"kwitcherbellyachin'!"

It's hard to resist the temptation simply to lapse into reporting the latest clinical medical details of my on-going situation. They seem so objective and tangible, as well as impersonal and 'arms-length" -- safe in a way that objective, clinical detachment ALWAYS seems safe...or at least reassuring that whoever is doing the talking actually knows what they're talking about, even if you don't. But as I've said before here, much of this information is simply irrelevant to me. My physicians need to understand it in order to treat me, and I need to understand enough of it to know what the plan is, and what my role is in the treatment process, and how to make intelligent decisions about the course I want that treatment to follow. And I suppose in the greater scheme of things it's also helpful to be able to recognize which pill is supposed to be doing what and why it's going in my mouth along with all the others. But right now my most immediate goal is to be able to do what any two year old can do with the proper incentive of a few M&Ms. So far no joy. Maybe what they really need to do is put me on a leash and walk me around the park a few times....

My biggest personal frustration here has been the inability to reply to all of the wonderful, supportive e-mails I've been receiving, since the hospital's firewall (I presume to discourage SPAMMERS) prevents me from sending outgoing STMP messages to my normal e-mail server. So I can read my regular e-mail no problem, but answering in the normal manner is basically impossible. Still, lots of encouraging words from colleagues and current and former parishioners all over the country as the word goes out; the disappointing thing is that many of my oldest and closest friends STILL don't know, because I have no effective way of contacting them directly, even though at the moment I actually have plenty of time on my hands to do so.

I've been also receiving all sorts of lovely cards, and am especially fond of a batch I received yesterday from the second grade Sunday School class. Lots of folks signing up to help out around the house as well with food and rides in the upcoming weeks, and especially to help out by walking my little dog "The Adorable Parker." Apparently she's been kind of a handful for my Dad and my brother, who aren't quite clued in yet to all of her little tricks and quirks, but are quickly wising up. Parker is far and away more stubborn than I am (and so she generally gets her way with me), but I think in my Dad she may have met her match. Time will tell.

But really, I have no complaints to speak of. "kwitcherbellyachin'!" was one of my grandfather's favorite phrases, which came down to me by way of my own father...and I'm not even sure how old I was before I realized that this wasn't just some sort of obscure Danish expletive, but rather a straight-forward admonishment to "quit your belly aching" -- in other words, to stop whining so much about things that weren't going to change, and instead to just suck it up and get on with it. OK, maybe it's not the most enlightened or sophisticated philosophy of suffering. But it's an OK place to start, and one could certainly do worse. They'll be time enough later to muse over all of the deeply profound existential questions. Right now, I'd settle for a lot simpler satisfactions: a good poop, a long nap, a tasty little tidbit and a pat on the head from a pretty girl. What more could any Big Dawg ask for?

Sunday Sabbath

Hoped to get a four-hour furlough from the hospital today to attend services at First Parish, but my Docs weren't having any of it, and the truth be told I wasn't really feeling up to it physically anyway. Lee Devoe from Augusta filled the pulpit for me, and from all reports it was a lovely service with lots of laughter and good feeling, and a real sense of coming together as a community.

Of course, one good thing about being stuck in the hospital for the past four days is that I've been able to watch ALL of the March Madness regional finals. You can read some of my thoughts about that HERE

Meanwhile, I thought I'd share this e-mail I received after LAST Sunday's Easter Service, which certainly warmed my heart when i read it, and which I hope will inspire all of you as well. Be on your toes! This person may well soon be appearing in YOUR local congregation....

Reverend Jensen,

I was in Portland for the weekend, and visited with your congregation for Easter Sunday services. I identify as Lutheran having been raised in the Lutheran church in my very early childhood [insert large church-free gap] and then starting to study and seek later when I was at college. I had never been to a UU service before, and chose yours based on a web search and a feeling.

In even my brief studies of the New Testament while in college, I found comfort (beauty, humanity, acceptance, reality) and not conflict in the sometimes contradictory stories about Jesus' life pieced together from various texts and recorded years after his death. Many sermons seem to always quote the same safe passages. Thank you for taking another route. It seemed much more real and important of a message -- perhaps just the one I needed to hear on this day.

I just wanted to say thank you to you and the congregation because I was struck by the feeling of acceptance and openness at First Parish. It seemed that almost everyone was genuinely happy to be there and not there because-they-should or because-they-were-dragged type of look. I have never noticed having that feeling before while in church so perhaps it was the day or the sunshine, but it seemed to be special to the place and the people. And you have a way of using humor without trivializing, and being welcoming without a trace of guilt-related shudda-couldda-woulddas which seem to be a part of so many services. It was inspiring. it seems to me that you have a great gift.

Thank you to all for providing me with this new experience and this feeling of acceptance. I have been reading about UUs these last few hours, and feel so very proud of all of you -- which is weird to say I know -- but that type of balance and understanding matched with forward-thinking action (showing strong convictions) can not be easy and seems to me that it would take hard work. It seems to be a great model for community at large if we could all be that convinced and simultaneously open minded!

I know that I don't understand completely and can't honestly say that I could leave my traditions, but I hope to learn more at a local UU nearby my home....

Thank you again,

Tattooed

Yesterday while I was waiting to be transported back from Radiology, an orderly walked by wearing a "President's Quality Award Team" sweatshirt. But I only got a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye, and thought that it said "President Quayle's..." and for a moment that I had been transported into some sort of Rod Serlingesque alternative universe where...but then I got a closer look, and realized that nope...this really was my real life after all....

Also got my first tattoo yesterday. Nothing really to write home about (except that here I am, doing just that): five little "targets" on my sides and abdomen so that the Radiation Oncologist can properly sight his ray gun when he goes to irradiate this small (but growing) metastatic tumor at the very tip of my tailbone. This is what's been giving me all the pain in my back and down my legs, so the NEW treatment plan is to attack it first for a couple of weeks before starting my chemotherapy, to see whether they can shrink or (better yet) eradicate it entirely, and relieve this pain which at times is still incapacitating. At least now it's mostly down to a range-of-motion thing; there are some things I can do in reasonable comfort, and others which require a little creative "work around." But until they can finish weaning me off of the good, old-fashioned 19th century intravenous morphine on to something more 21st century that I can take by mouth, I'm pretty much stuck in the hospital -- at least over the weekend. Asked for a four-hour furlough to attend church, but was turned down cold. I'm also a little worried because I've heard that one of the potential side effects of this new drug is that it turns you into a raving, reactionary right-wing Republican radio talk show host. But apparently that's just another urban legend.

I've also been reflecting quite a bit about how battling cancer is just like battling any other insurgency. The first thing you want to do is gain the initiative: inhibit its freedom to grow and move, and force it to respond to you rather than you responding to it. It's also important to try to cut it off from its sources of supply and support in the body: those things which give it aid and comfort and allow it to sustain itself. Cancer is a disease of excess. It loves fats and sugars and all that other stuff we know is bad for us, and turns up its nose at the things that feed our health rather than our malignancy. Winning the battle for hearts and minds is critically important. If we allow the disease to terrify us into giving up hope, its won before we've even had a chance to start. Fear and discouragement are the real killers. And we combat them with trust, hope, confidence and the love and encouragement of those who love us. And, of course, we must do all these things in ways that don't do more harm than good. That's the tricky part of battling any insurgency. Because "destroying the village in order to save it" never really was a very smart option.

The other day I mentioned that one of the first things my oncologist told me during our initial consultation is that I have a form of cancer which can be "treated, but not cured." And I suppose that if I didn't understand that "cured" is a technical medical term about statistical outcomes given known treatment options, I would have been a little worried about that. But I'm not really that interested in being "cured." Hams are cured. I want to healed -- which is to say, I want to remain healthy and vital enough to do whatever work God has left for me to do on this earth, and perhaps even to have a chance of dying of something more interesting somewhere down the line. And God knows, there's nothing wrong with being "treated" every now and again.

But you know, none of this is ever really entirely under our control. It's just that my situation now has a lot more specificity to it than it did six months ago. And all things being equal, I would MUCH rather be sitting here waiting for room service in the Gibson Pavilion of the Barbara Bush Wing of the Maine Medical Center than gearing up in full battle-rattle to be going out on patrol in Iraq.

PS -- I've been receiving tons of supportive e-mails from folks all over the country as word spreads about my illness, but unfortunately the firewall here at MMC apparently prevents me from connecting to my outgoing STMP mail server, which means that while I can read your e-mails I can't reply to them yet. I'm trying to figure out an efficient work around, but until I do please know that you are also in MY thoughts, and that everything truly interesting I have to communicate is already going into this blog. And of course, you are always welcome to comment here if you like!

OK, maybe my back really IS killing me

And I never really did get to sleep Wednesday night. Unlike the "normal" back pain I've experienced in the past by playing too much basketball while carrying an extra...well, lets say 75 pounds... around my middle, bed rest did nothing to make me feel better. In fact, it was impossible even to find a comfortable position, and nothing in MY medicine cabinet would even touch it. At 1 AM I was ready to walk the two blocks to the ER at Maine Medical Center (if only I could have figured out how to put on my pants and shoes); and around 5 I finally broke down and called my dad (who also needs his rest, you know; and had already told me the night before, even before I left for my meeting at church, that I should have called my doctor then).

He came by about an hour and a half later, and we made an appointment to see my treating Oncologist at his office at the MMC in Scarborough (about a 10 minute drive) as soon as they could fit me in. Struggled into my "comfortable" clothes (a pair of nylon warm-up pants, a hooded University of Oregon sweatshirt, my "Bingas Wingas" tee-shirt and an old pair of Converse All Stars sans laces)and away we went. The nurses took my vitals, started an IV line in my right hand, and were beginning to administer my drugs when I had my "episode." First I started to feel a little warm and flush, then a little light-headed, and the next thing I knew I was coming to and everyone was scrambling around like at a Chinese Fire Drill.

But you know, I hear morphine will do that to you. And if you'll excuse the excursus, we actually have a family history of passing out after sleepless nights, no breakfast, and getting poked with a needle. My most notorious episode came during my first weekend on the job as the intern Assistant minister at University Unitarian Church in Seattle, way back in 1983, when I was scheduled to officiate at four seperate Saturday weddings, beginning (in the pouring rain)at sunrise AT Sunrise on Mount Rainer. By the time I got to the third one, back at the Church around 3 pm, I was running on fumes, and as I exited the chancel having pronounced the loving couple husband and wife, I started to feel a little light-headed, reached out to steady myself against the first pew, missed it, and ended up passed out in the aisle instead....

That episode resulted in fire trucks too, and a very panicked Associate Minister, who arrived in the church parking lot just as the paramedics did, heard that "the minister has collapsed in church," assumed it was the Senior Minister (Peter Raible, who would have been just about the same age I am now) and immediately started to wonder about what he was going to do for a sermon the next morning. But as it turned out it was just me, who was doing just fine after a little wedding cake and fruit juice, and I was off to the next wedding (the fun one, I'd been looking forward to the whole day, down at a big house in Madison Park on the shores of Lake Washington with lots of single bridesmaids my own age), unfortunately chaparoned by the Associate Minister, who refused to let me drive myself even after I'd sweet-talked the firefighters into setting me free, and hovered over my shoulder during the entire reception asking me whether I was ready to go...which I really wasn't (especially after the day I'D just had), even though he was.

But back to this morning...the decision was made to admit me to the hospital, so the ambulance came and it was BACK to the ER at Maine Med (which, as you may recall, is only two blocks from my house and where I was originally headed anyway), where I got got the rest of my morphine, was jumped to the head of the MRI line (rescuing me from another 6:45 AM appointment back in Scarborough on Monday), and was eventually admitted to the Oncology Unit on the fifth floor Gibson Pavillon...where, let me tell you, if you ever have cancer, is a GREAT place to be treated. Pain is under control, the NCAA tournament has produced one very exciting (and one kind of predictable) game so far, and I even have free internet access. Not really sure how long I'm going to be here; once my Oncologist has a chance to look at my MRI he will probably begin some sort of treatment on my back, and depending on how well that goes (along with them pain management part)...well, I'd only be guessing. I hope it's not TOO long. But I wouldn't mind staying a little longer either...especially since the forecast for tomorrow is MORE SNOW!

Doc Talk

I'm still trying to figure out both a voice and a rhythm for this blog. Do I want to write it as a series of short essays, or is it more of a diary? Do I want to try to write here every day, or is two or three times a week enough? Who is actually reading this thing, and what are YOUR preferences? I guess I'll just experiment a little until I find what feels right. Feedback is always appreciated.

Just got back from NYC, and my consultation/second opinion from a thoracic oncologist at Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital. Herbert F. Oettgen (if you want to Google him) -- a very smart guy, who basically told me exactly what I had hoped to hear: that I have very smart doctors here in Maine, who have diagnosed me correctly, and prescribed the proper course of treatment based on all the most current protocols. He did recommend an additional MRI on this "area of interest" in my lower back, which he also thinks is a distant bone metastasis (although that hasn't been confirmed since it hasn't been biopsied), and which may need a little additional radiation if it doesn't respond to chemotherapy. But that really is the "wild card" in my diagnosis. Without it, I'm basically still Stage Two; with it, I leap all the way to Stage Four.

Not that any of that really makes one whit of difference to me personally.

I imagine that a lot of people would be very upset to hear that they have a cancer that can be "treated, but not cured." What they don't really understand is that "cure" has a very specific, technical scientific meaning to an oncologist. It essentially means a course of treatment with a high and statistically reliable probability of assuring survival for a set period of time while eliminating any detectable sign of the disease in the body. "Treatment," on the other hand, basically means that they have therapies available which are effective in fighting the disease, but that there are no real guarantees of results. What you have instead is a bell curve. Probabilities, not promises.

Which is fine with me. I have a much more practical attitude toward all of this. I have lung cancer. And it is probably going to kill me someday. But I don't think it's going to kill me today. And probably not tomorrow either.

Meanwhile, I'm just going to go ahead and try to live as well as I can for as long as I can. Which is exactly what I probably would have done anyway. It's just that now my normal and ordinary sense of mortality has a much more specific focus. Which has both its advantages and its disadvantages, I suppose.

Anyway, after meeting with the Good Doctor, my Dad, brother, sister-in-law and I all went for lunch at the Round Table room in the Algonquin Hotel, where Dorothy Parker and her crew used to hold forth back in the Roaring Twenties. Then today, another six and a half hours in the car back home to Portland. Now my back is killing me, and it has nothing to do with cancer. But it sure will feel good to get to bed tonight....

Easter Blessings

Nice full house for Easter services yesterday: big choir, and a congregation which included most of the perennials and quite a few of the annuals as well, plus a fairly sizable family contingent consisting of my dad and both of my kids, along with one of my brothers and his three children.

Preached my favorite Easter sermon, "Easter, Again?" and preached "comfortably and without difficulty" thanks to a dose of Mucinex DM, some extra strength Tylenol, and a big handful of Halls Mentholyptus throat lozenges. Still, it was hard for me not to indulge the somewhat morbid thought that this might well turn out be the last sermon I preach, ever, and how appropriate/ironic that my basic theme should be "the teacher is dead, but the teaching lives on...." Pretty much gave it everything I had, and it showed. Lots of energy and good spirit in the congregation as well, which really lifted me up.

Of course, I am tentatively planning to be back in the pulpit again the Sunday after next (assuming I'm feeling up to it), although after that I have guests scheduled all the way through my formal installation on May 4th. But by my count yesterday was the 627th time I have appeared in the pulpit in my almost 30 year career, and at least the fifth time I have preached that particular sermon, having previously delivered it in Carlisle, on Nantucket, on Whidbey Island, and in Roseburg Oregon. And I've sometimes wondered to myself whether one of the reasons I seem to change congregations so frequently is just so I can have another chance to preach it again. So if it does indeed turn out to be the last sermon of my ministry (which it probably won't), I certainly could have done a lot worse.

Lovely Easter dinner later that evening with the kids and my dad back at the Eastland Hotel. Originally Stephenie and I were going to cook Easter dinner, but we couldn't agree on the menu (she vetoed both lamb and ham; I vetoed turkey and "tofurkey"), and then when she got a good look at the size of my kitchen....As it turned out, we were one of only three tables in the restaurant, so we really took our time and savored the experience of being together.

My meal had kind of a "down under" theme: New Zealand lamb and a Tasmanian Pinot Noir...and didn't really think until afterwards about the carbon footprint of those particular selections, or the symbolism of celebrating Easter with foods produced in a part of the world where Easter marks the beginning of autumn rather than the return of new life in the spring.

Anyway, the kids both left earlier this morning, and later today my dad and I are off to New York for a consultation/second opinion Tuesday with a thoracic oncologist at Memorial Sloan Kettering. Still haven't gotten my insurance company to sign off on this out-of-network service, but since no one at Dana Farber could see me for two weeks (and didn't want me to begin my chemo before they had), this seemed like the better option. Besides, my treating oncologist (who I like very much) trained at Dana Farber anyway...so what's the point of getting a second opinion from the folks who already taught my own doctor everything he knows?

The truth is, I'm getting this second opinon mostly for the peace of mind of my friends and family anyway, simply to reassure them that I'm getting the best possible medical treatment available, and that they aren't holding on to "the good stuff" only for the special people who ask for it. The best thing this fellow could tell me tomorrow is that he likes very much the treatment plan my current physician has set up for me, and that I should begin it right away. That information alone is worth every penny I have to pay for it, even if I end up paying it out of my own pocket.

Chemo Class

So anyway, I attended my mandatory (well, highly-recommended) pre-chemotherapy "chemo-class" yesterday: basically an hour-long PowerPoint presentation explaining what Chemotherapy is, how it works, along with long and detailed descriptions of possible side effects and how to manage them effectively. A nice section on nutrition, and of course plenty of reassurance than most people don't experience ALL of the side effects, and that today's chemotherapy is markedly better and less debilitating than the notoriously unpleasant experience of just a decade ago.

But the best part of the presentation was the big bag of cancer swag that each of us received, compliments of the pharmaceutical companies. Mine included a water bottle, a small fleece blanket (for keeping warm during my chemo, I imagine), TWO digital thermometers, a large plastic weekly pill organizer, a pocket calendar (for keeping track of all my Dr's appointments, I presume), along with various samples of lip balm, anti-bacterial gel, and of course a small bottle of Imodium caplets (just in case). Plus a lot more cancer homework, including a little DVD from Lilly Oncology titled "Taking back control." I've heard the book is better, but I'm still waiting to see the movie.

Wish I could say I was the youngest person in my chemo-class, but I wasn't' -- there was also a woman in perhaps her early to mid-thirties, accompanied by someone I assumed to be her mother. She was wearing one of those dark purple cancer awareness bracelets, which Google tells me could be pancreatic cancer, or domestic violence, or perhaps just general cancer awareness. Large diamond wedding band also, and a New York Yankees baseball cap...which is way more than enough information for the fiction writer in me to imagine all sorts of heart-rending plots about crushed dreams and orphaned children. So if any of you have a little spare prayer energy, I hope you'll direct some her way.

Meanwhile, my Dad has arrived to stay with me for as long as I need him or (in his words) "as long as you can stand me," my kids are arriving later this evening, and my brother and his family from New York (OK, technically Connecticut) are all arriving Friday. So I'm going to be inundated with loving relatives for Easter, which is a pretty rare and exciting thing for me. Especially since my brother's family is Jewish....

Why "One Day Isle?"

Well, let me just confess right off the bat -- the title of this blog is an unapologetic and blatant rip-off of the title of one of my favorite books, Escape from Someday Isle, which is a collection of "articles, tips, letters and photos from the bible of onboard living," Living Aboard magazine, which (as you might have guessed) is a magazine devoted to readers (like me) who daydream of someday giving up a lifestyle grounded on the solid earth and living aboard a boat.

You know, afloat.

It's been a dream (some might say an obsession) of mine since I was twelve or thirteen years old, and although it occasionally goes into remission it tends to come back virulently whenever I am living in a community where I can hear gulls and smell the ocean. "Boat Fever," I call it. Or sometimes simply "Plan Sea" -- as in when both Plan A and Plan B look like they're going down with all hands....

For some reason though there have always been significant practical barriers to my moving and living aboard a boat.

The first has to do with books, which tend to be rather plentiful in my life, and yet (except in what might be thought of as "reasonable" quantities) don't really go that well with life afloat. Which in some ways is unfair to say, since there is often plenty of time to read aboard a boat, especially a boat without a TV or other forms of electronic distraction. But paper and salt water are hardly the most compatible elements, and when one's personal library easily runs into the thousands of volumes....

The second had to do with My Former Wife, who, even though her former husband had been an avid sailor (and while we were dating her home was filled with photos of their happy family sailing together in the San Juan Islands) had neglected to mention to me until after our marriage that after their divorce, he kept the boat and she got all the bills...and that the mere mention of "the B-Word" was enough to summon a three-day squall.

And then finally, there is my current companion Parker, a 13-year-old 25-pound Boston Terrier who, quite frankly, hates being on the water. She doesn't like the way boats move when they should remain solidly underfoot, she doesn't like that big open space between the deck and the dock, she doesn't like those steep companionway steps or frankly just about anything else about and aboard seagoing vessels of any shape or size. And the older she gets, the less she likes them, and since she's been with me since she was a puppy (and obviously isn't going to live forever either) I'd pretty much decided to postpone any thoughts of making this big move until she has done what old dogs do...even though I am now no longer married to MFW (which also stands for my first/favorite wife), and am more and more willing to leave the bulk of my books ashore every day.

I'd even taking to calling it my "doggone boat" -- this fantasy vessel on which I assumed I would one day weigh anchor and sail off into the sunset...or probably here in Maine, the sunrise....

But now those daydreams are pretty much on hold, especially since it seems to be about even money concerning who is going to live longer, me or the dog. Still, I think about it...one day I'll beat this disease, and feel frisky enough to haul a halyard and trim a sheet, and once again enjoy the fresh, brisk ocean air in my face as the wind carries me to new and exotic anchorages.

Yet at the same time, I try to remind myself to keep it to one day at a time. To savor each breath, to listen to the gulls and feel the breeze on my face while still keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground. Because This is Now, and tomorrow is another day.

Still, maybe one day Isle....



LINK: Windeva


LINK: Madrigal

Borrowed Time

It's the Ides of March, it's actually SNOWING (and pretty hard) outside my window, and Easter is only a week away. Met yesterday with my new medical oncologist, who yes does seem awfully young to be a real Doctor, and who pretty much told me what I'd already expected to hear all along: it IS a tumor, it is malignant, and it is already fairly well advanced. The good news is that there is no sign of any metastasis to my brain, so my former wife's quip about that as a possible explanation for my stubborn, pig-headedness is absolutely without scientific foundation.

Surgery isn't really an option (since one of my lymph nodes is already involved -- something I also already knew from the very first X-Ray), so the treatment plan it to begin fairly aggressive chemotherapy the week after Easter. Probably COULD have started the week before Easter, but I'm really looking forward to preaching on Easter, especially since a lot of my family are going to be here visiting, and I want to be in tip-top shape when I step into the pulpit for what could well be the last time in a long time. Or at least in as tip-top shape as someone with a fairly-advanced inoperable lung cancer can be before starting aggressive chemotherapy....

I'm not going to go into much more detail about the medical aspects of my illness; it's just trivia, really -- important for my medical caregivers (and for me to understand personally in order to make sound decisions about my course of treatment), but apart from that simply a distraction. My struggle is really more of a spiritual one -- coming to terms with what my friend and colleague Forrest Church (now also struggling with cancer) has called "the dual reality of being alive and having to die." I've quoted that passage in virtually every memorial service I've conducted in the past decade, including at my own mother's service last summer. I quote it because it's true, and because I can't think of any way to say it better myself.

We're all living on borrowed time, whether we think about it much or not. It's a little like having a mortgage -- you don't think that much about the fact that the bank REALLY owns your home until they actually show up to foreclose. So long as we can keep making those monthly payments, life is good; but we ignore the amortization table at our own peril. À la Mort -- to the death. But I don't want to seem too morbid about it either. Because every day also offers us a new lease on life, if only we are willing to seize it.

The most amusing thing about all of yesterday's news was how often I was told (by trained medical professionals, no less) that I was "still a young man in good shape." It's certainly been a long time since anyone has said THAT to me with a straight face!

This, That, and the Other

A few weeks ago now, I made an appointment to see my new Primary Care Physician after waking up in the middle of the night and discovering that I was coughing up blood. Not a LOT of blood, mind you, but to my way of thinking, ANY blood is too much blood in a situation like that...so I went to see my doctor, and, sure enough, a subsequent chest X-Ray and CT scan revealed a "mass" (I'm told I'm not allowed to call it a tumor until my MD tells me it's a tumor) in my right lung, approximately the size of a tennis ball (assuming you could squeeze a tennis ball into the shape of a Jalapeno pepper).

Since then I've had a PET scan, a bronchoscopy, and another CT scan (of my brain, and yes it's still there), with a bone scan still scheduled for next Monday. This morning my case went before the interdisciplinary Thoracic Oncology Panel, who will give me a formal diagnosis and outline my treatment options later this afternoon. But having smoked two packs of cigarettes a day from the age of 18 to the age of 33, I have a pretty good idea of what the odds say that diagnosis will be.

I can't control that though, so I'm not going to invest too much time or emotion worrying about it either. It is what it is, and what will be will be. Mostly now, I want to focus on the things I CAN control. Even so, it's hard not to think about preparing for the worst while one hopes for the best. That's the advice I've always given people facing similar situations in my 30+ years of parish ministry. I certainly don't see any reason why I shouldn't practice what I preach.

Facing a potentially life-threatening cancer diagnosis is obviously a scary experience for anyone, so I'm actually a little surprised by how calm I feel. Don't know whether it's simply profound denial, or maybe just that all this expensive theological education really was worth the money after all. For most of my adult life I have earned my livelihood by living the life of faith: by walking with trust and confidence thorough both the benevolent and the afflictive dispensations of Divine Providence, even in the face of uncertainty, even in the midst of doubt, even in the presence of ambiguity and the unknown and the mysterious and ultimately unknowable. I may not actually reside in the valley of the shadow of death, but my office is just around the corner and I walk by there all the time. So I understand that some things are beyond our control, no matter how much we may wish otherwise...and that the ONLY meaningful thing we can do is to try to take them in stride.

It's not just about hope and optimism and good humor and maintaining a positive attitude either. Ultimately it's mostly about trust, and tenacity, and resilience. I've known all along that there were three potential outcomes to this story, all of which are basically just variations on the same theme.

The first is that I struggle with this illness and survive it, live another 20-30 years as a much better and stronger person as a result, only to die of something else later on.

The second is that I struggle with this illness, survive it for awhile, but that ultimately it comes back again to kill me anyway at some undetermined future date.

And the third of course is that I battle this illness and it beats me, and that my life expectancy is now measured in weeks and months rather than years and decades.

The good news is that even just a generation ago, Outcome Number Three would have been the ONLY possibility on the menu. Yet even with all of modern medicine's magnificent science and technology, there is still much that can be learned from the wisdom and the experience of our ancestors. Even though it may seem as though death always wins in the end, if we do our job of dying properly, death never REALLY wins. So if I am indeed destined to die sooner rather than later, I can still honestly say that I have lived a rich life filled with many joys and accomplishments, and harbor very few regrets. And this is actually a very comforting feeling, at least for me personally.

I just don't envy the person who gets stuck sorting out the HUGE mess I will doubtlessly leave behind me when I go. That thought alone really puts a lot of pressure on me to try to get my affairs in order sooner rather than later....