Christmas Magic

I’ll admit it. I am not a holy roller. At the risk of sounding like a Match.com ad, I am spiritual but not religious. If I were given supreme power, and the world would be very frightened of that I am sure, I’d nail all end of year holidays into a true Earth Day. Keep the tree, the cookies, the wine, the songs, the fruitcake and everything that makes your holiday but goodwill shouldn’t be about one religion or creed. It’s for everyone.

That was the long way of saying I don’t usually look forward to people gatherings. My shrink probably would have a name for it but I’m one of those people that dread the family events yet once I get there, I have the time of my life.

This time of year, I always search for the holiday spirit. To pull from every Hallmark card, where is the spirit of Christmas? Where is the magic? It would seem that I haven’t had it since I found out there was no Santa at the young age of seven.

So where is this holiday enchantment so many speak of?

My mom throws a holiday party, open house-ish, every year. Begrudgingly I go every year. This year was particularly painful – The Patriots had a night game on the same night.

There I was. Mingling. Talking to people I don’t see for months at a time, even longer.

The evening was a mixture of wine, food, and friends. I found myself laughing in every conversation.

Therein lies the magic. After the last few events in my life, you start to count the years. How many behind. How many ahead. You start to survey the room. It is with sadness that you can say some will not be there at the next event. You want to freeze everyone just as they are as sort of a sick, life taxidermy.

I have another admission – I am a loner. I like my peace and contemplative quiet. After an evening of raucous conversation, I am wondering if I should reverse that nature. It’s that clamor that makes our lives delightful. We can’t hide under our blackberries from it nor should we. These are the people that nurtured, consoled, and lived with us. Side by side. They are the very fabric of why we exist.

Like most, I am proud of who I am. And like most, there are times that I feel I’ve earned the right to be on my own. To not get involved with family. I’ve done my bit for king and country. I deserve my own island.

It doesn’t work that way. I am not only a part of those around me, but they are all a part of me. A huge part. Family and friends are my blood. They define whom I am no matter how much I yearn to be left alone.

The conversations ended. A crispy dusting of snow crunched under my feet as my family departed my mom’s party.

I did make the Patriots game. Throughout it all, I kept thinking of the faces I spoke with all night. The happy eyes that stared back at me. The memories that were my past that I could taste once again.

Call it nostalgia. Call it reminiscences.

I call it Christmas magic….

Night Sweats...Conclusion by Kim Zuba Morse

"I like to call this the ongoing conclusion. As Kim exemplifies, the point of the story is that it doesn't end. It is the most telling aspect - Survival..." JM

Over the next forty eight hours, I found myself surrounded by an influx of family members, friends, and acquaintances; the front door instantly became a revolving door of curious guests, those sincere in their well wishes, and others who were somehow guilt ridden into seeing ‘the sick kid’ before impending doom. Movies, snacks and small talk filled the hours until I was to be introduced to my new life. Excisional lymph node biopsy was scheduled for Monday morning at the Children’s hospital; this gave me the opportunity of one more weekend to live as a normal teenager; unfortunately there wasn’t anything normal about my situation. How does one prepare to be told they have cancer? It’s a question I often think of now.

The vacancy in my parents’ eyes didn’t go without notice. Boisterous and outspoken qualities that I had learned to treasure were replaced with silent fear. Years later, I realize that they had done their research as well, and were preparing a united front into accepting a potentially terminal diagnosis for their oldest child.

The operating room is not an inviting place. The surroundings are cold and metallic, sterile; yes I guess they have to be when dealing with life or death. Instantly a chill took over my body and it became unstoppable. My normally soft skin replaced with a slew of goose- bumps peeking through the fashionable hospital garb including slippers and a net cap. Anesthesia is introduced and a burning sensation causes me to yelp in discomfort at the needle stick and then I am able to relax. I’m instructed to begin counting backwards: five, four, three, two, one………

I fully awaken two days later into a world wind of developments. A disheveled body is asleep on an uncomfortable makeshift bed. My eyesight adjusts and my father’s features become clearer. He has aged in days. Minutes later my mother arrived, her facial features drawn, dark circles under her eyes, and the remnants of a good cry; she carried a cup of coffee for each of them. I quickly noticed their eyes lock into a stare and suddenly words weren’t necessary. “I guess we need to talk, huh?”

Seconds pass and a nurse arrives to check my vital signs. I realize that I am weak, a few days without sufficient nutritional intake, and I need assistance to stand to go to the bathroom. “Damn” I yell as I’m cursed with nature’s monthly gift to women; how embarrassing. Teenager… Hospitalized… Menstrual cycle… No privacy. Could it get worse?

A handsome young doctor enters my room on the sixth floor of the hospital. He puts out his hand to introduce himself; he is a new face to me, but not to my parents. Their paths had crossed.

“I’d like to talk to you about your biopsy results. During the initial procedure, we also did a bone marrow biopsy and I’m sorry to tell you that you have a type of cancer known as Hodgkin’s Lymphoma”. Pause. My mouth opens slowly as my brain registers what he has just told me. “Get the hell out of my room, now”. He quietly steps out and my father follows him. I hear “I’m sorry” again. Sorry doesn’t cut it.

I asked my mother for paper and a pen and I quickly put it to use. How long until I die? Will my hair fall out? Is there treatment and will I feel sick? Can I go back to school? And finally, why me? I didn’t smoke, hadn’t tried drugs, and maybe took a few sips of alcohol at a family party, but that was it. How was I chosen? In fact, how is anyone chosen? Being diagnosed with cancer at any age is traumatizing. It is especially so during the teenage years when vanity is in and hair loss and bloating due to legal steroid use is not.

Luckily for me, I was able to be discharged home after a short four day hospital stay. I was instructed to rest in preparation for further testing which would determine how extensive my cancer was and what treatment protocol I would be assigned. So much for going back to school in time for the spring dance and biology midterm; bring on the wigs and bandana and so long to the formal wear.

Within a week, the handsome doctor who I had not so nicely kicked out of my room was once again delivering news. The symptoms I had been experiencing for months, and thought to be related to ‘just’ a viral syndrome, were actually tell tale signs of a potentially life threatening disease. Hodgkin’s Lymphoma can present with classic systemic symptoms of fever, night sweats and weight loss. I had all three. Although causes are unknown, Epstein Bar virus may play a role in this malignant disease of lymphoid tissue. Yup, I had that too. Initial staging of disease is critical to therapy, which is why every part of my body was scanned; searching for cancer anywhere it could hide was the mission of my new doctor and soon to be friend. Deep within my chest a tumor grew to be the size of a grapefruit over the course of the preceding months. It wasn’t palpable, but it was slowly trying to give me a clue to its existence. The problem was I wasn’t listening. Despite losing some weight, I was still on the heavier side. The shortness of breath from the tumor was mistaken for the result of too many French fries and an extra serving of ice cream. The specialists had met and reviewed my case at Tumor Board, an interdisciplinary group made up of the best and brightest medicine has to offer. My disease was classified as Stage IIIB. Chemotherapy and Radiation were now planned for the next 8-9 months. Was I prepared? Attempting to sleep that night was impossible; I could only hear one word over and over in my dreams. Fight.

Night Sweats...Part One by Kim Zuba Morse

The clock strikes two in the morning and the bed sheets are soaked yet again. Four times in the last week and almost robotically I’ve found myself in a new routine: school, homework, dinner and soon after asleep on the couch. Unfortunately, the rest is short lived. Bed soaking, body shaking sweats awaken me within hours as the devil dances through my dreams shouting “put up a fight”. Even 17 years later the thought of those sweats turn my stomach and result in an immediate chill.

At fourteen years old, many teenagers think they know it all. Sorry to disappoint, but I was no exception. I wasn’t a cool kid by any means, but I had made some friends, proven myself academically, and was living the good life. I felt the knowledge I had about me was far superior to that of any doctor I had encountered in the preceding months.

Days of absence and early dismissal began tarnishing my near perfect academic record: I was sick again. Repetitive visits to the pediatrician continually resulted in the same diagnosis: Enough of the damn viral syndrome. Five visits later I begged, yes pleaded for confirmation via blood work. My reward? Epstein Bar Virus was detected. As quickly as the needle poked through my skin to get at my tarnished blood, the hand that did so wrote me a “free pass” to be eliminated from further humiliating myself in high school co-ed gym class. Friends were envious. No more ugly gym shorts and uncoordinated attempts at being athletic.

Fast forward three weeks. Friday April 19^th; the date is permanently engraved in my brain. It’s two am, the sheets are soaked, I get up to change my clothes, and as I pull my wet shirt off, something is different. My fingers start to move around my neck, slowly at first, and then quickly my speed changes to fast forward. A new development in hours, how could that be? Yes, the mirror doesn’t lie. Inhale. Exhale. As my brain is telling me to look at myself more closely in the mirror, my heart is speaking louder “yes, finally, a visual clue”. A hard mass, the size of an egg, was embedded into the left side of my neck and I silently knew my fight was about to begin.

I’m pretty good at pretending things are okay, even when they aren’t. Such is the case that morning, as I carefully chose a turtleneck to wear and asked my grandmother if I could be excused from school, after of course, my parents had left for work. An hour later she kindly escorted me to the primary care doctor for the last visit of that kind. The words are still clear in my mind to this day: “call her parents out of work immediately”. As my grandmother excused herself to do as she was instructed, it was my turn to face him and vocalize the thoughts that lingered in my mind and heart all along: “I have cancer”. As his eyes filled with tears, he looked defeated. In his Russian accent he managed to confirm my prediction and validate my fear. “It is highly likely that you do”. Even at fourteen, I was able to get the last words in: “That is between you and I until we know it is a sure thing. Don’t worry; I’ve got a good fight in me”.

And so the story begins.

Thanksgiving

Everyday I wake up and list off five things in my life I am thankful for. They can be personal. They can be small and frivolous. Still, when I feel my life heading south, so to speak, I start reeling them off. Call it a personal rosary of sorts. As we approach the holidays, before the hype and hysteria hit, stop yourself for a moment and fire off five things to be thankful for. Here are some of mine...

I am thankful for...

Friends who don't always understand me but still care

An old truck that still runs

My son's voice as he belts out AC/DCs Longway To The Top....

Breakfast

I can run

Although it is what I do and not who I am - my job

A roof and a yard

Music

Parents who are in decent health

Cold mornings

The first cardinal of spring

The smell of dinner

Good doctors

That my brothers aren't perfect

Vivid Memories

Strong coffee

Artists

Roger Williams Zoo

Beaches just a short ride away

I can still play hockey

The color green

My wife's garden

Matteo's friends

Now knowing how to swim

A cluttered garage

Other writers

Good conversation

Poets

That I can walk from one point to another

Dragons

Red Wine

Matteo

...Pam...

Happy Thanksgiving

Cancer Hates Oxygen: Angels

Cancer Hates Oxygen: Angels: " 'Angels and ministers of grace defend us. Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, Bring w..."

Angels

"Angels and ministers of grace defend us. Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee.”

Dear Joe,

This is your "official" notification that John Doe’s time with the ChemoAngels program is at an end as he is not receiving chemo at this time. His last scan results were good - isn't that good news?

I belong to a program called Chemo Angels. It’s simple really. You volunteer to guide a patient through their journey with little notes of inspiration. It’s a job that could last weeks, months or longer. There's no pay save for the fact that you may make a difference in a stranger's life.

Once a week you send a ‘note’ to your patient. Just an outside tag saying you are thinking about them. It could be humorous. It could be nostalgic. There are rules, however. You can’t ask about their status personally. You can ask through the organization however. You can’t be ‘depressing’. You know – “Well, you think you have problems? Let me tell you about mine…”

My patient must now learn to fly. It’s a tentative flight at best. I can’t really tell him this because it would break the rules but I want to scream the warning – Watch out for the cliff. Science is done with you. The hordes of doctors, nurses, rehab clinics…all gone. The storm is in your face and your toes will barely break the cliff’s edge. Time to fly. Your sand timer has been turned over. You get a reset button. How long? I don’t believe in fate but it waxes poetic to say fate will decide.

My run was tough today. I adore running in cooler weather as opposed to the summer heat. This time of year, though, the elements throw more than warm rain and sun. Wind, misting ice, leaves, everything.

I drove into my downhill trying to gain as much momentum as I could. When I turned the corner, I started my uphill climb. I can’t dwell on it much. It feels like it is at a forty-five degree angle.

My patient popped into my head. He has to go it alone now. After radiation, chemo and limb-severing surgery, he has to swim solo.

My strides grow smaller and I lean into the hill. My ungloved hands swell in the cold wind. One step at a time. That’s how he has to go from now on. One step. Deal with what he knows now, not 2 days from now. He's clean right this minute - right now. I want him to grab onto that and clutch it tight. Let no one take that away from his present moment.

I am halfway up the hill. I often wonder if the neighbors are looking through their windows at this nut running uphill, into the wind. My lungs are maxed. I am leaning into the hill but I still have to keep my torso straight. More air gets into your lungs that way.

My patient will have many hills to climb now. I supposed we all do. Most likely, I will never meet him. His universal path lies elsewhere.

I begin to crest the hill. This is good because my hips are protesting and my calves are looking for a golf cart.

The wind is actually pushing me down the other side of the hill and for a brief moment, I feel like a kid being pushed in a cart at the store. You want that energy to last forever.

I just hope I pushed my patient’s cart hard enough…

Mortality...

“Electric word life

It means forever and that's a mighty long time” – Let’s Go Crazy

Let’s face it. No matter the location, be it playground, school, rest stop, or hospital, all kids want to make friends.

His name was Paul. All I knew was that he walked funny and had no hair. His parents would speak with mother and father daily. They all got along. It was a long hospital stay.

The memories flash like a bad super eight film that was spliced all wrong. My dad wanted my first ray gun and emphatically asked that I lend it to a younger boy who was across the hall in the only room with a closed door. This was unacceptable to me at the time. And no respectable Italian father ever emphatically asks either. They demand.

I was approaching seven years of age and most adults were giving me everything I asked for within reason of course. So why should I part with my toy now?

I lost the ray gun.

I didn’t understand.

I didn’t have the capacity to comprehend what my father was attempting to do – comfort a boy who was in desperate need of it. I don’t remember his name. He had chubby cheeks and kinky curls for hair. I never knew what happened to him.

As for Paul, he needed help just to walk down the hallway. I remember his mother being kind and his father having a beard with no mustache. He always looked like the old maritime sailors coming in from trading in Asia. Their son needed help with all phases of life. I recollect a nurse giving him his meds ground up in applesauce. It seemed like he was swallowing razors.

I didn’t understand.

I was in an offbeat dormitory. A prison for children where oddball pajamas, strange lighting and singsong nurses all were commonplace. The children were measured by how much energy they had. The more the better. That meant you were on the mend.

One of the final memories was of me going home. I am told it had been four weeks. I was anxious. I had cried myself to sleep as the last of my dorm mates left with his family. I think his name was Kevin. He was in the same room with me for over a week due to a spinal injury when he fell off a swing. I watched from the third story window as he piled into a lime green station wagon with his brothers and mom.

When the day came that I could go home, I could taste the electricity. I could don my own clothes that didn’t smell rubbing alcohol or stale mothballs. I could leave the dingy yellows of the hallways that I often caused mischief in. I didn’t need to ask permission to be ‘let out’ to the concrete playground that some of the children would visit on the sunny days.

I was going home.

Some time after, I don’t recall how much had passed; I realized that some children never make it out of the prison. That moment defined mortality for me. Children are often sheltered from such things as death, more so their own. There is too much life to be had when you are young.

I wonder how many children from my floor actually left with their families. I’ve always fancied them as lost souls - ones that I will meet again someday simply by crossing the street.

Paul wasn’t one of those children. He passed away. From the boy I barely knew, he taught me so much. What it is to overcome struggles in life. How to define a ‘bad day’. How to actually live.

Decades later, I understand it now.

Choices...

An eye for an eye

A tooth for a tooth

Blood for blood

- Five Finger Death Punch

The chain in those handcuffs

is high-tensile steel.

It'd take you ten minutes

to hack through it with this. (Brandishes saw)

Now, if you're lucky...you could hack through your ankle

in five minutes…

Go….

- Mad Max

As Survivors, we are sometimes faced with forced splits in the road. Paths, which are tempting. Paths that play the odds, the percentages and the statistics. Eve had her devil and so do we.

Nothing is guaranteed. Doctors will ask you to put your chips on an uncertain future. It’s a simple two-step scientific formula – remove the disease and remove where the disease lives.

Take out a lung for you have two. Take away more of the leg than needed just to be sure.

It’s a sort of macabre laboratory that we live in. The microscope light is white hot.

Perhaps a mole doesn’t look quite right. A scan shows a shadow. A cough has lingered a few weeks too long.

Every grain of sand can’t be counted yet every grain must be looked at.

Then the devil smiles with a deal. We are told that certain percentages go up if we commit ourselves to the invasive. It may be a stronger, longer dose of drug therapy, or a more potent barrage of radiation. It could be a removal of a limb, an organ or for some, a soul.

Whatever the devil calls it, we consider it. Many shake their heads in wonder, but many, thankfully don’t have to choose.

The key here is that Survivors are never quite in control from Day 1. Once a door is ajar, even for a moment, we leap at the chance to take back what was stolen from us. Even if that means being subjected to science experiments.

As a child, my parents were faced with a decision. To use a war analogy, it would be akin to using a precise minimal strike strategy or simply laying waste to the land.

Somewhere in there, madness and reason battle with our lives as the prize.

It is our roulette. Hit the right number and perhaps you win another day.

Demons

I lace up like usual. It is always quietest just before I go in motion.

This is also one of the times invading thoughts are always waiting for me in ambush.

Today, though, I wanted to work on my running technique. Stand up straighter, get more air, and shorten my steps on hills.

I kept repeating – elbows back, elbows back.

I finished an annual 5k. Kudos came for doing so but I have it in my head that being healthy isn’t just finishing, it is to own it. Own it. Drill it. Do it. Just own it.

I play ice hockey and my body, though not old, is telling me to change routines as it heals from Sunday morning skating as a goaltender. I moved my weight routine and in its place another running day.

I listen to my body as I pound out each step on a newly paved road. That inner voice sometimes fades and other voices take over. I call them my demons.

There is no evil connotation to them. They are simple shadows of the past and fears of the future. It is an effort to keep them at bay. They are powerful and they have years of fuel to feed on.

They come rather abruptly.

A bit of dialogue from last year creeps in.

Elbows back. Elbows back. Keep breathing.

“If you were 80 we wouldn’t bother with the resection…”

A carving of my liver was all that stood in the way of me surviving or not. I am young and that counted for me.

Another demon counter speaks. But what if you were 80? You would have been dismissed. Thrown aside. You’ve lived long enough now let someone else take your place.

I turn up my iPod. The music can help drown out an imp’s statement. Sometimes.

Elbows back.

Another jolt from a year ago edges in.

“If we find any cancer elsewhere, we will end the operation…”

I take deep breathes through my nose and huff out of my mouth. I squeeze all of the air I can into my lungs and proceed to squeeze all of it out again. Over and over.

Elbows back.

I am suddenly at the foot of a hill. My steps are shorter and I lean into the hill with power. My left knee protests but only for a moment. A small adjustment quiets that voice.

A future in question.

I am at the top of the hill and I begin my circle back. I catch myself slumping forward slightly again. A bad habit. I am at once erect and looking at the tree line. My arms are still cranking to the rhythm of the road.

Still a future in question?

No. I will it away. The demons’ remonstration tells me that I am winning even just for the moment.

I am healthy, damn it all. At this moment, this very moment, I am and I will own it, drill it and do it until I cannot do it any longer. When I sit in the waiting room, people will believe I am waiting on someone. I am not a patient. Doctors will shake their heads. Nurses will smile – I am the easy one. He’s in and he’s out. Decades of the same routine and I will keep doing what I am doing because I can.

I barely realize that I am home again. The demons have gone. They always leave a slime trail. A bitter aftertaste, but that is a small price to pay.

It’s over. Another battle complete. It is an endless mind war and the darkness will come again. We’re human after all. We get tired. We surrender a few inches but we will never say, “Come get me”. I won’t do it.

My heart eases down. I have strength. I am breathing. I am excited and angry all at once. A house of cards, I am. My demons will be back.

I finished my run rather fast today. They were right. It’s elbows back from now on.

Testing. 1..2...3....

Testing.

Let’s face it. As much as we strive to be ‘normal’, Survivors are not. There are no normal doctor visits. No normal, standard checkups. Hell, we can’t even go to the dentist without a conversation about our medical past.

Whether we are on a scheduled scan or a meeting with our Primary, every visit holds gravity.

Will white counts be high?

Will that scan show a shadow that can’t be explained?

I can literally quote one of my oncologists.

“You are compromised.”

The simple fact that we are Survivor’s lends itself to a new life. We shouldn’t be dwelling, but the question always in the background is “What’s next?”

Indeed. What is next?

It sometimes takes decades to figure that out and I am thankful for those decades. Still, the energy needed to live hour to hour, day to day, can be draining.

There is joy. We are alive. We have survived. There is air to breathe. Wine to drink. Colors to see. Hands to hold. Silence to listen to.

There is fear. Sure we are alive but what if the affliction comes back? We had no control before and who says we have any control now?

There is pain. We live in a new century yet we are still reduced to knives, swords and probes where no one should ever go. It isn't discomfort. It is pain.

There is depression. Why not? One Thousand years from now cancer may be nothing more than a head cold but for now, we still have to sit though charity TV shows dedicated to eradicating the disease. Don’t sing for me. Fix it, please.

There is guilt. To those who have passed, why are we alive? As a child, my friend across the hall didn’t make it. Explain that to a six year old.

There is perspective. Heavy, hard to focus, perspective. Why is tuning a widget of any importance any longer? Focus on everyday tasks, like your job, or cutting the grass, can be likened to running a marathon. Focus too much on normal life and you leave yourself wide open to another total shock by an unemotional doctor.

When you are diagnosed, you step onto the wildest roller coaster there is. The heights are the highest. The depths can be unfathomable. The lights are white hot and always on you. Alien faces poke, prod, stab and cajole you to walk along the very edge of a jagged cliff.

Then there is silence. As fast as the chemicals and science was upon you, it is now gone. You are alone. Sure there is family. There may have even been some friends who stuck around. You are still alone now. Alone to take the next step.

We aren’t normal any longer.

And for that, we are constantly being tested.

You are going to eat that?

*This blog is for Survivors, those who know Survivors and those who want to know how we live.

**Organic - of or pertaining to an organ or the organs of an animal, plant, or fungus

***I am in no way a doctor nor do I advocate you follow any regimen that I put before you. I do what I do after years of research, trial and error and, quite often, hope. What works for me is something I’ve chosen to do for myself alone. It gives me the solace I seek. Thank you for reading.

Cocktail:

- 1 six oz glass of part acai, part pomegranate juice – two powerhouse antioxidant fruits

o one multivitamin

o one b-complex (strengthens the heart muscle, and other organs)

o one resveratrol (main ingredient in red wine)

o 500 mg of Vitamin C

§ I don’t have a spleen – a filter for my blood. Vitamin C is to boost my immune system

o 1000 mg fish oil (Omega 3 cancer fighter)

o Other “maintenance” medicines for life

Breakfast:

Microwave for 3 minutes on high:

½ cup of organic oatmeal

- lowers blood pressure and cholesterol

3 egg whites

- Omega3 fed hens, cancer preventer

organic skim

- More omega-3, more vitamins than conventional, helps with muscle recovery

Add:

Handful of crushed walnuts

- Rich source of Omega-3 fatty acids – cancer preventer

As many wild blueberries as you can stand

- higher antioxidant ratio than regular blue berries

2 tbl raw agave nectar

- low glycemic index that won’t make you hungry in an hour

3 hours later:

5.6 oz Organic Greek Yogurt

- high protein to feel full and build lean muscle, probiotics for digestion

2 hours later:

Organic broccoli/spinach pie made with whole wheat dough

- Broccoli is a known cancer fighter and is being researched as a natural wonder drug, fiber, vitamin C

- Spinach, yes, strengthens muscles, helps eyesight and is a cancer fighter

2 hours later:

8 0z Organic chocolate soy milk

– I am a recovering sugarholic…sue me

A raw organic tomato

- Fights free radicals

- Lycopene - a known cancer fighter

This is a typical day.

My mission is to offset the fallout of the medicine that I am subjected to take for life and have been subjected to previously.

A constant rule of thumb question I relentlessly ask myself is:

What is the bang I am getting from what I am about to eat?

It becomes second nature. I ask myself that every time. The Hershey Kiss has less gleam that way. That’s not to say that I live a life of gruel and gloom. Life isn’t worth living if you are going to rob yourself of the various bounties that surround you. I am thankful. I am alive and I will celebrate that.

To that end I will have Celebration Days. I pick my spots and after 12 weeks I’ll eat real ice cream. Months may go by but after a while my soul begs for a Chunky bar. I confess though, many of the riches have lost their sparkle.

I am a pescatarian – a vegetarian who eats fish. It’s a word that bridges the chasm between omnivorous and vegan. Dr. Dean Ornish once proclaimed that the human digestive system was built solely for being a vegetarian. I disagree. We are adaptive. We are built to eat whatever crawls in our way, if we are put in a survival situation. Our ancestors, the apes, prove that. Still, nothing makes a more powerful statement than the societies that simply eat vegetables as a staple.

The battle between vegan and carnivore will last an eternity. I simply submit a peace treaty - the word organic. You may substitute unprocessed, untouched, of this Earth, whatever suits your needs. However you want to describe it, it is a simple term for a simple solution.

Our bodies are the perfect machines. I truly believe that. In our immeasurable universe, the human machine has been copied, modified, maybe bastardized but never surpassed. We are nature’s most adaptive creatures.

At least the design was perfect. The very environment we live in has polluted the actual code - Our biological set of laws scrambled at the most base levels.

When we are born, our basic genes are all the same yet there are chinks in the armor. Our environment seeps into those gaps and disease is born. True, it is nature. Also true, it is the key to defeating our horrid nightmares. Our last recourse is to get our environment back to organic and that starts with our own bodies.

A Survivor is on their last bullet. It is the last right we cling to. If a cat had nine lives, seven or eight of them are swiped in one round of chemo so if our candle is to burn long and bright, we must cling to the pursuit of purity in this last life we lead.

From my perspective, the only criteria I truly control now are how my body and mind are kept. I can cast them in the mud or I can hone them. I can stay indoors waiting for the storm or I can go searching for it. My choice.

I tell people I am in training. The looks I get range from ridicule and sympathy, to interesting and patronizing.

If I were a soccer player or a star in the NFL, no one would question. Those are people whose bodies are meant for self inflicted punishment. Substances both legal and not are poured into them with reckless abandon.

But what about those who never asked for the sentence? The twelve year old who never smoked in his life yet falls to lung cancer. The mother of four who will never get to see her grandchildren.

I don’t judge. I also don’t understand. To smoke or not to smoke. Self abuse or self awareness. Again. Your choice. I can’t let it affect mine.

We are in training. The perfect machine demands the perfect fuel. Untouched, of this Earth. Our ancestors used the mantra for their survival.

We now use it for ours.

Cancer Hates Oxygen

*This blog is for Survivors, those who know Survivors and those who want to know how we live. My hope is to give a small glimpse into a world where statistics, charities and pity form a façade to millions who just want to live a normal life. Any future imagery, although possibly disturbing to some, is in no way intended to shock. Rather it is intended to show our not so secret society of survivorship in its true light. Thank you for reading. It was 5 a.m. I could still hear the rain pattering through the screens in the windows. The air was heavy after a night of storms and bad sleep…again. The day after another killer weight session and my body was asking, more like begging, to surrender. Just one more hour of sleep. It will sound funny but I can hear my body talk. Some call it hyper-vigilance. I call it the Inner Voice. Some days it’s a whisper. Some days it is a dissonance of shrills and screeches. Always wanting attention. Feed me. Rest me. Work me. I wanted one more hour of sleep. Maybe it was the mere thought of tossing and turning for sixty minutes that changed my mind. Then it occurred to me. A simple statement I learned not so long ago. Cancer hates oxygen. Time and time again, science has scratched its head over the silly riddle – Why does cancer die in high oxygen environments? My answer to that is more base – who cares. Cancer hates oxygen. I have often thought that the mind is a pure ventriloquist. It uses the heart as a simple dummy, pushing it here and there. Making the heart do its’ bidding. But once your heart sets the course, nothing can change it. My brain reacting like something akin to a hangover as my feet hit the floor. I am dehydrated and hungry as I adjust my sneakers for third time. I am not one of those elite runners. After many blisters, I have invested in a good pair of running shoes. I have all of the wick ware that I need. Still, I am goofy as I stretch in my driveway. At once I start my deep breathing. I try to stretch my ribs as far as they will move so that I can gain a few more molecules of air. I pick a song off my iPod and simply go. As I dart past the darkened windows, the Inner Voice immediately starts yammering. My legs are tired. How far do you think you are going to go today? Cut it short. Is that knee pain I feel? It takes my body longer than most to ‘warm up’. My engine is working on six cylinders not eight - the result of an impromptu bypass at the age of thirty-seven. It was another domino that fell. Part of my cure, what started as a six year old Hodgkin’s patient, turned to be a dance with the devil. Decades later, fallout. Triple bypasses. Liver resections. A life of psychiatrists. Cut open. Dissected. Pain. Drugs. Thoughts of a bleak future. These are the same thoughts that prevail during my runs. The music is the background. The feelings are the road behind me. Today was a tune up. One and a half miles. I do short, hard runs. I try to keep my heart beating. I try to keep breathing. People forget. I try to forget. What I do is often viewed as radical. A borderline mania. I call it a religion. Monday – Weights Tuesday – Running Wednesday – Rest/possible gym at lunch Thursday - Weights Friday – Running Saturday – rest Sunday – running Over and over. In the rain. In the snow. In the heat or cold. Injuries mount up. Knees give way. Overworked muscles want to be left alone. A television remote beckons repeatedly. Sit. Relax. I can’t vegetate but I can be vegetarian. Exotic foods like brewers yeast, cacao nibs, flax seed, nuts, berries, odd grains, sometimes-peculiar vegetables fill me up yet I still would give it all away for a Twinkie. Cancer loves sugar. If I can help it, I won’t give it another chance. I want to be a moving target. In my mind, my cells are executioners. Anything foreign goes. I am a killing machine. I finish my run strong. It was a fast time for me. Fast being a relative term. My heart is slamming through my chest but it quickly dies down. It knows the routine. I listen for a few more moments as I suck in as much air as I can take. The Inner Voice is simply purring. It won’t last. For now, I have quelled my demons. My shoulders always heave as I take in the last of the deep breaths. I gulp one more yawning inhale before heading back in. The rain held off. Just a few flecks on my forehead. The last breath flows out of me, long and slow. I haven’t cheated myself today. I always have to remind myself – keep breathing. Cancer really does hate oxygen.