And it's really a day of mixed news, unfortunately. The good news is abundant: no sign of any additional metastatic cancer anywhere in my body, my appetite is good, my weight remains steady, I have effective pain control and am becoming more and more mobile all the time. I walk now with great ease and balance; only my stamina is in need of dramatic improvement. And that's the start of the other side of the coin. One of the reasons, apparently, that I'm so short of breath is that my primary tumor has started to expand, while the rest of the upper lobe is collapsing around it, and obstructing the easy flow of air in and out of my afflicted right lung. So now it looks like another round of consultations with my pulmonologist and my radiation oncologist to see what kind of treatments they may have available to help relieve those symptoms, and get me back on the right track again.
And I don't want the good news to get lost in this disappointment. The tumor appears to have expanded, but it's not really clear whether it's actually growing or has just changed shape. The blockage could also be being caused by something else, including accumulated mucus in my lung which is trapped there by the tumor and contributing to the problem. And if THAT'S the case, it's probably no more coffee ice cream for me! The more important news by far is that the cancer is staying where it belongs, in my right lung, and not running rampant through the rest of my body. With the exception of the one distant bone metastasis in my L-3 vertebra, this would basically still be a stage two cancer, at least the way I read the diagnostic criteria. But what do I know? I'm a Doctor of Philosophy, not a Doctor of Medicine.
What I DO know is that I'm feeling better all the time, notwithstanding the shortness of breath, the dry mouth, the occasional hoarseness and difficulty swallowing, and routine "fuzziness" and fatigue that follow me around much of the day. These are (not to put too fine a point on it) all things I can live with without (too much) complaining. The day I learn (and I hope it never comes) that the cancer has metastasized to my brain will be the day I may let my discouragement out of box for an hour or two. How did they put it? If you see Kay this cancer. Hell, ALL Cancer.
Anyway, more consultations, probably followed by more treatments, and another round of calendar shuffling to try to fit in everything I want (and need) to do before moving back to the West Coast in July. And who knows? This may actually turn out to be a two-part move, with a quick July visit to the Pacific Northwest and then a return trip back here in August to finish up any unfinished business before moving the rest of my life to California. The really tricky part -- which is also the most important part -- is the hand-off of both medical insurance carriers and my medical treatment team from here in Maine to the folks in California. Retired at 52. How many people dream of that? I just need to learn to embrace the opportunity that's been offered to me, rather than lamenting the lose of "what might have been."
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
A life lived out of order (part one)...
Another great thing about meeting up with Gary and Bruce this past week is that we had a chance Monday night to stay up late like young seminarians and talk about "big ideas" -- or rather, to reminisce about the days when we WERE young and could sit up late and talk about big ideas.... well, you get the picture. Neither of them had actually realized just how young I was when I started at Harvard...right out of college and still 21; they are both a few years older than me, although not so much that you'd really notice. Still, I've always looked up to both of them. Gary is one of the smartest people I've ever met, and I've often said that I've only had three good ideas in my life...and two of them started as Gary's! (since then I've had a few more good ideas, and some of those were Gary's too). Bruce has a depth of intellectual curiosity that far surpasses mine, especially when it comes to things theological. He reads books by European authors with strange-sounding names whose titles make me shudder with fear. I'm more of a Marcus Borg/Sallie McFague kinda guy, who likes those big ideas spelled out in bite-sized words.
But to get back to my current idea -- one of the things about my life that both of them have noticed too is that I haven't really lived it in the "usual order." Started seminary as a youngster, but then after my graduation and ordination (at age 24) spent another two years in graduate school and a third year as an intern assistant minister before finally being called to my first church (in Midland Texas) at the age of 29. Was married that same year to a woman with two half-grown children (10 and 7 years old), and became instantly middle-aged: a mortgage, two car payments a dog, orthodontics, and all the rest...both Bruce and Gary (along with Steve Kendrick) were present for THAT event as well, and apparently quite amazed that I would take on so much so young. But then, a decade later, both kids are out of the house and I'm back in school again myself during my late 30's and mid-40's. Divorced and single again (after an 18 year marriage) at the age of 46, at 50 I finally felt like I'd caught up with myself, here serving this church in Portland -- a magnificent congregation in a marvelous community, both of which I came to love very quickly, and where I sincerely believed I would continue to work and live until I retired.
Which I have. At age 52, in order to battle a life-threatening disease . And yet I still kind of feel that this isn't quite the end; that I still have at least one more chapter to write in this book of life. But what could it be?
Gary had the answer. "What about meeting your soulmate and falling head-over-heels in love?"
There you have it. Another great idea that started with Gary. God bless you Brother Kowalski (and you too, Brother Johnson). More on this in a subsequent post...
But to get back to my current idea -- one of the things about my life that both of them have noticed too is that I haven't really lived it in the "usual order." Started seminary as a youngster, but then after my graduation and ordination (at age 24) spent another two years in graduate school and a third year as an intern assistant minister before finally being called to my first church (in Midland Texas) at the age of 29. Was married that same year to a woman with two half-grown children (10 and 7 years old), and became instantly middle-aged: a mortgage, two car payments a dog, orthodontics, and all the rest...both Bruce and Gary (along with Steve Kendrick) were present for THAT event as well, and apparently quite amazed that I would take on so much so young. But then, a decade later, both kids are out of the house and I'm back in school again myself during my late 30's and mid-40's. Divorced and single again (after an 18 year marriage) at the age of 46, at 50 I finally felt like I'd caught up with myself, here serving this church in Portland -- a magnificent congregation in a marvelous community, both of which I came to love very quickly, and where I sincerely believed I would continue to work and live until I retired.
Which I have. At age 52, in order to battle a life-threatening disease . And yet I still kind of feel that this isn't quite the end; that I still have at least one more chapter to write in this book of life. But what could it be?
Gary had the answer. "What about meeting your soulmate and falling head-over-heels in love?"
There you have it. Another great idea that started with Gary. God bless you Brother Kowalski (and you too, Brother Johnson). More on this in a subsequent post...
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Raible Rules
Just got home from a three-day ministers' retreat at Crawford's Notch, New Hampshire. The "business" of the meeting was to finalize the consolidation of the Maine Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association chapter with the chapter in New Hampshire and Vermont, in order to reflect the consolidation of the two denominational districts comprised of the churches our two UUMA chapters serve. So basically a lot of bureaucratic legalese and mumbo-jumbo as folks dotted all the "i's" and crossed all the "t's," but in the meantime I had a great opportunity to catch up with two of my Harvard classmates, Bruce Johnson and Gary Kowalski, and also to say goodbye to all of the other ministers in the two chapters, many of whom I was just getting to know when I got sick last February. It's a good group though, especially our little "cluster" here in Southern Maine...although it would be natural of me to say that since I know them the best. Still, it's not like the Pacific Northwest District, where I had known many of the ministers there for decades. Or even Mass Bay, which was likewise heavily populated with friends and classmates returning home (like salmon?) to "the Neighborhood of Boston.
One thing this retreat reminded me of is something I've come to think of as the "Raible Rules" -- not for Peter Raible (although he was the one who popularized them in the Pacific Northwest), but rather Robert "Daddy Bob" Raible, who was for many, many years the minister of our church in Dallas Texas, and who introduced these rules among the (then) Unitarian ministers of the Southwest Unitarian Conference. The go something like this:
1) the only acceptable excuse for missing one of our ministers' meetings is a funeral: your own.
2) when a fellow minister asks you to do something, the only acceptable response is "yes."
These standards of collegiality (attend every meeting -- ordinations, installations, business meetings and retreats -- and never say "no" to a request) were deeply ingrained in me during my internship and first settlement in Midland, Texas; and then reinforced by my long sojourn back in the PNWD. But I was also a little surprised (and delighted) to see how they have migrated all the way back to Maine, no doubt carried here by other clergy like myself who spent time in those two districts.
Anyway, seeing these colleagues again and spending three days with them eating, working, worshipping, and simply BEING together has reminded me once again how much I cherish this profession that God oddly chose me for three decades ago. In so many ways, I was and still am such an unlikely clergyman. Pastor. Cleric. Minister of the Gospel. Preacher I can live with, I think: in some ways I have always been a preacher. A prophet too, I suppose -- in that I was generally quite willing to say what others could not or would not say. pro phetes -- to speak for another. To speak for God? Maybe I'm not that much of a prophet after all.
And these three days were also another reminder of how much I will miss what I had started here in Portland, and how ambivalent I still feel about giving it all up and going into "retirement." Yet another thing that this cancer has taken from me. I am so SICK of sacrificing things to this cancer!
One thing this retreat reminded me of is something I've come to think of as the "Raible Rules" -- not for Peter Raible (although he was the one who popularized them in the Pacific Northwest), but rather Robert "Daddy Bob" Raible, who was for many, many years the minister of our church in Dallas Texas, and who introduced these rules among the (then) Unitarian ministers of the Southwest Unitarian Conference. The go something like this:
1) the only acceptable excuse for missing one of our ministers' meetings is a funeral: your own.
2) when a fellow minister asks you to do something, the only acceptable response is "yes."
These standards of collegiality (attend every meeting -- ordinations, installations, business meetings and retreats -- and never say "no" to a request) were deeply ingrained in me during my internship and first settlement in Midland, Texas; and then reinforced by my long sojourn back in the PNWD. But I was also a little surprised (and delighted) to see how they have migrated all the way back to Maine, no doubt carried here by other clergy like myself who spent time in those two districts.
Anyway, seeing these colleagues again and spending three days with them eating, working, worshipping, and simply BEING together has reminded me once again how much I cherish this profession that God oddly chose me for three decades ago. In so many ways, I was and still am such an unlikely clergyman. Pastor. Cleric. Minister of the Gospel. Preacher I can live with, I think: in some ways I have always been a preacher. A prophet too, I suppose -- in that I was generally quite willing to say what others could not or would not say. pro phetes -- to speak for another. To speak for God? Maybe I'm not that much of a prophet after all.
And these three days were also another reminder of how much I will miss what I had started here in Portland, and how ambivalent I still feel about giving it all up and going into "retirement." Yet another thing that this cancer has taken from me. I am so SICK of sacrificing things to this cancer!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Holy Hall
Feel bad for not having blogged here lately. This spotty internet access is driving me crazy, and even now with a new wireless router across the hall, getting on-line is touch and go at best. I'm guessing it must be the amount of steel and concrete between the two of us that keeps the signal from being stronger. But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. My neighbor across the hall is also an ordained minister, with credentials in both the United Methodist Church and the United Church of Christ. She's 80 years old, so one of the "pioneers" in that regard, and she's arrived here feeling a little overwhelmed by all the tasks of getting settled in. And so I've tried to help her out a little, and we've gotten to be friends -- and she's even taken to calling our little segment of the floor "Holy Hall" (we're looking now for a retired Rabbi to rent the third apartment across from hers and next-door to mine). In any event, she's signed-up for the Cable/Telephone/Internet combination service from Time Warner, and agreed to let me plug a wireless router into her cable modem so that I can piggyback off of her signal. But the PROBLEM is that even though she's just across the hall... well, that's where I started, right?
At least now I can go out into the hall itself and get a perfectly good signal...which saves me the bother of dragging my laptop all the way across to the other building, where I rarely go anymore except to check my mail. But the other complication is that the battery in my six year old iBook is now completely shot, which means I also need to drag the power cord with me...another stupid hassle, easily fixed though by the purchase of a new one. A battery, not a computer. Although maybe it's time for a new computer too....
Anyway, how I'm rambling now. Gave away the last of Parker's dog food today, as well as what were left of her treats, and didn't even shed a tear...although now that I write it in black and white I can hardly see the screen. 'effin narcotics. So much this stupid disease has taken from me, but I just keep choking back the tears and plodding along. What else am I going to do? Finished my last round of chemo (for this protocol in any event) the Monday before last, and next Monday is my next CT scan, just before I head off for a three day minister's retreat in Crawford's Notch New Hampshire (near Breton Wood). My Dad arrives the Wednesday I get back; my next appointment with my oncologist is the Monday after that (the day after MFW's birthday and the kick-off of this year's stewardship campaign). I'm not too anxious (yet) about what the results of the tests will show; I'm optimistic that the will continue the trend indicated by the mid-protocol CT, that the tumors are dormant or slightly smaller, and that there are no additional metastases anywhere else in my body.
If that's NOT what they show, then a lot of my plans could be changing in a hurry. But for now I'm looking forward to an emotional Spring of saying good bye to my many friends here in New England (including and especially the members of this congregation, who have done so much for me in my brief two years here, and to whom I will NEVER be able to adequately express my devotion, gratitude, and love), and hopefully my former parishioners in Carlisle and on Nantucket as well, along with my many, many collegial friends (who are still thick as thieves in the Neighborhood of Boston). Then back to the West Coast before Bastille Day, to be with my daughter (and former wife) for the arrival of grandchild numero uno. A little beach time on Camano Island with Brother Kurt and his family at the end of the summer, and finally down to sunny California for the winter, and a chance to read and write outdoors in my shirtsleeves in January.
But until then it's Holy Hall. Two hot meals and a hospital bed, plus free transportation to my medical appointments, and weekly housekeeping. It's a place that's served me very well since I moved here last June after being released from the hospital and rehab. I will certainly miss the people here as well.
At least now I can go out into the hall itself and get a perfectly good signal...which saves me the bother of dragging my laptop all the way across to the other building, where I rarely go anymore except to check my mail. But the other complication is that the battery in my six year old iBook is now completely shot, which means I also need to drag the power cord with me...another stupid hassle, easily fixed though by the purchase of a new one. A battery, not a computer. Although maybe it's time for a new computer too....
Anyway, how I'm rambling now. Gave away the last of Parker's dog food today, as well as what were left of her treats, and didn't even shed a tear...although now that I write it in black and white I can hardly see the screen. 'effin narcotics. So much this stupid disease has taken from me, but I just keep choking back the tears and plodding along. What else am I going to do? Finished my last round of chemo (for this protocol in any event) the Monday before last, and next Monday is my next CT scan, just before I head off for a three day minister's retreat in Crawford's Notch New Hampshire (near Breton Wood). My Dad arrives the Wednesday I get back; my next appointment with my oncologist is the Monday after that (the day after MFW's birthday and the kick-off of this year's stewardship campaign). I'm not too anxious (yet) about what the results of the tests will show; I'm optimistic that the will continue the trend indicated by the mid-protocol CT, that the tumors are dormant or slightly smaller, and that there are no additional metastases anywhere else in my body.
If that's NOT what they show, then a lot of my plans could be changing in a hurry. But for now I'm looking forward to an emotional Spring of saying good bye to my many friends here in New England (including and especially the members of this congregation, who have done so much for me in my brief two years here, and to whom I will NEVER be able to adequately express my devotion, gratitude, and love), and hopefully my former parishioners in Carlisle and on Nantucket as well, along with my many, many collegial friends (who are still thick as thieves in the Neighborhood of Boston). Then back to the West Coast before Bastille Day, to be with my daughter (and former wife) for the arrival of grandchild numero uno. A little beach time on Camano Island with Brother Kurt and his family at the end of the summer, and finally down to sunny California for the winter, and a chance to read and write outdoors in my shirtsleeves in January.
But until then it's Holy Hall. Two hot meals and a hospital bed, plus free transportation to my medical appointments, and weekly housekeeping. It's a place that's served me very well since I moved here last June after being released from the hospital and rehab. I will certainly miss the people here as well.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Other Shoe
For those of you around the country who have been waiting for the other shoe to drop after my February 18th posting “Died in the Ministry,” last week I sent the following letter to every member and friend of the First Parish in Portland:
Wednesday March 4th, 2009
Dear Members and Friends of the First Parish in Portland
After a great deal of reflection and no little soul searching, I have decided not to return in September to the pulpit at First Parish in the role of your settled parish minister.
I realize this announcement will come as a relief to some and as a disappointment to others. But I have known for some time now that I simply incapable of doing 100% of my job 100% of the time, and that I require considerable assistance simply to do the 20% of the job I felt was still delivering 80% of the benefit.
What I have only recently come to appreciate is that I am also no longer capable of giving 100% of my self to this ministry, not because of lack of desire, but because it is simply no longer there. Because of my illness, I am no longer the kind of minister I have always aspired to be, and the emotional burden this has placed on many of the critical lay leaders of this congregation has been considerable.
Your kindness, generosity and support for me these past twelve months have been overwhelming. My gratitude and affection for all of you are equally immense. First Parish deserves a minister who is capable of caring for all of its members, and not one who needs to be cared for himself.
The first week in March may seem like an unusual time to make this kind of announcement, but it was felt that in the interest of transparency this news should be known before the start of our annual Stewardship campaign, so that individual church members might have the opportunity to talk about their feelings with their visiting Stewards. At the very least, it should give us ample opportunity to say our “farewells.” And may we all be blessed in whatever lies ahead.
Faithfully Yours,
The Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen,
Parish Minister
As you might imagine, this was a very difficult letter to write. The people of this congregation have been incredibly generous and supportive of me over the past twelve months, and I honestly felt that I owed them everything I had in my effort to recover my health and come back as the “first-string, starting minister” of this team. So when I learned that so many of my most important lay leaders (including both the current and the incoming Governing Board Presidents) felt just the opposite, and that it was time for me to move on so that they could begin to move forward again, it initially came as quite a surprise.
But as I’ve sat with this question over the past few weeks, and meditated in my own heart about what is best both for the church and for me, I’ve come to see the wisdom of this choice. I WISH that I didn’t have to write this letter, and that I was capable of coming back and doing my job the way I have always aspired to do it; I wish that I didn’t have cancer in the first place, and could still estimate my life span in decades rather than a few years more or less. But I am RESIGNED to the fact that this is all just wishful thinking, and that there is a very real danger (if it hasn’t happened already) of my becoming a burden to this congregation, rather than an active and creative leader and contributor.
And when all is said and done, it really is all about what is best for the church. Like all UU ministers, I serve at the pleasure of my people, who enjoy the privilege of calling (and dismissing) whoever they choose as one of the fundamental cornerstones of our congregational polity. The tricky part is discerning what is truly “best.” I’m still not absolutely certain about the best answer to that question myself, and probably never will be. But absolute certainty is another one of those elusive luxuries few of us truly enjoy in this lifetime anyway.
What I do know is that no matter what I personally decide to do next, I will be fine (or as fine as one can be with a terminal cancer diagnosis). What I worry about most is the fate of those sixty-some people who have, will, or were in the process of joining this church during my tenure here, and whose primary “connection” is still with me, and not necessarily with the congregation as a whole. It would be a terrible tragedy for everyone concerned: them, myself, and the congregation at First Parish, if these newcomers were to simply “drift away,” without enjoying all of the benefits that belonging to a faith community like this one can bring. Fortunately, we have an excellent Membership Coordinator at First Parish who truly understands the notion of “radical hospitality,’ and who will do everything in her power to help keep these “lost lambs” in the flock.
For my own part, I haven’t exactly decided yet what to do next, although my basic trajectory is pretty clear. Depending on my medical condition I may stay on here in on here in Portland for a little while, but cancer is expensive, and I really can’t afford to stay here over the long term (at least not “in the manner to which I have grown accustomed”) without the nominal stipend (and generous benefits package!) the church was providing for me. So I fully expect that well before the first winter snowfall I will be back on the West Coast: either with my father in Sacramento, or near my daughter (and new grandchild!) in Portland OR, or (although this is probably just more wishful thinking) by myself back at our family cottage on Camano Island, where my mother and her mother before her spent the last years of their lives surrounded by family and family friends whose friendships go back for generations.
And the truth is that I will probably try out all of these places -- spending the early part of this summer visiting my brother and friends here on the East Coast (and especially my many friends on Nantucket!), who I will no doubt see a lot less of once I move out West again. But by the middle of July I plan to be back in Portland, OR to be present for the birth of my first grandchild, while also spending some time in August (September, October...) at Juniper Beach. And then down to Sacramento for the winter, and more permanent, long-term accommodations.
But again, this all remains to be seen. The first step is simply to bring “healthy closure” to my ministry here, and to say farewell to all these fine people I have grown to love so much these past two years, and who have done so much to support me as I have battled with my illness.
Wednesday March 4th, 2009
Dear Members and Friends of the First Parish in Portland
After a great deal of reflection and no little soul searching, I have decided not to return in September to the pulpit at First Parish in the role of your settled parish minister.
I realize this announcement will come as a relief to some and as a disappointment to others. But I have known for some time now that I simply incapable of doing 100% of my job 100% of the time, and that I require considerable assistance simply to do the 20% of the job I felt was still delivering 80% of the benefit.
What I have only recently come to appreciate is that I am also no longer capable of giving 100% of my self to this ministry, not because of lack of desire, but because it is simply no longer there. Because of my illness, I am no longer the kind of minister I have always aspired to be, and the emotional burden this has placed on many of the critical lay leaders of this congregation has been considerable.
Your kindness, generosity and support for me these past twelve months have been overwhelming. My gratitude and affection for all of you are equally immense. First Parish deserves a minister who is capable of caring for all of its members, and not one who needs to be cared for himself.
The first week in March may seem like an unusual time to make this kind of announcement, but it was felt that in the interest of transparency this news should be known before the start of our annual Stewardship campaign, so that individual church members might have the opportunity to talk about their feelings with their visiting Stewards. At the very least, it should give us ample opportunity to say our “farewells.” And may we all be blessed in whatever lies ahead.
Faithfully Yours,
The Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen,
Parish Minister
As you might imagine, this was a very difficult letter to write. The people of this congregation have been incredibly generous and supportive of me over the past twelve months, and I honestly felt that I owed them everything I had in my effort to recover my health and come back as the “first-string, starting minister” of this team. So when I learned that so many of my most important lay leaders (including both the current and the incoming Governing Board Presidents) felt just the opposite, and that it was time for me to move on so that they could begin to move forward again, it initially came as quite a surprise.
But as I’ve sat with this question over the past few weeks, and meditated in my own heart about what is best both for the church and for me, I’ve come to see the wisdom of this choice. I WISH that I didn’t have to write this letter, and that I was capable of coming back and doing my job the way I have always aspired to do it; I wish that I didn’t have cancer in the first place, and could still estimate my life span in decades rather than a few years more or less. But I am RESIGNED to the fact that this is all just wishful thinking, and that there is a very real danger (if it hasn’t happened already) of my becoming a burden to this congregation, rather than an active and creative leader and contributor.
And when all is said and done, it really is all about what is best for the church. Like all UU ministers, I serve at the pleasure of my people, who enjoy the privilege of calling (and dismissing) whoever they choose as one of the fundamental cornerstones of our congregational polity. The tricky part is discerning what is truly “best.” I’m still not absolutely certain about the best answer to that question myself, and probably never will be. But absolute certainty is another one of those elusive luxuries few of us truly enjoy in this lifetime anyway.
What I do know is that no matter what I personally decide to do next, I will be fine (or as fine as one can be with a terminal cancer diagnosis). What I worry about most is the fate of those sixty-some people who have, will, or were in the process of joining this church during my tenure here, and whose primary “connection” is still with me, and not necessarily with the congregation as a whole. It would be a terrible tragedy for everyone concerned: them, myself, and the congregation at First Parish, if these newcomers were to simply “drift away,” without enjoying all of the benefits that belonging to a faith community like this one can bring. Fortunately, we have an excellent Membership Coordinator at First Parish who truly understands the notion of “radical hospitality,’ and who will do everything in her power to help keep these “lost lambs” in the flock.
For my own part, I haven’t exactly decided yet what to do next, although my basic trajectory is pretty clear. Depending on my medical condition I may stay on here in on here in Portland for a little while, but cancer is expensive, and I really can’t afford to stay here over the long term (at least not “in the manner to which I have grown accustomed”) without the nominal stipend (and generous benefits package!) the church was providing for me. So I fully expect that well before the first winter snowfall I will be back on the West Coast: either with my father in Sacramento, or near my daughter (and new grandchild!) in Portland OR, or (although this is probably just more wishful thinking) by myself back at our family cottage on Camano Island, where my mother and her mother before her spent the last years of their lives surrounded by family and family friends whose friendships go back for generations.
And the truth is that I will probably try out all of these places -- spending the early part of this summer visiting my brother and friends here on the East Coast (and especially my many friends on Nantucket!), who I will no doubt see a lot less of once I move out West again. But by the middle of July I plan to be back in Portland, OR to be present for the birth of my first grandchild, while also spending some time in August (September, October...) at Juniper Beach. And then down to Sacramento for the winter, and more permanent, long-term accommodations.
But again, this all remains to be seen. The first step is simply to bring “healthy closure” to my ministry here, and to say farewell to all these fine people I have grown to love so much these past two years, and who have done so much to support me as I have battled with my illness.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Nose to Toes
Preached last Sunday the first half of the concluding two-part message of the five-sermon series on "UU-DNA" that I've been preaching all winter, and if that sounds unnecessarily complicated, it's probably because it is. In any event, here is the link to "Mr Jefferson's Prophecy" which I will complete in a couple of weeks with a sermon on "Mr Jefferson's Legacy." Which reminds me -- if you're starting to feel like I'm not posting often enough here, you might also try checking out some of the other blogs I write, all of which can be found by surfing the links on my "Profile" page.
Feels like my calendar is just jammed with medical appointments these days: saw my new PCP last week, who examined me from "nose to toes" -- first trying to help me out with my daily nosebleeds, and then working his way down to the skin on my back and legs, my spine, hips and knees, and ultimately my feet and toes. Ordered oxygen for me to use overnight (which should help my sleep apnea also), as well as a couple of ointments/lotions for my back and legs. Today I saw the podiatrist, tomorrow my new oral surgeon, Thursday is more Physical Therapy, plus a bone scan in the afternoon. Monday more chemo (my last session of this round) and then I'm clear for awhile, at least until the next CT Scan which will tell me how well the chemo worked.
That's the huge irony of this illness. The cancer itself is always a little abstract, like it lives at arm's length. I know I have it, I know it's serious, I know it can be "treated" but that it will never be "cured" -- a diagnostic reality which, by SSI regulation, automatically defines me as "permanently and totally disabled." Yet I also know that by surviving this first year my odds of surviving another five years have increased from less than one in twenty-five to about one in four (and intuitively I feel like they are probably a lot better than that!). But mostly it's a pretty simple reality: I know I have cancer, but it's not going to kill me today, and I'm pretty certain that it's not going to kill me tomorrow (or for that matter, next week). And that's good enough for me. I don't really need to live that much more out in front of myself anyway.
On the other hand, the physical infirmity that has been brought on by this disease, and by the side effects of my medications, really are something that I have to live with every day. And I'm starting to get tired of it! I want to walk again, and better yet, drive again; I want to be able to sail, and climb stairs...Lord, maybe even play a little basketball; I want back the INDEPENDENCE and the simple COMPETENCE I enjoyed before I got sick. Is that so much to ask? Hell, who do I ask anyway? -- it's just something that I have to take back for myself.
Around here I see these old guys in their 80's and 90's, limping around with their canes and their walkers and wincing with every step, and yet they are walking (and in many cases -- gulp -- still driving), but notwithstanding their questionable judgement, their persistence makes them an inspiration to me. And that's really all it takes. Desire. Willfulness. Persistence. Good old-fashions Mule-Headed Stubbornness. I WILL get to where I want to be. Walking, and under my own power.
Feels like my calendar is just jammed with medical appointments these days: saw my new PCP last week, who examined me from "nose to toes" -- first trying to help me out with my daily nosebleeds, and then working his way down to the skin on my back and legs, my spine, hips and knees, and ultimately my feet and toes. Ordered oxygen for me to use overnight (which should help my sleep apnea also), as well as a couple of ointments/lotions for my back and legs. Today I saw the podiatrist, tomorrow my new oral surgeon, Thursday is more Physical Therapy, plus a bone scan in the afternoon. Monday more chemo (my last session of this round) and then I'm clear for awhile, at least until the next CT Scan which will tell me how well the chemo worked.
That's the huge irony of this illness. The cancer itself is always a little abstract, like it lives at arm's length. I know I have it, I know it's serious, I know it can be "treated" but that it will never be "cured" -- a diagnostic reality which, by SSI regulation, automatically defines me as "permanently and totally disabled." Yet I also know that by surviving this first year my odds of surviving another five years have increased from less than one in twenty-five to about one in four (and intuitively I feel like they are probably a lot better than that!). But mostly it's a pretty simple reality: I know I have cancer, but it's not going to kill me today, and I'm pretty certain that it's not going to kill me tomorrow (or for that matter, next week). And that's good enough for me. I don't really need to live that much more out in front of myself anyway.
On the other hand, the physical infirmity that has been brought on by this disease, and by the side effects of my medications, really are something that I have to live with every day. And I'm starting to get tired of it! I want to walk again, and better yet, drive again; I want to be able to sail, and climb stairs...Lord, maybe even play a little basketball; I want back the INDEPENDENCE and the simple COMPETENCE I enjoyed before I got sick. Is that so much to ask? Hell, who do I ask anyway? -- it's just something that I have to take back for myself.
Around here I see these old guys in their 80's and 90's, limping around with their canes and their walkers and wincing with every step, and yet they are walking (and in many cases -- gulp -- still driving), but notwithstanding their questionable judgement, their persistence makes them an inspiration to me. And that's really all it takes. Desire. Willfulness. Persistence. Good old-fashions Mule-Headed Stubbornness. I WILL get to where I want to be. Walking, and under my own power.
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