organs in a way that would affect Levi’s quality of life long term.

In the meantime, Levi will continue to take his chemo pills as maintenance while we wait for surgery. We’re looking forward to living a somewhat normal life for the next month, free from infusions and weeks in bed. What a great Christmas gift, indeed.

Little Plans

“Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood…”’ – Daniel H. Burnham

You gotta’ go big in this life, don’t you? Because there’s just no guarantee of anything beyond today. It’s crazy how quickly things can change. You can walk the same monotonous, routine path for decades, watching the same scenery pass by again and again until it’s so familiar you don’t even notice it, and then one day everything changes so quickly and unexpectedly that you just stand there stupidly, stunned, not comprehending why your lovely, familiar scenery now looks so foreign.

This happens to me at work all the time. I run so many dumb calls that aren’t real emergencies at all and then, every once in a while, I pull up on scene of something that is really real. People are dying in a car and somebody should really extricate them, or the house is filled with smoke from the burning couch and Grandma Pootie can’t find her way out or somebody who means a lot to all the family who have arrived for the annual Christmas celebration is now having a massive stroke. And every time this happens it catches me off guard to see really real reality interjected so suddenly into what had been my cozy, clueless stroll through life.

Tomorrow I meet with the medical oncologist who holds my fate in his hands like a tiny bird, and I wonder if I’m going to experience one of those really real moments at my meeting. We’re doing some scans today and we had blood drawn yesterday so that he can decide how best to proceed with my treatment. Basically, it comes down to how my tumor is responding to the current treatment and if my body can take more rounds of it. And I gotta’ be honest, it doesn’t feel like I can take any more of this. With the last round of chemo, there were many days that I was in so much pain that I couldn’t walk or even sit up to get out of bed.

But I’m hoping for the best, and I’m making big plans. Next August 5th (the date of my diagnosis) I want to be standing on top of the Grand Teton. I’ve been scheming how to make that happen lately, and I know it’s ambitious. A lot of things have to fall into place just so for me to beat cancer and have time to get into shape to make that happen.

But if you only ever make little plans, how are you ever going to do great things?

Promising News

We got some great news today when Levi went in for his bi-weekly lung drain: there was so little fluid that they didn't even do the procedure!

The doctor estimated there was maybe 200 mL of fluid on Levi's lung today - a stark contrast to every other time when he has had 1500-1800 mL drained. This is an incredible improvement, and it gives us so much hope for what we will learn on our trip to Houston next week.

From our understanding, the lack of fluid could mean two things: (1) the spot of cancer on his left lung has diminished and/or (2) the tumor has shrunk to a size that is no longer distorting the position of his other organs to the point of pressing on his lung.

No one is more thrilled with this development than Levi, who no longer has to literally get stabbed in the back every two weeks. We're so relieved for evidence of forward progress, and I look forward to getting to share more good news after the upcoming scans.

Wait

Well, I’m back on the Sauce again, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. This is day three of the fourth round of chemo infusions, and the strange thing is that it’s all beginning to feel so… normal. This morning I walked in to the same sterile lobby smell that I hate and took the same elevator (I finally figured out that the buttons are on different sides of the door in the separate elevators) to the same intentionally well-lit waiting area where I checked in with Doris. I had the same light conversation with the phlebotomist before heading down the hall to the chemo infusion room, where the receptionist no longer needs to ask my name before applying my wristband. At that point I’m fully uniformed with coban on my right arm and the wristband applied, so I’m allowed admission back to the recliners where I dread the familiar prick of the needle as they access my port. Then there’s nothing left to do but whatever I feel like for the next few hours while the little IV pump merrily goes about its task next to me.

And it’s not just the routine on chemo days that’s becoming oddly normal. Now cancer and all the baggage it carries with it- knowing to use the pill splitter instead of the pill crusher, and throwing up on all fours like an animal between the rows of Christmas trees while your family tries to pretend like nothing weird is happening - all of it is just the norm.

And I can honestly say that I never expected this, because at the beginning it was all entirely foreign. Cancer was the interruption. It was the exception to the rule of my life, a break from the ordinary or the silence in the eye of a storm. But now here we are. It’s familiar, it’s routine, and I don’t know how to feel because, truthfully, I don’t feel much at all about it any more. Is that sad, or is it the grace of God that such suffering no longer seems extraordinary?

Either way, it’s funny that this transition to familiarity should coincide with advent, the season of patiently suffering while we wait for Christ’s arrival at Christmas, because it feels like that’s exactly where I am now: patiently suffering. Cancer’s familiarity has led to a patient waiting just like the Good Book says: “we ourselves… groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for… the redemption of our bodies.”

And despite all efforts to the contrary, during this waiting I can’t help but wonder, “how long?” How long must I wait for this redemption? Maybe a couple of months, maybe a couple of years, maybe this thing will never go away. Maybe cancer will kill me one day. Who knows? I sure don’t.

But the one thing I do know and that I have to keep coming back to, that I have to try to believe during those hours of the night which are entirely inappropriate for human consciousness, is that, as Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.” This cancer reality may feel like the only possible reality right now, but that’s a lie. That can’t be the truth, because the only thing in life that never changes is change itself. So one day this reality will be no more. Though we’ve only ever known the waiting, one day it will end and we’ll know a better reality, one where peace and rest flourish and the decay around us is no more. We’ll know joy in its entirety, filled up and overflowing, like drinking from a cold, clear river for the first time when you thought the only possible form water could take was the trickle of its headwaters far upstream. One day, maybe soon and maybe much too long from now, all of this shit will be no more and something much, much better will arrive to replace it.

For now, though, we wait.