Dear family and friends,
Some of you have heard most of my latest saga, but it helps me to write this down to share, as I'm still tending to get a bit mixed up on the details.
About a month ago in late October, as I was getting geared up for another round of chemotherapy, I began to feel not so good. That I was having increasing coordination problems, was getting more and more forgetful, and began to get winded very easily, were all to me (and I think for Alva) being chalked up to late side-effects from my previous round of chemo. But when I showed up for my infusion at the clinic on November 1st, my chemo nurse noticed my huffing and puffing, went to my oncologist for her to check and was sent home without infusions with a diagnosis of pneumonia. Frankly, it was starting that day that I became so forgetful that much of what followed in the next week is a complete blur for me now.
On a fortuitous visit from my brother Seth that Friday the 5th of November, I had a video appointment with a physician covering for my Primary Care Physician. Seth was at my side. Although the after-visit report from that appointment indicates that I was fairly coherent, I remember nothing of that call. Weird, eh? But Seth did remember and, based especially on my huffing and puffing felt called to go home (about 50 minutes south of us) and return on Saturday with a newly acquired oximeter (that you put on your finger and it measures your blood oxygen level). Basically all I remember from that day was the moment that Seth looked at my oximeter reading, looked me in the eye, and said, "Bear, we're taking you to Emergency."
Apparently, there I was quickly admitted, put on supplementary oxygen, and sent to a room in Stanford's cancer unit. By Sunday, as with help from a machine my blood oxygen was returning to its proper 96-100 range (from the mid-to-low 80's range), I began to regain my awareness. For the next six days I received excellent care, did all my exercises, ate delicious food, learned a lot, and interacted with bright doctors, the friendliest nurses, and every hospital personnel who came through my door, I returned step-by-step to a level of health that I could persuade my attending physician to clear me for discharge. Alva came to visit every day except my Wednesday, when Seth came up for the day for a long, rare one-on-one visit.
I returned home (with a walker and a wheelchair) last Friday, the 12th, and have been getting stronger day by day. Strong enough, in fact, that it looks like I'm ready to resume chemo this Monday. While I had been on a clinical trial with a PARP inhibitor from February, 2020 to June, 2021 my cancer numbers had seemingly miraculously been going down and down, by midsummer my dear Talazoparib had begun to lose efficacy. My blood cancer numbers were shooting way up. So my oncologist decided it was time to move me on to full-fledged chemotherapy.
Since I started chemo in early September and then switched to a different chemo cocktail in October, we really haven't had any measurements of whether my cancer was growing and further spreading or what. And so, dearhearts, my blood cancer level test we took yesterday (my CA-19-9) gave us surprisingly good news. When last we checked it had been soaring up through the 500's. Now, after several rounds of chemo, my level has dropped to 141! Hooray! I am responding well to this self-chosen poison. And my life is indeed being extended!
A damper on my good news ---that many of you have already heard about-- is that when Alva brought me back from the hospital we both could see that our darling, 14-year-old girl kitty Callie was ailing. She stopped eating, hid away all day, and had lost a lot of weight. Taking her in to the vet on Thursday, our worst fears were confirmed. Callie had incurable end stage renal disease. When I received that same diagnosis back in 2012, I was able to qualify as transplant recipient. In March of 2013 I received a gorgeous kidney from my beloved sister-in-law Jane and have been enjoying excellent renal health ever since. Alas, this was not an option for our cherished Callie. And she was suffering mightily.
We've had 14 wonderful years with our cheerful, vocal, fluffy, companionable Callie. As excruciatingly hard as it was for Alva and me, we knew we had to let her go. So yesterday we brought her back to our fine veterinarian and let the doctor give her a very gentle goodbye.
As a human, when my time comes to depart (a long, long time from now, I am determined!), our increasingly enlightened medical system will provide me with choices. Having experienced the absolutely beautiful, peaceful deaths of both my mom, Peg, in 1999, and then exactly three years later of my dad, Bill, in 2002, I go on living fully and joyfully. It has become ever-more-clear to me this simple truth: It is only when we give up our fear of death that we can be fully alive.
My occupation nowadays, in addition to my daily excitement of working on my ebook, Easy to Love, is to think about each and every one of you. I live in gratitude for our connection and for all the memories I cherish of our time together.
In an exchange of emails or messages (I'm at 650-888-0888), we can perhaps set up a time for a phone chat or FaceTime video chat, as long as I'm up to it. In any case, here's to love and connection and optimism. Here's to life! L'chaim!
yours,
Bear