Balls of Dough

 <exasperated sigh> My attempts to write about it have produced an indigestible mass of dough-balls, more fit for catfish bait than reading. So here is the deal: I see the vascular surgeon in 90 minutes. He's going to tell me what plan he proposes to keep the right side of my brain alive. I'm distracted, confused, and a little bit worried about how that plan may or may not change my life.

Don't know why I feel compelled to tell the world about all this. Maybe fishing for sympathy. I've never understood the whole, "I don't want your pity," thing. I eat the stuff up. Maybe I just want to feel seen and heard, afraid that somewhere out there, somebody is paying attention to something that isn't me. Or maybe because not being heard feels too much like not being there.

Deep down, there is a part of me that hopes I can do some good in the world by telling my story. That maybe my words will help someone else who is struggling. Because we are all struggling. And we all need help.

Because I want to help.

But right now, I haven't much to offer. I've coped pretty well up till this morning. I've told the story. I've gone about my business. I've accepted the not-knowing and welcomed the love and support of friends. Got my workouts in. Eaten healthy meals. Done the right stuff. My shrink would be proud.

But right now? Shitless. Because of one question. 

What if something happens to my brain, and I have to go on living? 

I don't know how I'd answer that question.

And I'm afraid of what my answer might mean.

For myself, and for you. 

I've rolled enough dough-balls for the time being. It's time to put on clean underwear and drive across town to see the wizard. 

In 45 minutes...

How about that? Suddenly, I really wish I could talk to my dad. 

Guess I'd rather be fishing.

Living with not-knowing

Back in 2010, a brilliant and gifted ENT surgeon opened up the right side of my neck and removed a fist-sized mass that was trying to kill me. If you look closely at Bald Yorick  and his buddy over there, you can see the incision. The cancer had spread quite a bit, and a lot of things had to be sacrificed. Muscles. Nerves. Lymph nodes. And weirdly enough, they had to remove my right jugular vein because the tumor had grown around it. It's OK. The blood my brain uses can still flow back to my heart and lungs down the left side, no worries. I remember Dr. Colin saying, "We were lucky the carotid artery was not involved. You can't live without that."

Well, I am now testing that hypothesis. A vascular surgeon whom I have not yet met, one I hope is as brilliant and gifted as Dr Colin was, will be returning to the scene of the crime shortly. Not for cancer. That old bastard isn't up for another ass whooping. This time, it's something with the blandly generic name of Carotid Artery Disease. What it means is that I have blockages in two of the arteries that carry blood to the right side of my brain. A couple of pretty bad blockages, as a matter of fact. 

Monday's ultrasound imaging showed a complete blockage of the external branch and at 50% blockage of the internal one on the right side of my neck/brain. That's bad, but Dr. Google - whose practice I do not reccomend, by the way - Dr. Google assures me that it is very common and very fixable. 

I have had lots of friends assure me that the disorder is very common, and the repair techniques have had many years to be perfected. My surgeon is a good one. The prognosis is excellent. The situation is serious, but not catastrophic. It's gonna be OK. Oh, and that worrying about it won't make it an iota better.

So, worry is off the table.

In the meantime, what's to be done?

Traveling down Not-Knowing Road can be a hazardous trip. Lots of blank spots on the map. My habit has been to try to fill them in - we are a problem-solving species, after all - and my inclination is to anticipate the worst. One of the symptoms of depression is "catastrophizing," a sloppy word that means the act of imagining a difficulty into a disaster. 

Recognizing that kind of unhealthy thinking, and managing it is an important part of learning to live with depression. I try to recognize what is true, and what is a story I'm telling myself in the shadows of my imagination. I try to stay mindful of what is real, what is now, what I know, and what I don't know.

I practice sitting patiently with the things I don't know.

My shrink told me something wonderful. I don't talk about him much, but I don't think he would mind if I tell you he is a wise old man who has come to know me well and counsels me with candor and compassion. He reminded me that cancer made me an expert, and over the years, I have used my expertise to serve hundreds of people who have followed me down that road. Now, I have a new teacher. "Who knows, in two years, you may be leading groups of people with cardio-vascular disease."

See? He's a smart guy.

Now that I'm past the fear of not knowing - the "scanziety" of waiting for a diagnosis - I am assembling a team. On offence are the medical people. Doctors and techs and surgeons and counselors: all the players who will be working to help me to heal and cope and recover. On defense, I have the ones who love me. The ones who will drive me around, listen to my fears, lift me with words of love and encouragement. We will laugh together, work together, run together, and wrap our arms around one another from time to time. They will feed my courage, renew my strength, and remind me that my life is worth fighting for. And they will fight beside me.

And me? I'm still learning how I fit into this picture. Not sure if I'm the coach, a coordinator, or the football. Or maybe I've just written myself into a corner and the metaphor has broken down. Steeler fans don't always have a rational relationship with the game.

Today is Thanksgiving. I am alive. I am needed. I'm stronger than I ever thought I could be and more beloved than I have any right to expect. Sophie, for one, never leaves my side. As a matter of fact, she keeps trying to put her feline two-cents worth in every time my fingers leave the keyboard. I am a rich man with a life-threatening condition, and a team of champions who are helping me to kick its ass.

Yeah, there is still plenty of stuff I don't know. I am practicing the art of living with not-knowing. You are in the same boat, after all. We all are. We can stop, put up our dukes, and fight against the ghosts of what what may happen, we can put our heads down and trudge on while pretending the spooks aren't there, or we can sit for a moment, reach out our arms, wrap them around all the things that we still can't see, and carry them along with us as we continue with the business of walking, loving, and living. That's my game-plan for now. 

Thanks for walking along with me. No telling what we'll learn together before all this is over.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Pennsy

Batter up!

The LIVESTRONG at the YMCA family grows

It's been a full week at the Y. 

The cancer survivors group I coach, LIVESTRONG at the YMCA had our final assessments and graduations this week. Their outcomes were amazing. The members of my exercise classes had a Thanksgiving feast provided by The Willows at Citation, a senior living facility in our neighborhood. I trained all my clients and taught four classes without mishap. Spent some time listening and consoling folks about fearful diagnoses. In between, I managed to help a handful of folks to earn their CPR/First Aid certifications. It is good for me to reflect on such things. It reminds me why I'm still up at bat, taking my cuts, and why it is so important for me to keep my eye on the many weird balls that life pitches me.

Monday's CT scan revealed "nothing remarkable" in my head. That news comforted my fears a little, even if the language hurt my ego. Next week will bring an ultra-sound scan of my carotid arteries to look for blockages, and an optometry exam to find out if there's anything weird going on in there. If they find nothing in my neck or eyes, I suppose they'll start digging a little deeper. It's a strange place to be: wishing they'd find the answer, and being afraid of the answers they might find. 

My symptoms have continued. I'm still visited by the dizziness, the blurred vision, and the "whooshing" sound in my head. I'm also visited daily by friends and colleagues who are caring and praying for me. Yes, I still feel the room spin , but I feel the love and light surrounding me even more. I sometimes wish I were a more private person who kept his problems to himself. It feels pathetic and needy to kvetch on and on in such a public way, but the love I get comforts my heart so. I don't want to give it up. I asked my sister, "What if they don't find anything, and it turns out I'm just a cranky old geezer who wants attention?" She reminded me that we've been cranky and old for a long time, so what's the difference?

Food is the most abused anti-anxiety drug in America, and exercise is the most potent yet under-utilized anti-depressant. - Bill Phillips, Body for Life 

2011 Iron Horse. My first Half-Marathon

I don't know who Bill Phillips is, but he's written a book that I just may need to read. Food has always been my drug of choice (is it any wonder I'm spending so much time in my 60's thinking about strokes and heart disease?) and since failing to commit suicide by Cherry Garcia, I have found that exercise is an indispensable part of my mental health maintenance. Even though I've only worked out a couple of hours in the last two weeks, my time in the pool, on the treadmill, and at the heavy bag didn't do me any harm; they were an uplifting reminder that whatever might be wrong inside me, something in there is still right. "Motion is medicine," said some smart guy I know, and it is as important to keeping me alive as the statins and beta-blockers. This episode has set my marathon training back a couple weeks, but I'm a long way from surrendering to a bag of Doritos. That gives me hope.

My beautiful sisters, and their cranky old brother.

We Gather Together... Thanksgiving is this week, and I have so many reasons for gratitude. I have work that I love, people who care about me, a family that still speaks to one another, and against all odds, I ain't dead yet. Sophie the cat continues to teach me that life is best lived by eating well, running often, purring around people you love, and napping whenever possible. There may be things about my life I would like to change, but there's a lot that I wouldn't trade for anything.

I'm still in there, taking my ups. My bat has slowed down, and Life has been throwing screw balls - but it sure is good to still be in the game. 

Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh...

I'm afraid. 

There. Said it. Been hacking away at this essay for weeks, into corners and down rabbit holes just because I didn't want to say it.

But, I'm afraid.

I have been experiencing some bad signs and symptoms for a while. Blurred vision. Dizziness and fainting. Numbness and tingles and loss of control of my left hand. A blinding headache behind my right temple that never goes away. A sort of thickening in my speech. And that damned sound. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh." I hear my heart beating all the time. I'm listening to it right now. Playing music doesn't help, because the sound is coming from inside, you see? You can't cover it up, because it's already up under the covers. 

And I'm afraid.

I work with people who have lived through TIA and stroke, and brain injury and all kinds of ugly stuff, and my story shares too many things with theirs for me to pretend not to notice the resemblance.

Those people are heroes. They refuse to let their illness defeat them. I have fought beside them, sometimes to the death. I know what it takes to be one of them.

Still, I'm afraid.

I know too much, and not nearly enough. Last week, I saw the doctor, and she ordered tests and images and exams and whatever other voodoo they use to try to head this stuff off before things get dramatic.

I have a CT scan of my brain scheduled for the morning. Carotid ultra-sounds. Retina scans. God knows what else. And I'm grateful for the doctor. And those tests. And the chance for some answers. 

Shit. I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of things I can imagine, but don't dare to name. Goblins and boogermen chase me around the room. What if I lose this? What if I need that? What will happen to me if I can't do this? What will I do If I they tell me I must do that?

This is the part where I'm supposed to take a sharp turn, share a touching anecdote, reveal a surprising insight. I just don't have any of those on hand. Not tonight.

Tonight, I feel like a frightened, lonely, old man with few options and even fewer words to wrap around him in the dark.

And so I sit. I sit with my fear as it whooshes through my head. I see it. I acknowledge it. Soon, I will carry it to bed with me, and in the morning, I will wake up with it in my ears, and we will walk together, my fear and me. We will go to the hospital and it will tell me stories, and I will take them for what they are - no more, no less. 

If I could ask for one virtue to get me through what's left of my life, I would ask for courage. I want the courage to keep standing, no matter how heavy a burden my fear becomes.

I hope they never say, "Poor old Bob. I guess his fears finally got the best of him." 

So, yeah. I'm afraid.

You just whoosh away, you son of a bitch. I'm scared as hell of you. But I'm on my feet. Waiting for your best shot.