A Diary of Precious Time

April 19, 2024

The clang and bleep, clatter and whine of the MRI assaults my ears despite the ear plugs. I’ve been in the machine for an hour and a half because they’re doing two different kinds of scans, one on my spine, and the other on the cancer site on my leg. I’ve already had CT scans on my lungs and abdomen. I’m glad I took an Ativan this morning because lying motionless for this long is difficult. It’s hard not to feel like a corpse.

This test day has been circled on my calendar since back in February, before I started the radiation. The results will reveal the course of my cancer and how I’ll be treated medically. In 10 days, if it hasn’t spread, I’ll have surgery to remove whatever cancer survived the radiation in my thigh sarcoma. If the cancer has metastasized, they won’t bother with the leg surgery. Instead, they’ll move on to a challenging form of chemo which I’ll be on until it doesn’t work anymore or until I can’t handle the impact—possibly two or three years down the road.

If I’m lucky enough to get clean scans and then the surgery, I have a reasonable shot at 5 to 10 years more. In which case, since I’m 78, I may get to die from something else. And that would be the good news.

Forty years ago, when our kids were little, I prevailed on my beloved wife Kate to spend our summer vacations on The Crow, my beloved boat, off the coasts of Maine, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland.

Being on a schedule meant that we sailed in good weather and bad. And sometimes, it was very bad. Kate didn’t grow up sailing and would get flooded with anxiety when the winds howled, the waves crashed, and the rain drove down.

“We’re all going to die,” she’d wail. It was meant as a joke, sort of. She was really scared. But here’s the news: we are all going to die. At my age, I should’ve made some peace with this, but it’s still shocking. And now, with this new cancer, death has become more imminent and concrete.

May 2, 2024

Hopefully, to a casual onlooker, I just look like an old man trying to find something in his car. In reality, I’m peeing between my shoes and the car because I couldn’t get the walker out and make it to the pharmacy restroom in time. Kate has gone in to get the pain meds. I feel utterly humiliated.

I’m headed home from surgery filled with narcotics and hoping to make it into my bed. And then, to not make a mess in it.

I did get four clean scans this time. Two days ago, I had my leg cut open and the remaining cancer gouged out. And now, I’ll be on three weeks of bedrest because the tissue they operated on is fragile and there’s a big hole in my lower thigh where they had to take out not only the cancer but a chunk of thigh muscle surrounding it. Recovery will be long and hard. And that’s all really good news.

June 8, 2024

I’m on the porch at dawn. Early morning fog. Third anniversary of my new-cup-of-coffee-by-myself birthday ritual.

I’m recovering well from my surgery, but it turns out I had a high-grade tumor, which means the odds of recurrence are worse than I thought. I’m looking at a 50-50 chance of cancer and chemo till death. Next scans in August.

I look out at the mist enshrouding our meadow and the woods beyond. The shapes of trees and branches are appearing and then disappearing like ghosts.

I’d begun to be dissociative by the age of six, having learned to skillfully maneuver my way through the dangers of my family and other people by appearing to be a happy-go-lucky boy with an effervescent smile. I came across as fearless and mellow, and this made me the lucky favorite in a family affected by suicide, addictions, and mental illness. Oddly enough, I led a rather charmed life, and I carried into my adulthood with reckless abandon.

It was my fearlessness that allowed me to sail across the Atlantic Ocean alone at the age of 36. I was never afraid of dying: not because I didn’t know the great risk, I just didn’t care. This was also the case when I had my stage four non-Hodgkins lymphoma with only a small chance of survival. What some people perceived as my bravery was me not really giving a shit if my time was up.

Now, decades later, I do care. I’m no longer the slightest bit dissociated or in denial: I’m terrified of dying. My terror is what the kids call FOMO, or fear of missing out. I likely won’t make my grandson’s high school graduation. My two new little granddaughters might not even remember me. I hate the idea of not being part of it all anymore.

I’m 79 today and still shocked that I’m surprised my time on the planet is, by definition, limited, even without the cancer. I’m so not ready. Knowing that each day is a step closer to the last is hard. So is wondering how many more birthdays do I have left?

It’s odd that we all know we’re going to die, every single one of us, by the time we’re seven or eight. And yet somehow that truth gets parked safely away somewhere until you near the end and realize you’re living on borrowed time.

Kate calls out from the kitchen, “Ready, for your breakfast, sweetie?”

I come in off the porch and sit down to a plate of my favorite blueberry pancakes.

“Explain to me again why I spent decades in therapy learning how to connect to my feelings of vulnerability?” I say.

August 10, 2024

Holy cow! I got clean scans. No sign of cancer anywhere. But I’m not handling the good news well. First, I’m on a manic high and then suddenly an angry, agitated part of me shows up. When my brother, Jim, says that he knew it was going to be fine, I shout at him, “That’s bullshit! The odds were 50-50. Are you saying I was catastrophizing? Fuck you!”

Kate tries to help, but I just bark at her, drink too much, and eat a pint of ice cream. Finally, I know what I have to do and play Leonard Cohen’s version of “Hallelujah.”

The tears come, and I weep and weep.

September 1, 2024

I’ve finally settled into the idea that I might live a while longer. And I’ve rediscovered some gratitude and even a measure of joy. And yet, the truth still looms on the horizon: my finish line is in view.

I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to me to be writing to you—whomever you are—over these past nine months. I’m blessed with a loving family and lots of good friends, but somehow writing down my fears and tears and sharing them with you has filled my heart to bursting. Sharing my story makes life less lonely.

Because all we really have is each other—for the precious time that we’re here.