A New Journey-The Second Mile

After waking early this morning I listened again to the voice mail that Dr. Marek left for me last evening. The message was the same; the M.R.I. was good. There were no signs that the cancer had migrated to other areas. I felt energized! 

It is Saturday and suddenly this journey had positive mile markers to guide the way. A long list of things to do around the house, neglected lately, came to mind. My grandson, Logan, is spending time with his father, which is a good thing; although I will miss our Grandpa-Logan Saturday adventures. 

I awoke hungry. After allowing the doctor’s message to lift my spirits I lifted my butt out of the chair and headed to the kitchen. I made a bowl of Golden Grahams and two pieces of toast with Blue Bonnet on it. This may sound boring to you, but after weeks of oatmeal and one piece of dry toast as the staple, this breakfast was like a five star dinner to me.

It was a mistake.

Within minutes the pain associated with eating returned with a vengeance; a 6 on the pain scale.

Inside where thoughts are born lives another character I call The Naysayer. I could hear him stirring with each passing moment.

“The doctor’s message was just a spot of good news not the cure for the cancer that still sits in your bowels. You can’t eat just because you are feeling better…you idiot!”

I ignored his words while concentrating on the pain, wishing it away. Slowly the pain lessened; 6, 5, 4, then a 3 and finally landing on a 2.

I thought again about my list of things to do and decided I would mow the lawn before the heat of the day arrived. The Bermuda had gotten rather lengthy and needed to be cut. I hoped that this would be the last time this year; soon the grass would lay dormant for the short Texas winter.

I pulled the old Craftsman Q4.5 out of the shed and primed her to start. Always reliable she decided to be stubborn this morning. It required about dozen pulls on the rope before the engine sputtered to life. I pushed the mower about ten feet before she died, choking out under the thick-overgrown grass. It took only a couple of pulls on the rope to restart the Briggs but she only traveled two feet before succumbing to the Bermuda jungle once again.

I raised the deck two notches (higher than I prefer but obviously a requirement today), primed the engine and pulled the rope again. And again. And again. This time it took about eight pulls to wake the stalled engine. By the time she started I was covered in sweat and breathing hard. The pain I felt earlier was creeping up the scale and had reached the 3.5 mark. 

I don’t have a large yard but I knew it was going to take quite some time to finish this first task of the day. With the mower finally roaring at full speed I would push her just a few yards before feeling as if I had reached exhaustion. The perspiration and pain scale were increasing in harmony. I could only hold onto the handle and bend forward when the waves of pain came. I kept telling myself, sounding like the Watty Piper's Little Engine, “You can do this, you can do this.”

Then the voice of The Naysayer rose above the symphony of my own words of encouragement and the roar of the Briggs-

“You can’t do this! You still have cancer. You are still anemic, bleeding on the inside. Just give up, you are not who you used to be…idiot!”

I could see my shadow cast on the ground, a figure bent at the waist, holding onto a lawn mower to keep from falling face forward. It was hard to believe that just a few months ago I was going to Planet Fitness five times a week, working hard, obtaining body weights that I hadn’t seen in twenty years.

“That’s not you anymore. Face it! YOU HAVE CANCER!”

I ignored the voice of The Naysayer and continued slowly to push the mower over the long grass. It stalled two more times and required every ounce of energy and will-power to pull on the rope to bring it back to life. Each time I would measure how much more I had to go and with determination rising from an unknown source I continued.

“Idiot, you are making it worse.” The Naysayer whispered.

The mower sputtered and died once more. I looked up and saw a stretch of grass about two foot wide and fifteen feet long that still needed to be mowed. I pulled the rope…nothing. I pulled again and still nothing. 

This old reliable Craftsman mower had run out of gas. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I yanked on the rope she was not going to start without gas.

I sat down on the freshly mowed grass, holding my midsection as if that may bring some relief and looked at the small patch yet to be mowed. “I’m not finished”, I whispered to myself.

“I am not finished!” I told The Naysayer.

“I am not finished!” I told God.

“I AM NOT FINISHED!”

If you happen to drive by house and see this small patch of overgrown grass know that I am leaving it there as a reminder to myself-that I am not finished.

But I am tired. I sit here writing these words in this electronic journal so that I won’t forget.  But I am tired. It’s only 1:50 in the afternoon and I am done for the day. I think I will watch some football with my eyes closed…

To be continued….

A New Journey

At 8:40 AM, on October 16, 2014, I answered my cell phone to hear the news that would mark the beginning of a new journey. The voice of my doctor delivered the words confirming the results of my biopsy. As suspected it is colon cancer.

I was navigating my vehicle through the traffic on US 281 south, just minutes away from Trinity Baptist Church when I received the doctor’s call, therefore a portion of my brain refused to think about his words in fear of accidentally driving the truck right off the road. 

This section of my brain is a den for pragmatism and immediately started making a list of the emotions and thoughts I was experiencing. This particular section is too clinical to actually feel the emotions; it is much more comfortable organizing them in a nice, neat list.

Another section, smaller than the area belonging to Mr. Pragmatic, listened carefully to the doctor’s words. He informed me that "staging" the cancer would come later, after the MRI. A treatment plan would be determined after we speak to the surgeon… and have more tests.

And while all this was going on there was one last small section of my thought factory waking up. This is the place I hide my emotions, keeping them in check as often as I can. But the doctor’s words stirred the occupants of this small brain-room into a whirl. While Mr. Pragmatic was listing all the things I need to do in order to prepare myself for this new journey, chaos and confusion was busy looking back over a lifetime at breakneck speed while asking the question-

“Will this be my final journey?”

Mr. Pragmatic answered, “Way too soon to consider that. We have nowhere near the information we need to ask such a sad question.”

Ignoring this interpretation Mr. Feelings looked for his own answers. He began to make a list of his own. Many questions (emotions?) will have to be explored-

“Where is God right now?”

“What about my children?”

“What about my family?”

“What about my plans?”

As I journeyed down US 281, Mr. Pragmatic took control before my emotions could become…out of control. The questions still linger, but quietly in the background; the same place the tears are hiding.

I am writing this for me and for you. Over the past few years this has become my most proficient way of communicating. (That’s almost as sad as the thought of this new journey.) 

Not to sound too cliche, but I will take this one day at a time…one word at a time. The emotions will only come out on paper, that's what I hope anyway.  I need to write, it helps me feel as if I have some control. My next book, hopefully not my last, is coming together and I don’t want to neglect it. But sharing my thoughts as I travel this new journey will be therapeutic (thank you Mr. Pragmatic for that thought). 

I have suspected for some time now that what I was having diagnosed at an incredibly slow 21^st century pace was cancer. I think that may have weakened some of the emotions today. But during this waiting period I have read some blogs written by people that have or are going through a similar experience.  Quite often their words encouraged me. Sometimes they scared me. If my words help someone then I have accomplished the final item of my Bucket List. I hope to be able to start a new one at the end of this journey, but if not then I hope these words are meant for someone to read.

Now, it is time to cry…but just for a moment.

To be continued…